The Dreadful Tale of Prosper Redding (The Dreadful Tale of Prosper Redding #1)(4)

“You know how Prosper is,” Prue said sweetly. “He’s, ah, well…he’s Prosper. But clearly he needs glasses.”

The girls behind her snickered.

“Glasses don’t fix stupid,” one of them said.

“And they won’t fix his face either,” said another.

I flinched as Prue coughed to disguise her laugh. A few of the adults nearby chuckled, craning their necks to get a better look at us. This was what it was like to be a Redding: when we were in Redhood, we were no better than zoo animals. I was surprised no one interrupted to ask for a selfie.

“Please excuse us,” Prue continued. “We’re due back at the Cottage for a family dinner. Will we see you tonight at the Candlelight Parade, Mr. Wickworth?”

The man couldn’t help himself. He actually bobbed his head, like he was giving her a little bow. “I will see you there, Miss Redding.”

“I’ll see you too,” I said between my gritted teeth. “After I get myself a pair of glasses.”

“You do that, young man,” Mr. Wickworth said. “Perhaps then you’ll also be able to spot your manners.”

I had something to say to that, but Prue tugged me away, leading us off Main Street. Behind us, the bonfire roared to its full size, sending sparks up into the shadows of the evening sky. People applauded and cheered, lining up to begin to toss in their regrets. I looked back, just once, to see the way the light made the nearby statue of Honor Redding glow so I could commit it to memory and sketch it later.

Once we were out of sight of the square, Prue finally let go of my arm.

“Why do you always have to stick your nose in everything?” I asked. “They already think I’m an idiot without your ‘help.’”

Prue rolled her eyes. “If I don’t play hero, who’s going to rescue you? Besides, we’re already late. You-know-who’s going to kill us as it is.”

Prue slowed down to let me catch up to her, digging in her bag until she pulled out a blue notebook. “Here—I accidentally picked this up instead of mine.”

Heat rushed to my face, even as my shoulder slumped in relief. I snatched it out of her hands and stuffed it into my bag, like that would be enough to bury it forever. Of course she found it. How could I have been so stupid? She probably had gone through all the old sketches with her friends, making fun of every single one. She should have just thrown it away when she realized it didn’t have her class notes in them. My breath locked in my throat.

“Some of those are pretty good,” Prue said, keeping her voice casual. “I mean, you’re no da Vinci, but they’re not half bad. I didn’t realize you still kept a sketchbook and drew those…characters.”

From the stories I used to invent to make her laugh, back when she was stuck in her hospital bed. Why did I still draw them? I don’t even know. Maybe in the hope she might want to hear the stories again. The way she looked at me, then, lips pressed together to keep from laughing, told me that was going to be the day after never.

I gripped the strap of my backpack. You don’t know anything about me, I wanted to say. This is the first time we’ve talked in a week.

“Are you ever going to show them to someone? What about Mrs. Peters?”

Here were a few things I would have done to avoid showing my drawings to the crusty art teacher at the Academy:

1. Cut off my toes.

2. Eat my own liver.

3. Walked the length of the United States to swim through shark-infested waters to Hawaii so that I could throw myself in a volcano.



The other kids at school already had enough ammunition against me without knowing I liked to sketch pictures of them, not to mention benches and gardens around Redhood.

“What about Mom? Or Dad? He likes museums, I guess.”

As crazy talented and smart as my family was, not a single Redding could call him or herself an artist. The only exception was maybe Nathaniel Redding, a second cousin once removed, who wrote the New York Times best-selling book The Lost Longship. It was an incredibly popular story about time-traveling Vikings and the conspiracy to cover up that they had killed off the real Pilgrims from the Mayflower in a bloodthirsty rage.

I thought it was pretty awesome, but Grandmother just about went supernova when she read the first few chapters. Dad had bought a copy for Mom as a joke, and they had laughed together as he read passages of it aloud. And laughed. And laughed.

So I didn’t need to imagine the look on my parents’ faces if I were to show them my sketchbook. I didn’t need to tell them I liked art. I already knew what their reaction would be. When you and Prue are old enough to help us run the Foundation, Dad would say, then we’ll really change the world. Then Mom would smile, and talk about how the most important thing in the world was to help others. And then the only thing left in my head was the realization that art was something I loved, but it didn’t do anything for the world, did it? It just made me happy.

So I kept my sketchbooks closed, until I was sure no one was looking.

I shook my head, my face turned down. “Can we just hurry? We’re already late.”

“Then let’s go this way.” Prue turned off the leaf-splattered road, and I felt a chill slither down my spine.

There was a small patch of dark forest between Main Street and the Cottage. I knew it pretty well, seeing how I’d spent all twelve and a half of my years trying to avoid it. It might have been a good shortcut, but it didn’t make me feel any better as I slid down the soggy hill.