"Bram!" Isadora screamed, running toward the stairs.
A small sound stopped her.
A scuff. A whimper.
It came from the cupboard under the stairs—the small, cramped space where they kept the extra fabric rolls and the winter brooms.
Isadora froze, the match burning down toward her fingertips. She shook it out and struck another, her hand trembling violently. She walked slowly toward the cupboard door.
"Bram?" she whispered. "Is that you?"
The door creaked. It wasn't latched.
Isadora pulled it open and fell to her knees, a sob tearing from her throat.
curled in the darkness, wedged between a crate of wool and a bucket of coal, was her brother.
Bram looked smaller than she remembered. His face was pale, streaked with grime and dried tears. His eyes were wide, glassy with terror, fixed on something Isadora couldn't see. He held a wooden stake in his hands—a crude thing, whittled from a chair leg—clutching it so tight his knuckles were blue.
