He thought about old friends. As a child, he’d socialized with his cousins for the most part. They’d comprised a ready-made playgroup that enveloped him despite his shyness, and he hadn’t had to explain his own weirdness—or that of his family. Together they’d rattled around the Castle, the school, and the town, comfortably caught up in their familiar mayhem. Aside from his cousins, his only real friend had been Clara; but she was a Dahl and, so, practically family anyway.
Then Remy had arrived.
Miles had been fifteen, enmeshed in adolescent angst. Desperate to belong somewhere, but not having any idea who he was or what he wanted to do with himself. In fact, he’d been so self-centered that he’d barely noticed when someone new joined the household. People were always coming and going, and he couldn’t have given an accurate census of the Castle’s residents at any one time. At first the only remarkable thing about Remy, as far as Miles was concerned, was that he didn’t look like a Thorsen. But that wasn’t entirely unheard of, because sometimes a relative brought in a friend or a love interest who stayed and became a member of the family.
Anyway, Remy had made himself scarce. Miles had caught only glimpses of him in the hallways now and then, and they’d nod at each other without saying anything. Just as Miles did with the ghosts. He had noticed that Remy was handsome—that was very obvious—but he hadn’t dwelled on it because Remy looked to be a good ten years older than him.
It had taken Miles almost a year to pay enough attention and realize who—or more precisely, what—Remy was. Miles should have been startled, perhaps, but by then he was already accustomed to Remy’s presence. And he’d been accustomed to oddness since he became a Thorsen. This was simply another facet of that oddness. Since Miles’s parents and grandmother also knew Remy’s identity and weren’t alarmed, Miles hadn’t given it much thought.
Sometimes Remy would appear in the tower at night while Miles was skulking there. They’d stand together and look out at the night sky, not speaking much but finding some solidarity in their differentness. It was a quiet type of friendship.
And then came the winter when Miles was eighteen. He was attending college in Portland but had returned to Kemken for the holidays. Remy had seemed more present than before, showing up in the doorway when everyone was sitting in the big parlor, padding silently alongside Miles on his nighttime treks through the woods, sitting in the tower as Miles tried to paint.
On the night of that year’s Feast, Remy stood beside Miles on the Castle lawn, the bonfire casting his face into dramatic light and shadow. Remy had turned to look at him, a soft smile on his face, and Miles’s heart twisted into a knot so painful he’d gasped. They’d barely waited until the festivities were over before they ran into the Castle, up to Miles’s room, and then—
Miles abruptly stood, startling a nearby jay, who scolded him as he wiped debris off his clothing. Evening had almost fallen; the woods were dark and cold.
It was time to find something for dinner.
7
Later that night, Miles sat with his family in the parlor. He was on one of the big couches with a woolen blanket over his lap; an older cousin sat at the other end of the couch, a thick paperback close to her face. Miles pretended to play with his phone, but mostly he watched the people around him and listened to bits of their conversations. It couldn’t be considered spying since he was sitting right there, plain as could be, but it felt a little sneaky nonetheless.
His father was reading too—probably a medical journal—and Mom sat at a little table near the enormous fireplace, sorting tiny beads into a plastic box with a zillion compartments. She caught Miles watching her and shot him a smile. “It’s nice to have you home. The place seemed empty without you.”
He blinked at her incredulously. “Mom, there must be at least twenty-five people living under this roof.”
“But none of them were you.”
He was pretty sure she actually meant ridiculous things like that, but then, she was almost obligated to feel that way since she was his mother.
She set down a vial and tweezers. “We’re off to collect the tree and things in the morning. Nine sharp. Think you’ll be up on time, or are you going to sleep until noon again?”
Miles tried not to be annoyed. It had been a decade since anyone cared when he got up, and if he wanted to stay in bed until dinnertime, well, he was a grown-up. He could make that decision. “I’ll be up.”
“Have breakfast first, and dress warmly.”
“Mom, I’m not eight.”
“Nope. But even if you were eighty, you’d still be my son. Parenthood comes with a lifetime prerogative to give advice.”
He smiled despite himself. “I’ll be there.”
Mom turned back to her bead project, and Miles took the opportunity to set the alarm on his phone before he forgot. When he glanced up he saw Remy, half-hidden in the shadows of a doorway and staring at Miles. He was dressed as he always was, summer or winter, in bare feet, old jeans, and a thick flannel shirt with red-and-black checks. Like a lumberjack, Miles had teased him once, long ago. Remy had smiled at him then. “I was a lumberjack.” Which had made Miles ask how old he was, but Remy had simply shrugged and said he’d lost track.
Miles was distracted by laughter from the far end of the room, where a few kids clustered around the television. They were watching one of those old stop-motion animation Christmas specials, the one with the dentist and the misfit toys. Miles was fairly certain TV stations had stopped broadcasting those shows decades ago, but they’d appeared on the Thorsen television every December when he was a kid, and it seemed they still did.
When Miles turned his attention back to the doorway, Remy was gone.
“I’m going to turn in,” he announced to no one in particular as he stood. Mom nodded, Dad waved a hand without looking up from his journal, and a few other people mumbled good-nights. Grandma had apparently dozed off in her recliner.
Miles detoured to the kitchen and downed a glass of milk and a chocolate chip cookie. Fortified, he headed up the servant staircase. But he paused halfway, recognizing one of his landscape paintings from high school: the view from his tower in late summer, with the grass somewhat browned and the sky for once clear of clouds. He thought he’d thrown that painting away when he moved out. No, more accurately, when he ran off. Yet here it was. It was better than he’d remembered. Who’d hung it here? One of his parents? Grandma? Remy?
For some reason, it seemed important to find out.
He didn’t go back down to interrogate people, however. He went to his room instead and then, after grabbing a jacket, up to his tower. He wasn’t surprised to find Remy waiting for him.
Remy leaned back against a wall with his arms wrapped tightly around his body, as if he felt chilled—which Miles knew he wasn’t. Remy had a neutral expression, and there wasn’t enough light for Miles to read his eyes.
“Have you ever been to New Orleans?” Miles asked as he crossed the threshold and entered the tower. He sat down in the ugly old armchair at the center of the space. As a kid, he’d wondered briefly who’d dragged the chair up the steep stairs, but mysteries like that seemed common in the Castle.