I trudge into dinner in the ballroom that evening feeling low. As much as I want to, I can’t shake the heavy feeling that’s welled up inside me. As if sensing my mood, the dining room is subdued. The tiny lights dangling above like suspended raindrops are a dull yellow, and the mist the house usually draws inside and weaves into shapes floats lifelessly near the vaulted ceiling.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s as down as I am.

If the guests can sense the house’s somber mood, they don’t show it. We’re near to capacity, the big round tables throughout filled with people laughing and talking.

I get food from the buffet and join my family at our table but only draw shapes in my mashed potatoes. As I scan the faces seated around the table, I realize it’s not just Colin’s absence that has my stomach in knots: it’s dread of what’s to come. What we’re dealing with is dangerous, and we’re down a set of helping hands.

Aunt Elaine and Uncle Roy can defend themselves, but so could Colin’s parents, and they’re dead. What about Nora? Rose? Kara? My stomach clenches as I think of each one, unable to stop myself from imagining them like Colin’s parents: with their eyes empty.

The rain hasn’t slowed at all. It pounds against the floor-to-ceiling windows without mercy. The thunder shakes even the trees outside, and I’m sure the only reason the house isn’t vibrating is because it’s trying really hard not to.

A particularly bright strike of lightning illuminates the ballroom, and Aunt Elaine lets out a low whistle. “He’s going to bring the inn down at this rate.”

“Poor Max.” Rose bows her head.

“I always thought the connection between Jabberwockies’ emotions and the weather was an old wives’ tale,” Kara adds, staring out the window at the trees bending in the wind.

I follow her gaze, and in the faint glow of the house’s lights, I see a small black form, nearly invisible in the gathering dark.

Pushing back my chair, I ignore Nora’s call and head out the rear door. Across the field by the wood, Max sits before two gnarled oak trees that have grown around each other, their bodies twisted together. There’s a small mound of fresh dirt by his paws, and he sits hunched over with his shoulders rigid and his tail curled tightly around his body.

The rain pelts me with freezing droplets as I kneel beside him, gently placing a hand on his back. He leans into me, and I nearly flinch at how cold and wet he is. He must have been out here for hours.

“It’ll be okay, Max,” I say softly, even though nothing feels as if it’s going to be okay.