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works?” It’s heavier than I expect.
    Jaxon inspects it in the dim lighting. “It’s an antique for sure, but more like seventy years old than three hundred.”
    I flip the little knob on the metal base and a small flame shoots up, throwing dancing shadows along the old brick. “If this thing is from the nineteen hundreds, I guess we’re not the only ones who’ve discovered this passageway.”
    Jaxon closes the door behind us with the handle on the inside. “Yeah, but for now this place is just ours.”
    Something about the way he says “ours” makes me very aware how long it’s been since I’ve had a friend. “You know, I don’t really talk to my stepmom about my dad. You said before that I had her to talk to. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” I take the first steps of the spiral staircase at the end of the hallway with caution. They were clearly meant for people with tiny feet.
    “ ’Cause of my listening skills,” he says from behind me, and I can almost hear his grin. “So what’s the thing? You guys don’t get along?”
    “Actually, before my dad got sick, we used to. We’re alike in strange ways—bad-tempered, independent, maybe too straightforward. It just got weird when my dad went into the hospital. I stopped talking for a while, and when I did talk again it felt like she was mad at me. I don’t know.”
    I reach the top of the stairs, and Jaxon’s right behind me. It’s everything I imagined a secret room might be. It isn’t big, and it has a cozy feel, like an old dusty bookshop in London. There’s a heavy antique desk covered in papers and books in front of a tiny square window.
    “Okay, this is awesome.” Jaxon runs his hand along the sloped wall. “This must be one of the gables you can see from the street.”
    “Gables?” I pick up a book on top of an old leather trunk, and the thrill of finding this place washes away my feelings about school. It’s like the library; stacks of books line the room.
    “The place where the roof comes to a peak. That’s why the walls are sloped.”
    “How do you know it’s called a gable, though?”
    “One of Salem’s most popular tourist sites is the House of Seven Gables. I’ve been there like ten times between field trips and visiting family.”
    “Oh,” I say. “It looks as if a lot of these books are about the Witch Trials.”
    “Yeah.” Jaxon blows dust off the stack near him. “And your relatives.”
    On the desk rests a faded photograph of a beautiful woman with her hair tied loosely in a bun. She grips a little boy’s hand. I catch my breath. My dad’s smile still looks exactly like that. I run my finger along the gold frame. “This must have been my grandmother’s study. She was stunning. I’ve never seen a picture of her before.”
    Jaxon joins me at the desk and peers at the picture. “Your father?”
    I nod without looking at him and pick up a leather-bound journal. I open it to the satin ribbon marker. The page is filled with beautiful cursive. I read out loud.
It was a good day of research. I’m delighted by a letter I found in one of Perley’s books. Good and thorough historian, Perley was. The letter was written by Dr. Holyoke on Nov. 25, 1791 , and read: “In the last month, there died a man in this town, by the name of John Symonds, aged a hundred years lacking about six months, having been born in the famous ’ 92. He has told me that his nurse had often told him…she saw, from the chamber windows, those unhappy people hanging on Gallows’ Hill, who were executed for witches by the delusion of the times.”
    Finding Symonds’ house in Salem will once and for all clear up the mystery of the hanging spot. I will look for it first thing in the morning. I must go now, however, my teakettle is whistling.
    I wrinkle my face. “What do you think this means?” I peer at Jaxon, whose cheek is now close to mine. I breathe in his woodsy smell. “Is she saying people don’t know where the