Winter's Cavern: The Complete Trilogy: Haunted Halls: Winter's Cavern

By Juliet Vane

Explore haunted caverns in a mystery series filled with hidden treasure, ghosts from the wild west, and a sweet friendship that could become something more.

 

Ever since she was a young child, eighteen-year-old Winter has been best friends with the ghost who resides in her family's caverns. No one else could see him. They wrote him off as Winter's "imaginary friend." But now that dangerous incidents are occurring near Lago Caverns, he may become Winter's secret weapon in getting to the bottom of the mysteries.

 

When a teacher goes missing amidst ghastly rumors, Winter is the only person who believes something nefarious is at play…especially when the teacher's absence spells trouble for Lago Caverns. Armed with her friendly ghost, her own fearlessness, and her ability to craft stories that leave listeners spellbound, Winter will get to the bottom of this mystery—and others—to save her home.

 

This collection includes Hollow Wishes, Dark Refrains, and Wicked Regrets—the complete Winter's Cavern trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Juliet Vane
• Release date: Feb 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386065883

Book preview

Telling the Dead Man’s Tale

Everybody wants a happily-ever-after. They want the monsters slain, they want the hero and heroine to kiss with the sunset behind them, they want the ghosts laid to rest.

But I knew that real life wasn’t that easy. People might call me jaded, especially for my young age of eighteen as my aunt liked to say with a sigh, but it’s all in how you look at it.

Jaded. Pessimistic.

Practical.

I looked over the little room filled with people waiting to go on the cavern tour. Mostly families, but there was a young couple and an older couple, as well. A teenage boy who must’ve been from out of town because if he went to my tiny school, I would know him. Twenty folks in all. It was a big tour. That meant it would be harder to get their attention. But once I had it, they’d be riveted.

All right, everyone, I said in a loud voice, my name is Winter, and I’ll be your tour guide and storyteller today. If you’ll direct your attention to the items on display here, you might see something kind of creepy.

Immediately, three ten-year-old boys snapped to attention at the front of the crowd. Their gazes went straight to the display case in front of me.

"Is that a bone?" one of them asked.

The room quieted.

"Yes, that is a bone, I said. A human bone brought up from the cavern many, many years ago."

Can we bring up bones? one of his buddies asked.

No, sir, I said. They’re protected by all kinds of laws these days. Besides, we’re not going down to look for bones, we’re going down to hear a story.

All three of them groaned while their dad tried to shush them. The dad gave me an apologetic glance, but I just smiled and shrugged. It was okay, I was used to this sort of thing. Once I got them under my storytelling spell, they’d be hooked and silent and they’d forget they ever complained.

I gestured to the walls to the side of the display case. These black and white photographs show the cavern in its early days, when people were still exploring and finding bones.

The photos on the wall were grainy, which only added to their mystery. Cavern formations framed grotesque images of bones. One image showed a young woman wearing a helmet and holding up a flashlight at the cavern’s entrance. Another one showed the pond at the bottom of this cavern. The stalagmites to the side of it rose up, looking like ghosts. I watched for a couple of minutes while the tourists examined the photographs, nudging each other to point out the bones and the pond.

We’ll have more time to examine them when we come back up, I said. Now, who’s ready to climb down the passageway and hear a scary story?

Hands shot into the air, and a couple of people clapped, but their enthusiasm felt empty and forced. A man in his mid-twenties looked over at the woman next to him and rolled his eyes. Likely they were here because friends had sent them, but they didn’t really know what they were in for, not yet.

Soon, every person in this room would be mine, caught in whatever story I decided to weave for them. If they were lucky, I’d allow the monsters to be slain, I’d allow the hero and heroine to kiss in the sunset, and I’d put the ghosts to rest.

And if I didn’t? Well, that was a lesson everyone had to learn eventually. Because at my young age of eighteen, I’d already learned one big lesson: not everything has a happy ending.

I rummaged through the box behind the display case, bypassing some old helmets with headlamps until I found an extra flashlight. We had light switches up top and down below, but it never hurt to be prepared just in case. Then, the group crowded around me while I fumbled with the lock on the large door leading to the caverns. Tours Only. Do not pass this point without a guide. I smiled to myself. My mom and aunt had finally agreed to let me be a guide two years ago, on my sixteenth birthday. I’d been begging since I was a little kid. Lago Caverns was like my second home.

Right this way, everyone, I called out cheerily. I’ll lead the way through this passage, but give me a shout if you need a hand.

The passage was on the small side, and more than one claustrophobic tourist had needed to abandon the tour in the past. If anyone needed to turn back, my mom was waiting at the counter of the shop to lead them to a bench so they could catch their breath and wait for their panic to subside.

The wooden steps leading down into the belly of the cavern were age-worn, and no longer gave off any scent. These days, only the metallic smell of minerals tickled my nose when I came down here.

I kept an ear out for anyone who might be having trouble, but so far this group seemed fine. At the bottom of the steps, the passageway widened to a large ledge, wide enough for twenty-five people to squish onto. Below was a sixty-five-foot drop. I held fast to the safety rail that spanned the ledge. One of the lights installed at the hallway flickered. I’d need to let Mom know. These lights weren’t cheap, and she wouldn’t be happy about another expense.

Is this where you tell the stories? a little girl asked. She clung to her father’s hand.

Not here, I said, still thinking about expenses, and the flickering light. I needed to make my story awesome so these tourists would come back. "This is where we take a break before we go down there." I pointed past the ledge, to a massive spiral staircase that led another sixty-five feet down.

Whoa, a woman said, taking a peek past the ledge. Whoa. I don’t know if I can do that.

The lack of sunlight and shadows made it difficult for our eyes to interpret distance. Everything looked closer or farther away than it was. A stalagmite twenty feet away might look close enough to touch. It exacerbated vertigo when combined with steep drops.

The woman’s husband rubbed her back. I can go down with the kids if you want, he murmured. You can go back.

No, she said, jutting out her chin. I’m gonna do this.

I shot her an encouraging smile. Well, if everyone’s ready, let’s make our way down. Please remember to step carefully.

The spiral staircase was enclosed in a sort of wire cage so nobody could go tumbling over the railing, but climbing still required caution.

After a couple of minutes, we reached the bottom. Some tourists looked paler than others. In most cases, their fright was overcome by their interest in the surroundings.

The large chamber we now stood in was roughly a circle, about forty feet in diameter. A long passageway curved off toward the east, and near a small pond was another dark curve, a sort of hollow filled with rocks and mineral formations.

I dimmed the lights and said, While you look around, I’d like to tell you a story. The story is true, some say, and it’s been passed down for generations. A band of forty-niners, men hungry for gold—desperate men—stole a cache of gold from a newly-wealthy couple who had been saving it to retrieve their parents from Ireland, their home country.

While I spoke, a hush fell over the room. This was the moment I lived for, when everyone fell under my spell. I hoped the spell would last long after today, and they would come back for more tours. So far, though, we hadn’t had much luck with that.

"The man was spiteful, for he hadn’t only wanted to bring their parents to California, he had hoped to use their wealth to create more and more wealth. He cursed the thieves and performed magical rites beneath the new moon.

"His wife, seeing the madness coming over her husband, intervened in her own way, with charms and protections learned from her grandparents.

The thieves could feel changes coming over them. They began fighting, falling ill, and dying, one after another. Every time someone came to check on their hoard of gold, that person would perish.

A shadow appeared behind one of the boys, and I did a double-take. The little guy gazed back at me, thinking I was staring at him, but the shadow was manifesting right beyond his shoulder.

That shadow became a person—a person who smiled and waved at me. I looked away, not wanting to alarm the little kid in front of him.

My heart lifted a little, knowing that he was around. He came and went as he pleased, although lately, he’d been showing up more often.

Garrett did an old-timey dance step, trying to distract me. Nobody else noticed him; nobody else could see him. I bit back a smile at his antics.

The wife did what she could, while her heart was breaking for the dark turn the husband took.

I continued weaving the story, outlining the wife’s efforts to stop the evil. The cavern was so quiet, all I could hear was my voice and the steady drips of water into the pond. Even Garrett had settled down to listen.

Desperate as her husband was finally consumed by the dark forces he used, the wife traveled into the mines, far back into the caverns where they originated, and helped bring out the gold.

I stared past the tourists and into the dark, curving tunnel that led beyond my cavern, far under the earth. Was it just my imagination, or did a cool breeze come from that direction?

The ground shook, I said, shoving aside the spooky thought, and the spirits clutched at the bags she and a few other regretful thieves carried. The husband arrived to fight the escaping thieves. In the blindness of his evil, he even tried to prevent his wife’s escape. But she moved forward nonetheless.

I took a deep breath and looked around the room. She survived, I said, my voice a whisper, but just barely. The others perished, including the husband. And now those greedy spirits, crushed by the mines, haunt the cavern. One would have thought that the gold’s return would appease the forces that kept the spirits locked in limbo, but to no avail. Like my mother told me, and her mother told her, there’s no place in heaven or hell for that kind of greed.

The tourists stared. I hadn’t meant for this story to get quite so dark. In a small voice, I finished up with my usual line, Well, thank you for listening to my story.

I think I see a ghost! one of the boys exclaimed.

Quickly, I found Garrett, but nobody was looking at him.

The boy and his friends started laughing.

That was a marvelous story, the mother said, shooting the boys a glare before turning back to me.

Her husband came over to hold her hand. I agree. Our friend told us that you make up the stories new, each time?

Yes, I said, nodding. I have some favorites, but I change them around.

The tour group wandered around the cavern, staying within the central area blocked off by the chest-high railing. I answered questions about the pond, the curving tunnel.

One last thing, I announced, and then it’ll be time to make our way back to the surface. This is the point where I turn off all the lights for a brief moment so we can see how absolutely dark it is in here.

I moved to the three switches lined up near the staircase and flicked off the first two. The lights illuminating the corridor at the top, and the spotlights shining against the pond and the biggest section of flowstone went out. The general lights, affixed to the staircase, were still on, but the room was much dimmer than before.

A couple of people gave nervous giggles.

Make sure you’re in a comfortable spot, I said, because it’s about to get super dark.

I waited a moment, and then flipped the switch.

Absolute darkness.

Hold your hand in front of your face, I instructed. Can you see it?

Not at all, someone said. Nope, another person murmured.

Imagine what it would be like, exploring these caverns with only a flimsy lantern. If it went out, you’d be in deep trouble. After a moment, I said, Okay, the lights are coming back on now.

I flicked them on, answered a few more questions, and soon our forty minutes was up and it was time to go.

I mentally did the math while everyone walked up the staircase. This was a decent turnout, but I had no doubt my mother would be sighing as she looked over the accounting books later this week.

Garrett came to stand at my shoulder as the last of the tourists made their way up the stairs. He spoke in my ear. That couple there, you can tell he really cares for the lady.

I wanted to say, Like you care for me? but it would be pointless to open up that line of conversation.

Garrett was my closest friend, and he had been since I first sneaked down to the caverns alone as a little girl. Ever since I’d met him, he’d been nineteen. Never older, and always with that same handsome shadow of dark blond scruff on his jaw.

Why hadn’t he changed? Because Garrett was dead. He was a spirit.

I couldn’t tell him I cared for him as more than a friend, because those feelings were futile.

It was like a sweeping romance story, but one of the lovers died a long time ago. What was the point?

The Last New Kid

Afly buzzed against the window of English class, where Mr. Ibanez’s voice droned on about the final project’s due date in one month, and the presentations that would go along with it.

We were all graduating and the atmosphere of the classroom was a mixture of apathy and mutiny.

Hey! Mr. Ibanez clapped his hands.

I sat up straighter at my desk and noticed several of my classmates do the same.

"Some of you think your grades are set in stone at this point. But if there’s one thing you learn from high school, one thing, it should be that there is always hope." He pointed to the motivational poster near his desk, an Emily Dickinson quote. Hope is the thing with feathers… It was accompanied by an illustrated image of birds taking flight from a feather.

A couple of students groaned; we’d been hearing about hope for the entire school year. I thought it was great, though, that he wanted to inspire us. He was one of those teachers who loved his work—I could see it in how he showed up to school each day. His attitude was always stern, but encouraging. If you received praise from Mr. Ibanez, you knew he meant it.

You can’t let this go, he said. I know you all think graduation is a done deal. That you’re either going to walk off the football field in June, diploma in hand, or you’re not. But we still have this last month of school. Let’s make it amazing.

His dark brown eyes blazed as he looked at each of us in turn. Rourke and Maureen Malley, in the next row over, shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The twins lived near me and ran a cavern tourism business, as well—one that outperformed Lago Caverns. They gave me a ride to and from school most days, so I knew that Rourke was struggling with English. He’d graduate, no problem, but he still hadn’t decided what his final project would be. Maureen was fine; she’d decided ages ago that she would create a fictionalized diary of Frida Kahlo. The diary would come with art in the margins because it was, after all, Maureen.

I looked down at my binder. Inside was the list of stories and poems I planned to include in my project. This was a collection of stories and poems other people had written. But there was one story—just one—that I’d written myself. It had been harder than I would’ve thought possible to write it down, and I was still struggling with it.

The door opened, interrupting whatever dire warning Mr. Ibanez was about to give next. He looked up, eyebrows raised. Yes?

Most of the heads in the class, including mine, swiveled to the rear side of the room to follow Mr. Ibanez’s gaze.

A boy stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the afternoon sun. He stood tall, but stocky. His hair was short on the sides, longer on top.

Hi, he said, striding up between my row and the Malley twins’ row, bringing with him the faint scent of a spicy cologne. He held a slip of paper out toward Mr. Ibanez. Shane Parks. I'm new here.

Mr. Ibanez accepted the slip of paper. So you are. Pretty late in the game to be switching schools, but we’re glad to have you, Shane.

Shane waited while Mr. Ibanez made a note on the slip of paper.

There's a seat at the left, over there beside Jamila, Mr. Ibanez said.

Jamila audibly sighed. Her eyes were locked on the newcomer. Looking around the room, I saw that several students were openly ogling him.

I could see why—he looked like one of those charismatic, dark and handsome heroes, straight out of one of my tales. Purposefully turning away from him as he sat down, I opened my notebook and looked at the outline for the short story anthology I was creating. From the corner of my eye, it seemed like Shane looked in my direction for a brief moment before he turned to Jamila and asked to look over her syllabus. His voice was smooth and buttery. I told myself that buttery voices and bad boy looks meant nothing. Because unlike the heroes in my stories, guys in real life didn't deliver happily-ever-afters; they delivered disappointment.

After class, several of my classmates stopped to talk to Shane. I packed up my book, my notebook, and my pen. I heard threads of their conversation, but I didn't want to be a part of it. We had one month left of school. One month. Why would somebody join a new senior class with only one month left of school?

I left my binder out and started toward Mr. Ibanez. I needed his advice on the story I’d written. Did it fit? What business did it have rubbing elbows with the works of legitimate, published authors and poets? I didn’t think it belonged at all. But Mr. Ibanez had insisted I at least try.

I started toward his desk, but the scrum of people loitering around Shane was in my way. Sharing my story with Mr. Ibanez was nerve-wracking enough as it was—I didn’t want any kind of an audience. Frustrated, I jammed the binder into my bag. I’d have to corner Mr. Ibanez tomorrow.

I'd love to get to know you guys, the new kid was saying to the others in his smooth voice. I'm going to have some people over this weekend—you should come.

Oh, that would be wonderful, Maureen said.

A lot of the other kids agreed. Not me. Making a new friend, getting to know somebody completely new? I didn't have time for this. I had to work on the cavern tourism business, keep everything running. While I watched, Shane and all the kids I'd grown up with started to become friends.

I grabbed my bag and walked out of the classroom, not sparing a glance over my shoulder.

The hot California sun beat against my face. Immediately, sweat started to gather under my arms. This was the downside to living in central California. In the summer, it felt like you were living inside an oven.

Hey, Winter!

I spun around. Maureen was rushing out of the classroom, her giant canvas messenger bag slapping against her hip.

What's up? I asked.

You’re getting a ride with us today, right? Her face was already turning pink with the heat, but she came forward eagerly, fully expecting me to slow down and accept her. I had always envied Maureen, her easy way with people, her friendliness. It was like she could just meet somebody and instantly connect with them. With me, though, it didn't seem to work like that.

Yes, I'd love to, I said. That is, unless you’re too busy falling in love with Shane Parks.

Of course not, she said, pouting at me. She linked her arm with mine, even though it was too hot for such a thing. And even though it was too hot for such a thing, I found I didn't mind too much.

Garrett might be my best friend, but Maureen was the closest thing I had to a living friend.

You didn't stay back to talk to Shane, she said. Her voice was neutral, like she wasn't judging me or anything, but just the same I could hear a faint tinge of reproach.

It seemed he was pretty busy with everybody else, I said.

Well, maybe you can get to know him better at his house this weekend.

I don't know about that, I said. He didn't invite me.

He invited everybody, she said. I even saw him looking at you when he said it.

I tried not to laugh. Okay, whatever.

We made our way up to Rourke's shiny blue, classic Chevy Nova. It was parked under a large oak tree, one of the best spots in the school parking lot. The spot was why we sacrificed by getting up early, because we knew at the end of the day it was important to have the shade.

I forgot my science book, Maureen said, frowning. I'm just gonna run back and get it.

I leaned against Rourke's car. In the shade, the heat wasn't quite as bad. Other students continued to pour out of the school, making their way to the parking lot or to the buses. I watched as Rourke and Shane walked out together. As they got closer, I heard Shane say, That's your car?

Yeah, Rourke said. It used to be my dad's. He helped me restore it.

It's awesome, Shane said.

They reached me, and Rourke asked, Where's Maureen?

She forgot her science book.

Shane’s eyes were hidden by sunglasses, likely expensive ones if the brand logo on his t-shirt was anything to go by. I felt like the country cousin in my tank top from the discount store, and I hoped he didn’t notice the thread poking out at the bottom that I kept meaning to cut off.

Winter, have you met Shane yet? Rourke asked.

Not yet, I said, holding out my hand to shake his.

So formal, he said taking my hand. I'm Shane. I hope you'll come to my house this weekend. I'm having a party.

And your parents are cool with that? I asked, surprised. It came out abrupt and I held my hands up to show I wasn’t judging and didn’t mean to offend him. I know my mom wouldn't be okay with that.

He shook his head. My parents don't get a say anymore, he said. I live alone.

What happened to your parents? I asked. Sorry if that's nosy or whatever, I added quickly. I was especially sensitive to people asking nosy parent questions, given that my dad had passed away before I was born.

No, it's okay, he said. I turned eighteen a week ago, and they let me move out. I got my own place.

Wow, I said. I didn't know what else to say. Everyone I knew lived with their parents or guardians. There was always somebody to answer to. And here was this new kid, and he didn't have to answer to anybody. I didn’t envy him because my mom and aunt were pretty great, but I was curious. Not curious enough to go to his party, but still, I wondered what his story was.

So, do you think you'll come? he asked.

I shrugged. It would be awkward if I said no. We'll see.

Mysterious. Nothing I like better than a little intrigue. He smiled.

If he liked mystery and intrigue, he was in the right place. These hills were full of legends of miners and hidden treasure. As for me, I had questions about the mystery of him showing up so late in the school year, and why he lived alone, but I’d already asked one nosy question and felt like it was the limit.

He turned to Rourke. Well, I'll see you later.

Rourke and I watched as Shane took off across the parking lot. He got into a silver BMW. Rourke raised his eyebrows, impressed. I nudged him with my elbow. Your car is way cooler.

He grinned. It's got more personality.

Behind him, Maureen was slowly making her way across the parking lot. She held her science book up in the air like a prize. Got it! she called.

I clambered into the back of the Nova.

Today was a good day, Maureen said as she and Rourke climbed into the front. You know what would make it better?

Don’t even, Rourke said.

Pleeeease? Maureen said. "If this were my car…"

Rourke shook his head. If this were your car, you wouldn’t have gotten to go to that art camp last summer. I asked for a car, you asked for art camp.

Maureen turned around. Winter, are you up for this?

Always up for ice cream, I said.

She turned back to Rourke and pulled something from her bag. It was a twenty-dollar bill and she waved it next to Rourke’s face. I’ll treat all three of us, she said.

Rourke didn’t hesitate. Done.

I wondered when the last time had been that I’d had an extra twenty to spend on something as impulsive as a last-second stop to get ice cream cones. Rourke and Maureen’s family business did so much better than mine, and I hated the threads of envy working through me even now. They were my friends, and they’d only ever been nice to me, never crowing about their business success or flaunting their comparable wealth.

Maureen threw a grin back at me as Rourke steered us toward the center of Oaktown, which had a collection of old brick buildings, now home to a diner called The Black Cat, a real estate agency with dusty windows, a hardware store, and a photography studio. Some of the buildings looked old enough to be remnants from Garrett’s time, but I knew they were newer than that. The truly old buildings were in ruins and could be found a little ways beyond Oaktown, out toward the Oak Hills retirement home.

The Black Cat was a diner, but it also had a counter where ice cream cones were sold. Maureen handed her money to Rourke and wandered over to the wall so she could examine one of the many framed photos of black cats.

Rourke gave me a commiserating look. She does this every time. Do you know what you want?

Chocolate, please, I said.

He ordered two chocolate cones and an orange sherbet.

Which one’s for you? I asked.

The sherbet. He grinned.

We sat down with the ice creams and Maureen joined us. I’m going to come back here and sketch some of these cats, she said, taking her ice cream cone from Rourke.

You can’t take my car, Rourke said.

I licked my ice cream and watched their banter, letting their words wash over me.

Jerk, she said. Dad doesn’t want me to borrow his car, either. Says it comes back smelling like fruity lotion. Gah, what is it with him? Dads suck. Suddenly she got quiet, and her eyes went wide. Oh crap, I didn’t mean that, Winter. Obviously, I love my dad and…

I waved my hand as she trailed off. It’s okay, really. I told you before, it doesn’t feel the same as it would if I’d known him.

My dad had died before I was born, and while my mom’s occasional sadness sometimes stained the house like a wash of dark watercolor in one of Maureen’s paintings, it didn’t touch me the same way.

Still, she said, I shouldn’t be so insensitive.

Really, it’s okay. You bought me ice cream, I’m not complaining.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, Well, do you want to hear the scoop on the new guy?

Rourke groaned. Not really.

Sure, I said, laughing.

He came from San Francisco. She said it like it was an exotic place, home to celebrities and movie stars. Why he’d move here, I have no idea. Oaktown, after San Francisco? Seems like a step down—several steps down.

Maybe he wanted a change of pace, I said. It’s not so bad here.

Well, I want a change of pace, Maureen said.

You’ll get one, I said. And it’ll be like you and Shane are switching places.

She’d already gotten accepted to the James Matthew School of Art in San Francisco. I was excited for her, although I couldn’t understand wanting to leave. Then again, for someone who was excited about everything and as good at making friends as she was, moving away only meant more of those opportunities for fun and friendship. For me, my best friend was right here, stuck in a cavern forever.

Once we finished our ice cream, we clambered back into the Nova and Rourke drove us away from the town and up into the hills. The wild grasses on the hills were losing their color and starting to turn brown. I liked the way the oak trees grew closer and closer together the farther we got out of town.

Maureen turned around in her seat to look at me. Tell me you're going to his party.

Yeah, no thanks.

She turned around, but said loudly enough that I could hear her. He's pretty cute.

Rourke caught my eye in his rear-view mirror. Then he leaned to the side so I could see his profile, and he pretended to gag. I giggled.

Oblivious, Maureen continued, I wonder why he moved here so late in the school year?

I shrugged. None of my business. My business was graduating so I could take classes at the junior college in nearby Berancia, and then getting my real business in order—the cavern tours.

Sage Memories

My books and notebooks were spread out on the kitchen table in front of me. I’d shoved the laptop off to the side. A glass of water rested at my right, and a pack of Red Vines on my left.

While I gazed out the front window at the giant oak tree that filled our front yard, Aunt Noelle wandered by the kitchen table, her curly brown hair in a crazy bun that had hair sticking out all over. When I was seven, I’d tried to get my straight hair to look like hers, but all I’d succeeded in doing was tangling it so badly, we’d had to cut it to shoulder-length.

She carried with her the scents of sage and lavender; she must have been gardening, either at the front porch, or at her window boxes outside her bedroom.

She hadn’t left the house in so, so long. I worried about her.

Glancing at the table, she said, Ooh, looks serious. What are you working on, hon?

Econ.

Numbers, supply and demand. Ugh. She wrinkled her nose at me.

As if I needed a reminder that neither she nor my mother had liked, or even studied, business. If they had, maybe our business would be in better shape. Lago Caverns was a popular destination, but we somehow couldn't stay afloat.

Aunt Noelle brushed a kiss over the top of my head. I'm going to head to bed now.

Good night.

Squeezing my shoulder gently, she said, "Don't work too