Chapter 1
The sign at the edge of the Fermata woods wasn’t big or bright or loud. It was small, wooden, and obscured by ivy vines. It was about the size of a cat who is curled up for an afternoon nap, and it was held in the ground by a stake that looked as sturdy as uncooked spaghetti. Almost no one knew the sign was there.
Fiona knew though. She recognized the little things. The things that were insignificant to others. Maybe she was one of those things.
Though the sign at the edge of the woods was odd, the problem with it wasn’t that it was small or unstable. The problem was that even if the occasional passerby did stop to read it, they would learn little more about the woods than someone who hadn’t noticed it at all. The sign read:
Fermata Woods
176 acres
Est.
It was puzzling. Normally, when the letters E-S-T are followed by a period at the bottom of a sign, they are meant to be followed by a date. Est. is an abbreviation for the word established, after all. Fiona knew this because her school had a similar message carved into one of the stones at the entrance to the building. The stone said SONGFIELD ELEMENTARY, SONGFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS. EST. 1909. That sign made sense. 1909 was the year the school was built. But the sign at the edge of the woods was different. It had no year after the Est. And it didn’t appear as though the year had faded away over time since the rest of the words on the sign were perfectly clear.
Perhaps the missing date was a message. It was as if to say that the exact date at which the woods became the woods didn’t matter. It only mattered that they were there at all.
It must’ve taken a great deal of effort to establish these woods. From the bits and pieces Fiona could see of them, they seemed to hold every kind of tree imaginable. There was a graceful silk tree whose thread-like pink flowers dotted its branches like cotton candy. There was a humble silver birch whose leaves collected delicate snow each winter, as if protecting the fragile flakes from the harsh earth. Fiona could only dream of what trees lay deeper in the woods.
And though Fiona did dream of the woods—quite often in fact—no one else seemed interested in them. She wondered if the little sign was to blame. Or perhaps everyone was just too busy to notice how special the woods were.
On this particular afternoon, as Fiona passed the sign on her walk home, she ran her fingers over its rough edges as a way of saying I see you. The sign answered back with a sharp poke to her pointer finger. She winced and held the stinging finger in her hand. A thin splinter lay beneath the top layer of skin. She pushed her thumbnail against the splinter in an attempt to push the pointy bugger out. It didn’t budge. Fiona bit her cheek. She would have to pick up the pace now. Her piano lesson was starting soon, and she couldn’t practice with a splinter poking into her with every note she played.
Fiona eyed the woods beyond the sign. They were peaceful, shaded from the too-hot-for-fall sun. A light breeze danced through the trees, and the leaves blew a pleasant swishing sound over her ears. Fiona’s home was on the other side of the woods. If she was allowed to walk through them, she might be able to shave ten minutes off her walk—not that she’d ever tried.
Her mouth pulled to one side. She considered it, just for a moment. She could break the rules. Other eleven-year-olds broke the rules all the time.
But Fiona’s feet remained glued to the sidewalk. She couldn’t bring herself to move them any closer to the trees. She wasn’t allowed in the woods. And her mom would know if she entered them. Mothers always know. Fiona shifted uncomfortably. She wiggled her toes in her shoes, willing her feet to make a decision. Finally, she turned her focus away from the woods to the path she walked every day. She lengthened her stride and marched around the woods toward home.
***
Fiona’s mother freed the splinter from her finger just in time for Ms. Downey’s arrival. A single stern knock rang in the living room. Ms. Downey was the only person Fiona knew who only knocked once. Most people knocked at least three times. Some knocked with a playful tune. For Ms. Downey, one knock was enough to make her presence known.
Fiona opened the door to see her piano teacher looking as gloomy as usual. She had the constant appearance of someone who had been caught in the rain. Though the weather was perfectly sunny, her hair was flat and heavy. Her makeup was applied in haphazard blotches and in the places where her foundation wasn’t thick enough, her skin was pale and drained.
Ms. Downey’s clothes held no color. She wore black pointed boots, a long wool skirt, and a cardigan whose sleeves draped inches below her fingertips. Fiona couldn’t tell whether it was piano lessons she disliked or whether it was the shadow cast over them by her teacher. But at least Ms. Downey never mentioned Fiona’s spots.
Fiona had the feeling her mother felt the same way about Ms. Downey. She always adorned the piano with a bouquet of fresh flowers before Fiona’s lesson. Maybe she hoped the color would bring some life to Ms. Downey’s gray mood. Today’s bouquet was a true ray of sunshine filled with daffodils, tulips, and an overbearing sunflower whose stem struggled to hold its large head up.
Ms. Downey’s eyes flicked up at the bouquet for just a moment before she focused her gaze on the piano keys. She took a seat at the bench and, without looking at Fiona, she said flatly, “Scales.”
Fiona hurriedly sat down next to Ms. Downey. She straightened her spine and pushed her shoulders back—Ms. Downey hated bad posture. Fiona cleared her throat, hesitant to ask her question. “W-which scales, Ms. Downey?”
“Start with major, then natural minor, and finish with chromatic.”
Fiona forced a small smile though her stomach sank. This lesson was going to be as boring as the last. She’d practiced scales practically all summer. Surely she could learn a song by now. But Fiona didn’t argue. She rested her fingertips on the keyboard and began to play. Ms. Downey closed her eyes to listen.
By this time, Fiona was so well practiced at scales she hardly had to think of them as she played. Her fingers knew what to do. Her mind was free to wander. But it often clung to places she didn’t want to go. It took her to the playground where she first realized she didn’t look like everyone else. Where the girl who had finally agreed to play with Fiona was dragged away by her mother who screamed—Thunk.
Thunk. Thunk.
Fiona was pulled back into her lesson. She pressed her finger down on a black key. It shifted only slightly before sticking in place. Ms. Downey’s eyes narrowed. “Your mother has been leaving the windows open again. How many times do I have to tell her? Humidity will make the keys stick.”
Fiona said nothing. She couldn’t agree with Ms. Downey without telling on her mother, but she couldn’t disagree without lying to her teacher.
Ms. Downey fiddled with the sticking key. “Do you know what note this is supposed to be?”
“It’s a C sharp,” Fiona replied with all the confidence she had.
Ms. Downey pressed her lips together. Fiona’s confidence began to slip away. But she couldn’t be wrong, keys and notes were practically the only thing she knew about music.
After another moment, Ms. Downey seemed to decide the silence had gone on long enough. “Keys can be more than one note. You should know that. It’s the same way you refer to your mother as ‘mom’ but I call her ‘Victoria.’ This key is both a C sharp and a D flat. I suppose we’ll keep working on scales until you’ve learned that.”
Once again, Fiona pasted a small smile across her face. It was perhaps less convincing than the first grin. But she was sure Ms. Downey didn’t notice. Patience was one of Fiona’s stronger qualities.
“Right, well. I suppose I’ll have to have a talk with your mother. Where is she do you think? In the kitchen?”
Fiona nodded and Ms. Downey left the room. Maybe if the key were fixed by the time Ms. Downey returned, her teacher’s mood would improve. Maybe Fiona could even ask to learn a song. It wouldn’t have to be anything fancy. She would be happy just learning “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”
Fiona set about fixing the key. She pushed her thumb against the corner of the black key and tried to lift it up. She tapped the white keys surrounding it a few times. Then she pressed her foot on a pedal at the base of the piano and tried lifting the black key again. It stuck. She folded her hands in her lap and sighed.
But then she heard it.
She heard the note the key was supposed to play. It was clear and loud and crisp. Only the note wasn’t coming from the piano. It couldn’t be. She hadn’t pressed the key again. The note lingered, filling the room with its soft hum. Fiona glanced around to see where it was coming from. There were no other instruments nearby. There were no speakers. No computers. No televisions. No one else was in the room with her.
The note stopped abruptly.
Fiona stood. She didn’t know why exactly she stood, but the piano was freaking her out a bit. She felt like giving the instrument its space.
Then all at once the sound came again. A different note this time—a C from the great octave. This time, Fiona searched the room. She lifted the couch cushions. She pulled books off the shelves. She lifted the rug. Surely someone was playing a prank on her. But who and why?
Fiona opened the window, and the note enveloped her. It had the sensation of diving underwater. The sound was warm and heavy. It drowned everything else out. It was as though the note was pulling her beneath the surface of this world and into another one. But where was the sound coming from? Fiona scanned her empty yard. She searched the shadows in the woods. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular. She didn’t know what could be making the sound. She might know it if she saw it. She looked for anything out of the ordinary. But there was only the woods.
Was it possible…?
No. It couldn’t be.
But maybe…
Maybe the sound was coming from the trees themselves.
The note stopped just as Ms. Downey returned to the living room. Fiona’s head was still halfway out the window. “So, it’s you I should blame for leaving the windows open.” Fiona quickly pulled her head inside and slid the window shut. “Quite rude of you to let me reprimand your mother for it. You should have taken responsibility when I mentioned the windows the first time.”
Fiona’s lips parted, but she had no reply.
“Anyway, I overheard you got that key to work but we are out of time for today. I’ll see you at the recital.”
The recital.
An uneasy feeling crept its way up Fiona’s stomach and into her throat. She swallowed. Was the recital tomorrow already? Ms. Downey hadn’t told her what she should play. There was nothing she could play. Were there songs that could be made using just scales?
Ms. Downey picked her purse off the floor and made her way to the front door, tripping on the overturned rug as she left.
