As the trees whip back and forth in the night wind, the memory of gaping chests, cracked ribs, and scorched hearts echo behind my lids.

Judging from Honor's muffled sniffs across the room, he's awake, too. I pull the covers over my head and try to sleep, but it's no use. My brain won't shut off. When the first signs of daybreak creep past the windows, it's a relief.

The thought of Andrew and Agnes rising from their graves goes against everything we've been taught to believe. About God watching over His children, and His promise to protect. Bad things happen to good people, and sometimes, good things happen to bad. But He's supposed to take care of those who love Him. Isn't He?

When the Milton's were alive, they were as devoted to Him as anyone. Always sitting in the front pew at church, and faithfully serving our community. The Bible says those who sleep in the dust of the earth will one day awaken—some to everlasting life and others to the fires of Hell. If the dead are truly rising, does that mean the devil lives among us and South Harbor is Hell?

After breakfast and our morning chores, Honor and I dress for school, bundling ourselves against the bitter cold. We bid Papa farewell and make our way outdoors, the burlap pouch Mama made to hold our books and lunch pails looped across my torso.

Blinding sheets of white stretch along both sides of us, the farmland frozen-over and shimmering like glass. As we walk, our boots punch through the top layer of icy crust.

Honor's scarf lay slack over each shoulder, not even knotted to ward off the wind. I stop mid-stride and turn him to face me, my gloved fingers working quickly to close the gap around his collar.

"You'll catch your death out here if you don't protect yourself from the weather." I wrap the knitted material around his neck and tuck the fringe inside his coat. "What were you thinking, coming outside half-dressed?"

He doesn't answer. He just nibbles on his bottom lip, splitting the skin open like a scrap of parched firewood. Blood glistens along the new crack.

His habit is getting worse. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and press it against his mouth, trying to find the right words. This is a problem that can no longer be ignored, no matter what Papa says.

"You have to stop doing that, do you hear me? You're going to peel away all the skin and then what will you do?"

He doesn't answer.

My patience wears thin. I shove the hanky back into my pocket and loop my arm through his, tugging him into a slow walk. He's barely spoken since the nightmare at the cemetery. Mama always said people deal with grief in their own way. Far be it from me to interfere with his process, but I hate to see my brother this out of sorts. It makes me feel helpless.

I turn away from Honor and squint up ahead. Thomas waits for us on his porch as he does every morning before school. When he sees us, he hurdles the steps and jaunts closer, his boots sliding across the expanse of ice. Once he steadies himself, he gives me a crooked grin.

My stomach does a slow turn as he comes to a stop in front of us. "The world is covered in diamonds!" Dark blond hair pokes out from beneath his hat, and his cheeks are flushed red from the cold. I stare a little longer than I should and try to ignore the tickle in my tummy.

He falls in step alongside me and I give him a playful nudge. "When have you ever seen diamonds?"

The only person in town who could possibly afford that kind of luxury is Mrs. Lloyd, and even she doesn't own such a gem.

"Plenty of times—in the magazines at the store." When his arm playfully brushes mine, our eyes meet. "Maybe someday, I'll buy one for you."

A pleasant warmth rushes through me. This is the first comment he's made that could possibly mean he thinks of me the way I think of him. I want to squeeze my eyes shut and scream, but I'm afraid to make a scene.

Before I can respond, the moment's gone. "How are you doing?" His voice is hushed, and I know right away he's talking about what happened at the cemetery.

I give a little shrug and glance in Honor's direction. He's still chewing on his lip.

"Pa said they did the right thing yesterday. Burning their..." Thomas' voice trails off and his jaw tenses. The word he wants to say, but won't, stirs behind his eyes.

I shake my head. I don't want to have this conversation. Not right now. I prayed all night that I would forget what I saw. That God would somehow erase it from my memory. But as soon as I woke up this morning, there it was, waiting for me.

Without saying a word, Thomas understands. Finally, he turns away from me and gazes up ahead. "Eliza's not outside. She must still be brushing her hair."

I crack a reluctant smile. Thomas enjoys teasing Eliza because she's preoccupied with her appearance.

Thomas leans around me and grins at my brother. "What do you think, Honor? Is Eliza still fussing about what she's going to wear?"

Honor gives a half-hearted shrug but says nothing. As we approach the front porch, Thomas gives me a look.

"I'll go get her." The stairs are covered in snow and ice. I step up carefully, but before my knuckles reach the door, it slides open a crack. Heat from inside whooshes past me, sending a brief warmth across my face.

But it's not Eliza on the other side. It's her mother and baby sister.

When I smile, my frozen cheeks recoil as if they might shatter. "Good morning, Mrs. Webster. Is Eliza ready?"

Her forehead creases. "I'm afraid she won't be going to school today."

"Oh. She seemed fine yesterday at church." As fine as anyone could be under those particular circumstances. "Is she all right?"

"Just a little under the weather is all." Distracted, Mrs. Webster glances over her shoulder as she balances Matilda on her hip.

All at once, my chest tightens. If Grace were alive, she would be right around Matilda's age, maybe a month or so older. Every time I see her, it reminds me of the little sister I'll never have. The long hair I'll never brush between my fingers. The crocheted blankets I'll never teach her how to make.

Before I can stop myself, I reach out and take hold of her hand, my thumb gliding over her dimpled knuckles.

Finally, I force myself back. "She's getting so big."

"Yes, she is." Mrs. Webster clears her throat, but doesn't meet my eye. "You should get along now. You don't want to be late."

A gust of wind rushes past and I cringe against the cold. "Yes, ma'am."

When I swivel around. Honor and Thomas are staring at me.

I jump off the porch into the snow as Thomas' eyes linger. "Is she coming?"

Glancing back, Mrs. Webster is still watching us. Finally, they disappear behind the door.

"Not today." Something uneasy swirls in my stomach.

"Come on, Victor's probably waiting for us. And we won't hear the end of it if we're late."

"Victor wouldn't care if he ever went back to school."

"No, but his mother would. And I don't need another run-in with her. She's already got it in for me as it is."

Thomas gives me a sideways glance. "Since when do you care about that?"

"Since she threatened to talk to my father. I don't know why she hates me so much."

He gives his head a slow shake. "I don't think that's it."

I stare at him in disbelief. "What do you mean? She belittles me every chance she gets, and tells Victor he's lucky he'll never have to work on a farm. Who do you think she's referring to when she says that?" I can't stop the cringe that shudders through me. I'm letting her bother me more than I should, but sometimes I can't help it. "She doesn't like me. She never has."

"She's intimidated by you," Thomas says. When I try to interrupt him, he stops me. "Think about it. You're a strong person and you stand up for what you believe in, even when your opinion is different from everyone else's. She can't handle your confidence."

"She thinks I'm rude."

"Well, you can be." He gives me that smile, the one that lifts his whole forehead, and it takes the sting out of his words. "Mrs. Lloyd is used to getting and saying whatever she wants. No one ever stands up to her. But you're not afraid to. You're the strongest person I know."

Pride swells in my chest and then quickly deflates. I look away before meeting his gaze. "I should have said something yesterday."

His brows angle together. "Where—at the cemetery?"

I nod. "I should have told them not to do it. Maybe if I had, they wouldn't have dug up Andrew and Agnes."

His eyes widen as he stares at me. "But look what happened when they did. We would have never known otherwise."

I glance at Honor who's trailing several feet behind us and lower my voice. "They mutilated two innocent children. They were Honor's best friends."

"But how do you explain what happened with Agnes?" he says. "She let out a breath. Dead bodies don't breathe."

All the blood flowing through my veins turns to ice. "Please don't tell me you believe they're—Undead?" The word is bitter on my tongue.

An emotion I don't recognize shadows his face. "I don't know what to believe. But I know what I saw. Didn't you think it was strange?"

I did think it was strange. I still do. But I don't want to admit it. Agnes let out a breath. Everyone there heard it. And Andrew's hair and fingernails were noticeably longer than they were when we buried him. No matter what I say, these are facts I can't deny. I saw them with my own two eyes.

I stare at my boots and shake my head. "I don't know. But I do know Andrew and Agnes aren't monsters. There's no such thing."

"I'm not saying they are."

"Then, what are you saying?" The words come out harsher than I intend. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

His lips spread into a thin line as he turns away.

"Thomas." I stop and grab his arm, my gloved fingers sinking into his coat. "I said I'm sorry."

"It's all right." He balls his hands and shoves them into his pockets.

"No, it's not. I shouldn't have spoken to you that way. It was—" I stop mid-sentence and stare over his shoulder.

The cemetery.

It's exactly as we left it; tombstones rising from the snow like rows of crooked teeth. A pocket of earth, heaping with muddled dirt. Remnants of a fire, the ashes stirring among the rubble in the breeze. There's something more, something that wasn't there before. But I can't put my finger on what it is.

I reach for Honor's hand as unease settles in my chest.

"You really don't think they left their graves, do you?" As Thomas stares at their tombstones, wind jostles the hair sticking out from his hat.

It takes a moment to find my voice. "I don't understand how it would be possible."

Regardless of what I just said, my imagination comes to life and the image of Andrew and Agnes clawing their way from the earth plays inside my head. A tingling sensation pricks at the back of my neck and spreads through my limbs like a wildfire. I'm about to shake it off when a movement in the cemetery snags my attention. I squint through the trees for a better look, but all I can make out are bristling pine needles and scaly trunks.

But there's something there. I know it.

"Come on! Do you want to make me late for school?" an angry voice demands.

When we spin around, Victor's heading our way with a lunch pail swinging from his hand. A composition book is in the other.

He eyes the cemetery suspiciously before returning his focus to us. "What are you guys up to?"

"Who says we're up to anything?" I ask, already irritated by his presence. "You can walk to school by yourself, you know. You're a big boy."

Victor's mouth twists into a smirk as he comes to a stop in front of me. "Now what fun would that be? Besides, I know how much you like spending time with me. I'd hate to deprive you of my presence."

"Deprive us of your presence?" Thomas laughs. "Have you been listening to your mother again?"

Victor's smirk disappears. "You leave my mother out of this."

I catch Thomas' eye and smile. "Victor's not like the rest of us, Thomas. He wouldn't know what to think if it wasn't for his mother telling him."

Victor sneers, and raises his chin a fraction too high. "You're right about that. I'm not like the rest of you. Ma says so."

My teeth grit but I try not to show it. "You see? Proof right there he can't think for himself."

Thomas chuckles, but it's obvious to me that it's forced. Victor doesn't seem to notice.

His attention moves to my brother. "You're not very chatty this morning. What's the matter—cat got your tongue?" His expression darkens. "Or maybe Andrew and Agnes rose from their icy graves and snatched it from your mouth in the middle of the night."

Honor gasps and my fists clench at my sides. "Stop it. Right now."

Victor's lips break into a wide grin. "Or what?" He takes a step closer.

"Let it go, Victor," Thomas warns. "I mean it."

He laughs. "What's the matter? Can't Faith fight her own battles?"

All at once, my muscles unlock. I lunge forward and drive my palms into Victor's chest. He falls to the ground, and his book and lunch pail sail across the ice.

My heart pounds like a drum as I stand over him, my limbs fighting for control. "Would you like to see me fight my own battles, Victor? Because I'm not afraid to skin you like a hog and cook you up for supper."

"Do you always treat your friends this way?"

My head snaps up toward the voice. Mr. Baptiste emerges from the cemetery, his cape swirling around him like a black mist.

My breath catches, and I force myself to respond. "He—he was being mean to my little brother."

The man's luminous eyes take me in. "I wasn't speaking to you, mademoiselle."

Mr. Baptiste extends a hand and pulls Victor to his feet. He mumbles a quick thank you and saddles up to my side like a frightened puppy.

I study my new neighbor and am struck once again by his hair. It's as perfect and white as the freshly fallen snow beneath our feet. "What were you doing in the cemetery?"

Mr. Baptiste doesn't hesitate. "Exploring. I've not yet had a proper chance to investigate my new home. You can learn a great deal about people when you take the time to look around."

I swallow past the apprehension clogging my throat. "And are you learning a great deal?"

His gaze bores into mine. "I am. And now I'm afraid I must go. Bonne journée."

He gives a slight nod and heads down the road in the direction toward the mansion. As his figure recedes, I stare at his shiny boots, the soles dusted with dirt and ash.

What could he have been looking for in the cemetery? There's nothing there but a bunch of old bones and rotting corpses.

Turning back to the newly tilled ground above Andrew and Agnes' graves, I try to push the thought from my head. But I can't.

That man is up to something, and I want to know what it is.