The Gift

Chapter 64

Wisty

AND THE SNOW JUST keeps falling.

My new definition of evil: anyone who makes me hate something that I love. Such as: I think I might hate chocolate now. That's criminal. It's the BNW Center's fault. I think I hate Celia for driving Whit half mad. Definitely the N.O.'s fault. Now The One has made me hate snow. Which I used to adore.

I remember how, every snowfall, Whit and I would be outside finding a way to go sledding, no matter how old we were. The only thing that changed was how daring we'd get, even going down hills that had a "frozen" (we hoped) pond at the bottom. In recent years he'd even drag Celia along, and I must admit, I loved watching the two of them together. They were so happy being with each other.

Those were the days. Days where nothing scared us.

Now snow will only symbolize these harrowing last moments leading up to my death.

I've found a few wooden boards, which I've stacked up so I can sit on them, to delay the frostbite on my butt cheeks from huddling on the floor. At this point we are already in about three inches deep. My forever-heroic brother keeps exploring the basement, looking for a way out-or for a new portal. Meanwhile I've been trying to recite every poem, song lyric, or nursery rhyme I've ever committed to memory. I know these schools have some sort of "magic-dampening" properties, but it seems as if we've almost always found a way to use our powers, at least a little, if we tried hard enough.

It's the cold. I know it. I freaking hate the cold. And now it's literally going to be the death of me.

"Okay, Whit, get out your journal!" I call to him. "I'm going to dictate my Last Will and Testament."

"I'm listening." Whit's muffled voice drifts over from a corner of the basement, where he's rapping on the wall like a detective, only one who doesn't really know what he's doing.

"Write it down! I'm serious."

"Wisty, I hate to remind you, but… we ain't got nuthin' to be willing to folks," Whit drawls, coming toward me with some discovery in hand. "Or folks to be willing 'em to."

"Don't be dark. That's my job. And may I remind you that somewhere in the world are two halves of my drumstick. I would will them to you, but you're gonna die, too, so I need a realistic backup plan."

Whit arrives with a piece of canvas just large enough to wrap a corpse in. "Found this," he says, throwing it around me. "It's not much, but -"

"If it'll delay hypothermia for even five minutes, I'll take it. Thanks," I say, holding out a corner so he can slip in next to me. "So, you ready to write?"

Whit looks at me with a surprisingly even gaze, no trace of Celia madness in his eyes, thank God. I need his sanity now. "Sure thing, Wisty."

He pulls out his journal and a pen, and I clear my throat dramatically. "I, Wisteria Rose Allgood, hereby declare my Last Will and Testament."