Warped Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2011 by Maurissa Guibord

  V & A Images / Victoria and Albert Museum (tapestry)

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press,

  an imprint of Random House Children’s Books,

  a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89646-0

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For Ron,

  Luke, Genny

  and Danielle,

  with all my love

  warp (wôrp), n. 1. the set of yarns placed in a loom that forms the lengthwise threads of a woven fabric. 2. a hypothetical eccentricity or discontinuity in the space-time continuum.

  —from Webster’s dictionary

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  On a hillside stood three figures. Black cloaks billowed over them from head to toe, while hoods cast a pall of darkness over their faces. These walking shadows were the Norn. Some called them by another name: the Fates, the three sisters who eternally spin and weave and cut the threads of human life. They had lived and worked here forever, beneath the huge ash tree named Yggdrasil, whose branches reached up so far they seemed like roots embedded in the sky.

  The one called Spyn knelt beneath the twisted tree. She scooped her hands together and gathered a mist that drifted down from its branches. The mist was the color of snow, holding prisms of winter sun trapped within. Her spindly fingers jabbed and twiddled and pulled at the translucent material until it became a gauzy mass. From this, Spyn drew one long, shimmering thread. She passed it to Weavyr. Weavyr took it, and her dark fingers flew as she wove the thread into a fabric that lay upon the ground. This fabric flowed out in all directions from the hill, turning and folding, coiling into whorls here and twisting spirals there. This was the Wyrd. The threads of human life were here, endlessly woven and tended by the Norn. Each thread was a mortal soul whose destiny was made by their thread’s winding path in the Wyrd.

  “Something is not right,” Weavyr announced. She crouched lower over one spot in the Wyrd and tugged, redirecting the threads. In the moments that followed, throughout the world hearts were broken, brilliant careers were launched and dreams were dashed. A volleyball serve also went awry.

  “No,” Weavyr muttered from beneath the folds of her hood. “Still wrong.”

  Spyn drifted closer to examine her sister’s work. Beneath the cloak her bony shoulders shrugged. “Life is often messy.”

  “You sound like one of them,” Weavyr observed.

  “Human, you mean? Don’t be vulgar,” Spyn retorted.

  “What is it?” A deep voice, like an echo from an empty crypt, interrupted the discussion. The third sister was called Scytha, and her tall form loomed over the other two, eclipsing them in her shadow. From the sleeves of her own cloak Scytha’s hands hung down: large, thick-fingered and pale. Scytha held a pair of heavy shears whose razor edges glinted so brightly that it stung to look upon them. “Why do you stop your work?” Scytha demanded.

  The calloused pads of Weavyr’s fingers tapped together in irritation. “It’s all wrong,” she said, pointing to the troublesome spot in the vast fabric. “But it’s not my fault. It’s the missing threads.”

  “The missing threads,” Spyn repeated in her thin, wavery voice. “Five hundred human years have passed and still they plague us. Out of the billions, the myriad, to think that seven threads could matter so.”

  “They do,” Weavyr replied. “You know they do. The loss of those threads created rifts, knots and tangles in the Wyrd. Things that were not meant to be have come to pass. Proper destinies have not been fulfilled. I’ve had all I can do to maintain order.”

  Spyn’s answer came on a whispery sigh. “Yes. You’re right, of course.” Her long fingers knit the air. “But what can we do?”

  “Nothing,” said Scytha. “The threads are lost. They are gone from the Wyrd and therefore beyond our control.” She dragged one pallid finger across the fabric, and in the human world, a hundred souls shivered, as if each had felt the tread of footsteps over his grave.

  “Not lost. Stolen,” Weavyr said, with a bitter snap.

  “Yes. The threads were stolen.” Scytha pronounced this slowly. She did all things slowly, except for one. “Let us hope that someday they will be found.”

  “And whoever stole them …,” Weavyr began.

  “Will be punished.” Scytha’s fingers inched over the shimmering threads and then stopped. She plucked up one of the threads and pulled it taut. “But for now, Sisters, we have work to do.” As if to demonstrate, Scytha’s fingers moved with a quick and dreadful economy. The flashing blades gaped. Hssst. The thread was cut. A human life was ended.

  The other two Norn nodded and returned to their duties as Scytha had bidden them. Spyn’s nature was energetic, and full of drama. Weavyr was careful and workmanlike, just like her fingers. Scytha was final.

  “Still,” said Weavyr. The dissatisfaction rang clear in her tone, even as her dark fingers worked, weaving the paths of human lives. “The stolen threads. I do wonder what has become of them.”

  Chapter 1

  Cheever’s Fine Auction House was packed on a stormy spring afternoon. The auctioneer’s voice carried over the patter of rain drumming on the high, dark-beamed roof of the former dairy barn. “Number ninety-four. Last lot,” he announced to the crowd.

  “Thank God,” said Tessa Brody under her breath. She’d been sitting there so long, she’d probably have an impression of the chair slats engraved on her rear end. Auction butt. Not good.

  “Nice collection of books from an estate sale,” the auctioneer boomed. “S
ome old leather-bound editions of the classics, and some more unusual stuff too.” Beside Tessa, her father leaned forward in his seat, making the flimsy wood creak. “Four boxes,” said the auctioneer. “Nope, make that five,” he added as his assistant lugged out one more. This was a wooden crate instead of cardboard like the others. The assistant set it on top.

  “These are the ones I want,” Tessa’s father whispered.

  “Really?” Tessa eyed her dad. Jackson Brody twirled his bidding placard, which looked like a Ping-Pong paddle, between his fingers while his knees jiggled and his heels tapped the concrete floor.

  Tessa smiled at him. “Way to be nonchalant, Dad.”

  She shifted to give the elderly man on her other side a little more elbow room, and rattled the last of her ice in a sweaty paper cup. If she’d had any patience, which she didn’t, it would have been gone about three diet colas ago. She and her father had been there for hours, since the preview, and had watched the bidding on what seemed like every Kewpie doll, vintage bedpan and tarnished tea service in greater New England, waiting for the collection of books her father was interested in. Naturally, it would be the last lot.

  The auctioneer’s assistant took the top off the wooden crate and pulled something out. It looked like a faded, rolled-up rug.

  “Look at that,” said the auctioneer. “You get a bonus with this lot. Open it up, Charlie. Looks like an old piece of tapestry was tucked in with this last crate of books.”

  Tessa narrowed her eyes and shifted to see as the assistant lifted the piece up. It unfurled with a faint puff of dust to reveal a woven fabric about three feet square. A brilliant white unicorn was poised against a darker background. Across the length of the auction hall the unicorn seemed to glare at Tessa from the tapestry. Its eyes were a blazing golden brown.

  A feeling of dizziness swept over Tessa. Her eyes fluttered closed and the cup of ice slipped from her hand.

  Hoofbeats.

  Tessa heard them. The distant but clear sound of hoofbeats rose above the murmured noise around her. Louder. The air shuddered with the sound of hooves pounding against the earth. They were coming closer, faster.

  Hoofbeats. Savage. Frantic. Closer.

  “Tessa.”

  Tessa gasped. Her eyes flew open.

  “You okay?” Her father was concerned, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he peered at her.

  Tessa didn’t answer for a moment. She listened. The sound of hoofbeats was gone, but her breathing was ragged and her heart pounded beneath the thin fabric of her T-shirt.

  “I—I’m okay,” she stammered finally. “I thought I heard something. Did you hear something?”

  Her father bent to retrieve her fallen cup. “Like what?”

  Good question. Tessa brushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind one ear. “Nothing.” She straightened up. “I guess I zoned out for a minute. It must have been the rain on the roof. I’m fine.”

  “Do I have a bid of seventy-five dollars?” the auctioneer said. He nodded at a number of raised placards. “Seventy-five. Do I have one hundred? One hundred. Do I have one twenty-five?” In the front row a woman with a black beret perched on her gray curls shot an arm up. Tessa’s father lifted his placard to raise the bid. This process went on briskly for a few moments, but gradually the hands became more hesitant and their number dwindled. Tessa’s father settled back in his seat. He gave Tessa a half smile and shrugged.

  He was giving up.

  “Going once,” said the auctioneer.

  Tessa nudged her father. She wasn’t sure why, but suddenly she wanted him to get this. It was important.

  “Going twice. Two seventy-five.” Tessa nudged harder. Her father winced. But he shook his head no. Without thinking, Tessa grabbed her father’s hand and hoisted it up, still holding the paddle.

  “Tessa!”

  The auctioneer acknowledged the bid. “Three hundred dollars. Thank you in the back.” The bidding went on.

  Later, the rain had diminished to a fine, cold mist as Tessa helped load the boxes into the back of the Subaru. The last one, the wooden crate, was the heaviest. She hefted it onto her hip and tried to wedge it in with the others. “Why,” she said, giving it a few forceful shoves, “does the last one never, ever fit?” She gave up and rested the crate on the bumper.

  “Easy there,” her father said. He took the crate from her and set it down with a grunt. His face was red from exertion, and he wiped his forehead with his flannel shirtsleeve. Jackson Brody had a square, solid face that, over the last few years, had drifted toward pudgy.

  “My wallet and I talked it over,” he said, eyeing her. “You’re never allowed near an auction again. You’re a menace.” He shook his head. “Must be all those teenage hormones.”

  Tessa glanced out at the parking lot, where people were loading stuff into their cars. She swiveled back and gave her father a level look. “Okay. Dad? Remember that list of things you’re not allowed to talk about? Add Tessa’s hormones.”

  “Right,” her father sighed. “But the point is you can’t act on every impulse you have, Tessa. It’ll get you into trouble.”

  “Yeah, I’m a real wild one, all right.” Tessa put her hands on her hips. “Imagine,” she said, making her expression stern. “I spent my Saturday going to an auction with my father and buying a bunch of old books. The president should work on a special task force for that one.”

  Her father shook his head and smiled, as if despite himself. “You look just like your mother when you argue.”

  Tessa smiled too, and dropped the pose. Sometimes she wondered if her father knew she liked hearing that, and said it just to please her. But she did have her mother’s features: pale skin with mahogany dark hair and wide blue eyes that were slightly heavy-lidded, giving her otherwise ordinary looks an exotic touch.

  “Anyway,” she said. “It was your impulse, not mine. You said you wanted them.”

  “Not four hundred dollars’ worth,” her father said dryly. “I thought you and the old lady in front were going to duke it out there for a minute.”

  “She looked pretty tough,” Tessa said with a nod. “But I could have taken her.”

  She climbed into the back and tugged one of the cardboard boxes in farther. “Besides,” she called out. “It wasn’t four hundred. It was three sixty-eight, including tax. Dealer’s discount, remember? And I’m sure there’s stuff in here we can make a profit on.”

  “I can make a profit on, you mean,” her father corrected. “The guy with the bookstore, remember?”

  “Uh-huh,” Tessa answered absently. She tucked a loose tendril of hair, curling now from the damp, behind her ear and fingered through the books before selecting one. Plant Lore of the Middle Ages. The tooled-leather spine wobbled as she flipped the book open. She wiggled a slim finger into the spot where the endpapers gaped and prodded gently. “I can fix that,” she said. She liked to fix things; she was good at it too. But she frowned when she saw that one of the illustrated pages had been marred with someone’s notes and cross-outs. “Great,” she muttered, replacing the book with the others. “Looks like we had a scribbler. In pen, no less.”

  “No, I checked them over at the preview,” her father said. “For the most part they’re in good condition.” He was staring at the wooden crate at his feet as he ran his fingers through his hair, sending the brown and gray mix into disheveled tufts. “You know, I really don’t remember seeing this one then.”

  Tessa glanced at it. “Me neither.” She pointed to the mark on the crate’s side in heavy blue wax. “But it’s part of the lot. Number ninety-four. See? It’s the one with that old tapestry thing inside.”

  Her father nodded. “Yeah, well, it’s not going to fit in the car. Let me go find some smaller boxes. We’ll rearrange.”

  He disappeared back into Cheever’s. Meanwhile, Tessa went to the glove compartment and found a screwdriver so she could pry the cover off the crate. They’d nailed it back on inside. She wan
ted to get a closer look at the tapestry. It might look cool hanging in the back of the store.

  Tessa lifted off the plywood cover and wrinkled her nose as a dry, musty smell wafted up. Like crumbled dried flowers, or herbs. The tapestry was folded up and wedged in on one side, next to a stack of books. On top lay an old book. And not old as in used, Tessa saw immediately; old as in ancient.

  The cover of the thick black volume had some red rot, the flaking decay that could make old leather crumble to dust. It would have to be handled with care. And certainly not taken out here, in the damp. She looked at the clouds overhead, which were threatening more rain.

  Gently, Tessa pushed the book to one side and pulled the thick fabric of the tapestry from the crate. She shook it open with a snap; a small cloud of dust flew up, tickling her nose and scenting the air even more strongly with that sweet herbal smell as she spread the cloth over the open crate. She caught her breath.

  Up close, the tapestry’s deep, jeweled colors made kaleidoscope whorls of crimson and gold and emerald green, while in the center, the unicorn, woven in milky white, blazed like a pool of moonlight against the dark.

  “Gorgeous,” Tessa whispered.

  It looked so real. The unicorn, with a long spiraled horn jutting from its tangled mane, was depicted rearing up on its hind legs as its front hooves raked the air. A violent, yet majestic strength was captured in the arched lines of its neck and the muscular shadows of its shoulders.

  The unicorn was in a grassy clearing, hemmed in by denser forest. In the background a castle sat atop a distant hill, with turrets outlined against a brilliant blue sky. The scene, Tessa thought, was like something from a fairy tale. But definitely one of the darker ones. And probably not one with a happy ending. For she noticed that a dark cut was stitched on the unicorn’s cheek, and from it flowed two crimson drops of blood. The unicorn’s large golden brown eyes seemed to glitter. Tessa squinted. She felt strange, breathless.