“Mr. Hood is dead,” Mrs. Griffin said, exasperated by his persistence.

“Dead? You swear?”

“I swear,” she replied. “On the Brave of my poor Clue-Cat, I swear: Mr. Hood is dead. So don’t ask about him ever again.”

This was the first time Mrs. Griffin had ever come close to giving Harvey an order, and though he wanted to press her further, he decided not to. Instead he said he was sorry for bringing up the subject, and wouldn’t do it again, then left her to her secret sorrows.

Well?” said Wendell, when Harvey came to his room. “What’s the story?”

Harvey shrugged. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “Why don’t we just enjoy ourselves while we can?”

“Enjoy ourselves?” Wendell said. “How can we enjoy ourselves when we’re locked in?”

“It’s better in here than it is out in the world,” Harvey said. Wendell looked at him in astonishment. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

As he spoke he grabbed hold of Wendell’s hand, and Wendell realized there was a ball of paper in Harvey’s palm, which he was trying to pass between the two of them.

“Maybe you should just find a quiet little corner and do some reading,” he said, glancing down at their hands as he spoke.

Wendell got the idea. He claimed the balled-up note from Harvey’s hand and said: “Maybe I’ll do that.”

“Good,” said Harvey. “I’m going to go out and enjoy the sun while I can.”

That was exactly what he did. He had a lot of planning to do before midnight, which was when the note told Wendell they should meet to make their escape. Surely even the forces that guarded the House had to sleep sometime (the business of keeping the seasons rolling around couldn’t be easy) and of all the hours to slip away, midnight seemed the most promising.

But he didn’t suppose it would be easy. The House had been a trap for decades (perhaps centuries: Who knew how old its evil really was?) and even at midnight it would not be so foolish as to leave the exit wide open. They would have to be quick and clever, and not panic or lose their tempers once they were in the mist. The real world was out there somewhere. All they had to do was find it.

He knew when he saw Wendell for Halloween that the note had been read and understood. There was a look in Wendell’s eyes that said: I’m ready. I’m nervous, but I’m ready.

The rest of the evening passed for the two of them like the performance of a strange play, in which they were the actors, and the House (or whoever haunted it) was the audience. They went about enjoying themselves as though this was a night like any other, heading out to play trick-or-treat with a show of loud laughter (even though they were both shuddering in their borrowed shoes), then coming in to eat their supper and spend what they hoped would be their last Christmas in the House. They opened their presents (a mechanical dog for Wendell; a magician’s kit for Harvey), said their goodnights to Mrs. Griffin (goodbye, of course, not goodnight, but Harvey didn’t dare let her know) and then went to bed.

The House grew quiet, and quieter still. The snow no longer sighed at the sill, nor the wind in the chimney. It was, Harvey thought, the deepest silence he’d ever heard; so deep that he could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and every rustle of his body against the sheets sounded like a roll of drums.

A little before midnight he got up and dressed, moving slowly and carefully, so as to make as little noise as possible. Then he headed out into the passageway, and—slipping like a thief from shadow to shadow—hurried down the stairs and out into the night.

He left not by the front door (it was heavy, and creaked loudly) but by the kitchen door, which brought him out at the side of the House. Though the wind had dropped, the air was still bitter and the surface of the snow had frozen. It crackled as he walked, however lightly he trod. But he was beginning to hope that the eyes and ears of the House were indeed closed at this hour (if not, why hadn’t he been challenged?) and he might make it to the perimeter without attracting attention.

Just as he was about to turn the corner, however, that sweet hope was soured, as somebody in the murk behind him called his name. He froze in his tracks, hoping the darkness would conceal him, but the voice came again, and again called his name. It was not a voice he recognized. Not Wendell, certainly, nor Mrs. Griffin. Not Jive, not Rictus, not Marr. This was a frail voice; the voice of somebody who barely knew how to shape the syllables of his name.

“Harrr…vvvey…”

And then, all of a sudden, he knew the voice, and his heart—which had been working overtime since he’d slipped out of bed—grew so loud in his ears it almost drowned out the summons when it came again.

“Lulu?” he murmured.

“Yesss…” said the voice.

“Where are you?”

“Near…” she said.

He stared at the thicket, hoping for some glimpse of her, but all he could see was the starlight glittering on the frosted leaves.

“You’re leaving…” she said, her words slurred.

“Yes,” he whispered, “and you have to come with us.”

He took a step toward her, and as he did so some of the glitter that he’d thought was frost retreated from him. What was she wearing, that shimmered this way?

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

“I don’t want you to look at me,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Please…” she said, “just…keep your distance.”

She retreated even farther from him, and seemed to lose her balance as she did so. She dropped to the ground, the thicket around her shaking. Harvey stepped forward to help her up, but she let out such a sob that he stopped in his tracks.

“I only want to help,” he said.

“You can’t help me,” she replied, every word pained. “It’s too late. You just have…to go…while you still can. I just…wanted to give you…something to remember me by.”

He saw her move in the shadows, reaching out in his direction. “Look away,” she said.

He turned his head away from her.

“Now close your eyes. And promise you won’t open them.”

He dutifully closed his eyes. “I promise,” he said.

And now he heard her moving toward him, her breath laborious.

“Open your hand,” she said.

Her voice was near now. He knew if he opened his eyes he’d be face to face with her. But he had made a promise, and was determined to keep it. He put out his hand and felt first one, then two, then three heavy little objects, cold and wet, dropped into his cupped palm.

“This was all…I could find…” Lulu said, “…I’m sorry…”

“Can I look?” he asked.

“Not yet. Let me…leave…first…”

He closed his fingers around the gifts she’d given him, trying to make sense of them by touch. What were they? Pieces of frozen stone? No, they were carved. He could feel grooves on one; a head on another. And now, of course, he knew what he held: three survivors of his ark, dredged up from the depths of the lake.

The answer was no comfort to him; quite the reverse. He shuddered as he put the puzzle of Lulu’s silvery gleam together with the knowledge of what he held. She had swum down to the bottom of the lake to recover these figures, a descent that was beyond the capacity of any land dweller.

No wonder she’d retreated into the shadows, ordering him not to look at her. She wasn’t human any longer. She was becoming—or had already become—a sister to the strange fish that circled in these dark waters, cold-blooded and silver-skinned.

“Oh, Lulu…” he said, “…how did this happen?”

“Don’t waste your time with me,” she murmured, “just go while you’ve a chance.”

“I want to help,” he said.

“You can’t…” came the reply, “…can’t help me…I’ve been here too long. My life is over…”