just a place you visit. I fought my way back once. I’m not going to risk it again.”
Alex couldn’t argue with that. Even Dawes had hesitations about what they were about to attempt, and Michelle had the right to live and be done with Lethe. It still made Alex angry, little-kid angry, don’t-leave-me-here angry. She and Dawes weren’t enough to take this on.
“I understand,” she said, embarrassed by how sullen she sounded.
“I hope you do.” Michelle sighed deeply, glad to be rid of whatever burden she’d been carrying. She closed her eyes and breathed in, scenting that first hint of fall. “This was one of Darlington’s favorite spots.” “Is,” Alex corrected.
Michelle’s smile was soft and sad. It terrified Alex. She thinks we’re going to fail. She knows it.
“Have you seen the plaque?” she asked.
Alex shook her head.
Michelle led her over to one of the window casements. “George Douglas Miller was a Bonesman. He had a whole plan for expanding the Skull and Bones tomb, building a dormitory.” She pointed to the towers that loomed over the stairs that led to the sculpture garden. Crenellated, Alex could hear Darlington whisper. Cod-medieval. Alex had never noticed them before. “Those towers were from the old alumni hall. Miller had them moved here when Yale knocked it down in 1911, the first step in his grand vision.
But he ran out of money. Or maybe he ran out of will.”
She tapped a plaque at the base of the casement. It read: The original part of Weir Hall, purchased by Yale University in 1917, was begun in 1911 by George Douglas Miller, B.A. 1870, in partial fulfillment of his vision “to build, in the heart of New Haven, a replica of an Oxford quadrangle.” But it was the second sentence that surprised Alex. In accordance with his wishes, this tablet has been erected to commemorate his only son, Samuel Miller 1881–1883, who was born and died on these premises.
“I never noticed it,” Michelle continued. “I never knew about any of this until Darlington. I hope you bring him back, Alex. But just remember Lethe doesn’t care about people like you and me. No one is looking out for us but us.”
Alex traced her fingers over the letters. “Darlington was. He’d go to hell for me, for you, for anyone who needed saving.”
“Alex,” Michelle said, dusting off her skirt, “he’d go to hell just to take notes on the climate.”
Alex hated the condescension in her voice, but Michelle wasn’t wrong.
Darlington had wanted to know everything, no matter the cost. She wondered if the creature he’d become felt the same.
“You came up on the train?” Alex asked.
“Yes, and I need to get back for dinner with my boyfriend’s parents.”
Perfectly sensible. But Alex had the feeling Michelle was holding something back. She waved as Michelle descended the stairs beneath the arch that would take her to High Street, where she’d catch a cab to the train station.
“That’s me,” said a voice beside Alex, and she had to fight not to react.
The little Gray with crisp curls had perched in the window beside the plaque.
“I’m glad they put my name on it.”
Alex ignored him. She didn’t want Grays to know she could hear their stories and complaints. It was bad enough having to listen to the living.
Mercy was waiting in the common room. She’d dressed in a pumpkincolored sweater and a corduroy skirt, as if the barest suggestion of autumn in the air had signaled the need for a costume change. She had her laptop open but closed it when Alex came in.
“So, is this going to be like last year?” Mercy asked. “You disappearing and then nearly getting killed?”
Alex sat down in the recliner. “Yes to the first part … I hope not to the second part?”
“I like having you around.”
“I like being around.”
“Who was that anyway?”
Alex hesitated. “Who did she say she was?”
“A friend of your cousin’s.”
Lies came easy to Alex. They always had. She’d been lying since she’d learned she saw things other people didn’t, since she’d understood how easy
it was to slap the words crazy or unstable on a girl and make them stick. She could feel all those friendly lies ready to unfurl from her tongue, scarves from a cheap magician. That was what Lethe and the societies demanded. Secrecy.
Loyalty.
Well, fuck them.
“Darlington isn’t my cousin. And he isn’t in Spain. And I need to talk to you about what happened last year.”
Mercy fiddled with the laptop cord. “When you had a giant bite mark in your side and I had to call your mom?”
“No,” Alex said. “I want to talk about what happened to you.”
She wasn’t sure how Mercy would react. She was ready to back off if she needed to.
Mercy set her computer aside, then said, “I’m hungry.”
