Page 122 of The Evening Wolves

Another set of doors carried us through the dining room (a ginormous table, paneled walls, and yes, a fireplace). Vivienne pointed to a door across from us and said, “That’s the sun parlor.” Then she headed for a second, smaller door that looked like it was designed to be unobtrusive. “And the kitchen is through here.”

As she opened the door, a woman’s voice rang out behind us: “Mrs. Carver!”

I turned to look, of course. Just like Vivienne. But before I did, I caught a glimpse of a butler’s pantry immediately behind the door and, through the open doorway on the far side, the kitchen: patterned tile, cabinets with slate countertops, big sash windows, an island covered with butcher block. It looked updated in a way the rest of the house didn’t, with the Thermador fridge and the Viking stove and the LED lights. But that was probably for the best—most people wouldn’t enjoy actually working in a Victorian kitchen, with a table and a wood stove and a “kitchen dresser” (yes, I put it in quotes on purpose) instead of, well, modern conveniences.

All of that passed through my mind in an instant, though, because what caught my attention was the boy and the woman.

The boy was a teenager, with long, dark hair that had clearly been lightened by the sun and a deep tan. He was small, swallowed up in board shorts and a baggy tee that showed a crab riding a surfboard, but he had a wiry build that said he was stronger than he looked. His features suggested he might have Native American ancestry. He was staring at me with a look that straddled the line between startled and panicked.

The woman was older; she might have been close to Vivienne’s age, maybe a few years younger. She had dark eyes and generous laugh lines, and her mane of thick hair had a shock of white in it that made me think of a witch. Her hand was on the boy’s shoulder, and I couldn’t tell if the pose was possessive or defensive. Her expression had a grim, locked-down quality like a woman ready for a fight. She met my gaze for a long moment, and I was distantly aware of Vivienne saying something to whoever had called her name. And then, without a word, the woman gave the boy a push, and he darted through a door.

“—is Dashiell,” Vivienne was saying. “He’ll be working with me at Hemlock House.” I turned around in time for her to say, “Dashiell, this is Millie.”

I had a single instant to take in the woman in front of me: early twenties, blond, a wide mouth and a scattering of freckles. She looked like five feet of flyaways and what Hugo had once called manic pixie energy.

“Oh my God,” she squealed as she hugged me. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

I tried to disentangle myself. “Um, yes, hi.” The hug was ongoing, and she was surprisingly tenacious. “I’m Dash. Nice to, uh, meet you.”

After one final squeeze, she released me and stepped back. “You are going to love Hemlock House. Isn’t it amazing? You’re going to love it!” And then, just for good measure, she bounced on her toes and clapped her hands. “It’s amazing!”

“So amazing,” I said because I honestly had no idea what to say.

“I do all sorts of things for Vivienne,” Millie said. “I bring her coffee. Oh! I work at Chipper. And I bring her sandwiches sometimes, only she doesn’t always like how they make the sandwiches, so then she writes down a HUGE LIST—” I’m using capital letters because at that point, Millie got very loud and also used her hands to show me how big the list was. “—of how she wants them to make it, and then I take them the list, and then they make the sandwich exactly how she wants it, and it is so good, like better than any sandwich I’ve ever had. Oh! And the sandwich place is called The Mermaid’s Gill, only it was supposed to be Grill, but they didn’t make the sign right, and then Fred didn’t have to pay for it.” She stopped for breath and added, “Or not all of it, I don’t think. Oh! And—”

“Millie, I’m giving Dashiell a tour—”

“Just Dash,” I put in.

Vivienne powered on. “—so you’ll have to excuse us.”

“Of course!” Millie hugged me again and darted toward the kitchen, shouting back, “It was so nice to meet you!”

I wondered, as the silence settled back down, if this was how people felt after they got picked up by a tornado.

“She’s very…” Vivienne began doubtfully.

Then Millie’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Oh my God, Indira, have you met Dash yet? He’s so cute. So, so, so, cute! Oh my God, he’s dreamy! I think I’m in love!”

“…enthusiastic,” Vivienne finished.

“Oh!” That was Millie again. Apparently, solid-wood doors and inches of lath and plaster weren’t up to the task of quieting her. “Unless he’s gay! Oh my God, that would be even BETTER!”

(The capitalization doesn’t fully convey the experience.)

“Uh,” I said.

Vivienne made a tutting noise and pushed open the kitchen door. “Nothing to worry about, dear. Hastings Rock is very accepting.”

“That’s not what I was worried about—” I tried, but Vivienne had already pressed on without me, so I followed her into the kitchen.

“This is Indira,” Vivienne said, gesturing to the woman with the witch-streak of white hair. “Indira, this is Dashiell.”

“Actually, it’s—”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Indira said over me. She had a lovely, low voice. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”

“No.”

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