Sisters of Misery

While there are many people to thank, I have to begin by thanking my parents first and foremost. They raised me in a house filled with thousands of books, instilling me with an immense appreciation and love for literature. I could not have written a single word without their love, support, and encouragement to follow my dreams of being a writer. They made me believe that anything was possible and that is a gift that carries me through each day.

To my mother, Gloria Kelley, thank you for your wisdom, your love, your strength, and for being the most giving and self-less person I have ever known. You inspire me to be a better person (and a better mother). I am consistently awed by your abundant supply of caring and generosity, even when times are tough.

To my father, Jim Kelley, I thank you for passing along your creative and artistic genes. Who would have thought that so many readings of
I Packed My Trunk
when I was a toddler would have set my career as a writer in motion? Thank you for carrying the Mickey Mouse cards for all those years. I think that they were indeed lucky.

To my sister, Jocelyn Maeve Kelley, you are my biggest cheerleader, my strongest defender, and my best friend. You fill all of our lives with boundless enthusiasm and happiness. Even though you are my little sister, I look up to you (no short jokes, please) more and more each day. I’m so happy to be working with you and Mom in Kelley & Hall Book Publicity, and I thank you for coming up with the idea of doing something with our love of books and authors. It’s definitely been a fun (and sometimes crazy) ride.

To my brother, Connor Patrick Kelley, your knowledge of books and writers and literature is astounding. You put all of us to shame with your powerful and unwavering love of books. You are the dark horse who will one day—quietly and effortlessly—write the Great American Novel.

I would also like to thank my agent, Elisabeth Weed of Weed Literary, and my editor at Kensington, Danielle Chiotti, for making my dreams a reality. You both made Cordelia, Maddie, Kate, and the rest of the Sisters of Misery real for me. Your endless devotion to making every word, every character, and every plot point sing is more than any writer could ever dream for in an agent and editor. Elisabeth, thank you for taking a chance on me and my vision and helping me find a home for my debut novel. Danielle, thank you for taking my story and working tirelessly with me until it was ready to be shared with the world. I am forever indebted to you both.

It is also important to thank the following people: to Professor Steven Millhauser, I feel so fortunate to have taken so many fiction writing classes with you at Skidmore College, and yet I’m still searching for that magical well that you seem to have unlimited access to for your stories. I hope to someday find it and infuse my own work with it. To my friend and client Michael Palmer, thank you for the warning. The words
WRITING IS HARD
,
BE FEARLESS
will stay over my computer, as will the ingredients for Rhinoceros Stew. I really appreciated your advice when I was in my first stages of trying to get published, and I’m happy to have had the chance to work with you promoting your novels. I would also like to thank Doug Mendini, who became a friend long before I joined the Kensington family, Kristine Mills-Noble for her amazing cover design, Christiana Sahl for her insightful edits, my in-house publicist Adeola Saul, and, of course, Kelley & Hall Book Publicity for your tireless efforts in promoting my book.

To my husband and best friend, Eddie Hall, thank you for being so supportive of my writing career from the very start. Most men would have been scared off by their twenty-something girlfriend writing about parenting and childcare for magazines long before there was even a proposal in sight. And yet you stood by me, giving me the time and space to write and follow my dream of becoming a published novelist. You have also been an amazing father to the most important person in our lives, Piper Elizabeth. Eddie, you’ve been there through the most challenging times and have always given me more love and support than I ever thought possible. You and Piper truly are the loves of my life.

And, of course, to Piper, who inspires me every day. Thank you for coming into our world and making us appreciate the little things in life we had all taken for granted. You bring sunshine to our lives and continuously amaze us with your artistic, independent spirit and gentle, inquisitive nature. From the time when you were a 2.5 pound preemie—with your daddy’s wedding band fitting over your foot—to today when you are one of the healthiest and most beautiful five-year-olds I’ve ever known, you make each moment magical and filled with wonder. I write these stories for you, so that one day you’ll be as proud of your mommy as I am of my baby girl.

According to the
Illustrated Encyclopedia of Divination
the word “rune” means
hidden, whisper, mystery
or
secret.
Originating as the written language and letters of the Norsemen of northern Europe (dating back to the time of the Vikings in 800
A.D
.), rune stones were often associated with magic, divination, and witchcraft. The runes were never the basis of a spoken language, but through their written use, they were believed to be powerful magical symbols, each linked to a god and a specific meaning. As Christianity spread throughout Europe, runes were eventually banned from the Church. Rune casters (typically women) quickly became associated with paganism and ultimately, witchcraft. To speak or write the name of a rune was thought to summon the powers of nature and the universe. Many believed that runes were a way of interacting with both the spirit and the living world.

Runes were upon his tongue,

As on the warrior’s sword.

—Longfellow

FAMILY TROUBLES

T
here are some girls who have everything.

And not just the ones who are born with silver spoons in their mouths.

Some girls are born with an intangible, magnetic aura: something that radiates beneath their flawless skin.

You know who they are: the Cleopatras, the Marilyn Monroes. They are the present day sirens—girls who have the power to transfix any male who comes their way.

Then there are the jealous ones.

Resenting their effortless beauty, the jealous ones—like the Evil Queen who gave Snow White the poisoned apple—will stop at nothing to destroy these special girls—girls like Cordelia.

Yet these are only stories, fairy tales. Sometimes, in real life, there are no happy endings. The glass slipper shatters; the poison spreads quickly.

This is a real story, and Maddie Crane played her part.

She was careless because she was consumed by fear.

Cordelia is gone.

And Maddie fears she may be next.

The outline of Cordelia’s body hangs slack against the tree perched high up on the sand dunes of Misery Island. The clank of the buoys in the distant harbor are part of the dawn’s symphony of sounds that spread across the island—the screech of the gulls, the gush of waves, the groaning of boats as they strain against moorings. Cordelia’s bloodied and bruised body is barely discernable through the gauze of the early morning mist.

What have they done to you?
Maddie cries, making her way across the clearing to her cousin’s side. The bonfire has died down to embers, occasionally throwing a spark or a hiss. They are trapped together in the eerie halflight between night and day. Everyone else has fled, returning to their houses as if nothing bad has happened.

But it has.

While the others run off into the mist under the cover of darkness, Maddie secretly remains on the island, tending to the scars, burns, and welts Cordelia had acquired through the night’s events. Gingerly, she plucks the sharp blood-soaked reeds from under her cousin’s blackened fingernails, brushing away the mud and sticks caked into the singed strands of Cordelia’s copper-red hair.

The grimy rags that secure Cordelia to the birch tree are taut as tourniquets. Stepping closer to Cordelia, Maddie’s almost afraid to untie her, fearful that her cousin will blame her for all that has happened.

You saved me,
Madeline whispers.
I understand that now.

Cordelia has taken her place as the Chosen One, saving Maddie from that fate.

It’s all my fault,
Maddie’s voice breaks as she sees no flicker of life in Cordelia; her hair rises and falls with each briny gust of wind that sweeps across the shore of the small island of Misery.

But Maddie knows the rules—the ones created by the Sisters of Misery long ago—and if Cordelia is released, Maddie’s
punishment will be far worse. The hair on the back of her neck prickles, and fear tightens across her chest as she senses another presence on the island.

Are they watching?

Without another thought for the consequences, Maddie begins pulling at the knotted ties, biting at them when her nails start to fail. The bitter taste of dirt mixes with salty sweat and the metallic tang of blood. The makeshift handcuffs aren’t giving an inch, no matter how much she shreds and tears at them. Soft as sand, voices travel up from Cat Cove.

We have to hurry,
Maddie cries.
Cordelia, open your eyes!

Terrified, Maddie begins to tug and yank at her cousin’s arms and legs, prying them away from the tree. But it seems that the more she pulls, the tighter Cordelia sticks to the aged birch, the white papery bark clinging to her pale skin, the thick gnarled roots underfoot wrapping around the girl’s legs like snakes. Then incredibly, the tree springs to life and begins devouring Cordelia, pulling her deep into its core. Maddie falls backward, horrified and stunned into silence. In an instant, she hears others coming up along the shoreline, dragging their schooners up the beach.

We have to go now,
Maddie pleads, trying not to stare directly at the surreal transformation taking place in front of her.

I think they drugged me. I-I think I’m seeing things. I can’t…can’t…I won’t leave you. Not again,
Maddie shouts
.

Her sobs are drowned out by indifferent gulls overhead.

And then, just as quickly as Cordelia had been sucked into the tree that once held her captive, she returns to her original form as a bruised and battered girl barely clinging to life. Maddie inches closer to her, still reeling from what she has just seen, consumed with fear.

Bleary-eyed, Maddie watches and waits as the sun begins its ascent into the sky.

You’re too late,
Cordelia says, snapping her head upright,
and her eyes, once the loveliest shade of lavender blue, are now hollow and black.

I’m already dead.

Maddie screams as sirens slice through the breaking of dawn.

Maddie Crane swung furiously at her alarm clock. And just as swiftly as the morning came upon her, the nightmare mercifully slipped away.