“Have it your way. But no more secrets.” Without another word, he moved aside to let me pass.
As it turned out,Devereaux wasn’t the only one I needed to worry about. My real punishment came that evening when, at last, I returned to our dormitory to find Gwen sitting at her desk, arms crossed and jaw set in an expression of restrained, but unmistakable fury.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded the second I threw my bag on the floor. “I’ve been worried sick. I almost called the police!”
I sank onto my bed shamefacedly, feeling like a teenager caught sneaking out. “I’m so sorry, Gwen, I should’ve called.”
“Should’ve called?” she screeched, and stood abruptly, her expression downright murderous. “I thought you were dead! You’ve been gone for nearly three days.”
I sat up to see the tears spring to her eyes. “I’m truly sorry, Gwen,” I pleaded, more softly this time, before launching into my practiced story. I explained how I’d been drugged by someone at the party, how Casimir had rescued me and allowed me to recover at his place until I felt well enough to return to campus. It was as much of the truth as I dared to share, leaving out my encounters with the vicious Morpher and poisoned Daemon wine.
Her eyes widened in horror as I relayed my story.
“I’m fine now,” I added hastily, “Really, Gwen. I promise.” It was unfortunately all too believable that someone might have tried to slip me something at Bryce’s party.
“Those assholes.” Gwen sniffed, tears leaking from her pale cheeks and onto her shirt. “Do you know who did it?”
I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak, in case Gwen heard the lie in my voice.
After a few minutes, she seemed to recover somewhat. “Well, you could’ve at least called me,” she said. “I’ve been worried sick. I even tracked down Bryce outside of class this morning, but she said she hadn’t seen you since Friday.”
I winced at how badly my negligence had affected Gwen, who had been such a wonderful friend to me. Gwen, who had generously loaned me her dress… I closed my eyes as I recalled the ruined silk dress stuffed into the bottom of my bag. Between recovering from my poisoning and being dragged into a room and beaten by Daemons… I had been a poor friend as of late.
“Please forgive me, Gwen. I’ve been a terrible friend and I’m going to do better,” I vowed, approaching her desk to offer her a hug. For a moment, I was afraid that she might deny me, but a second later, she’d flung herself into my arms. She dragged in a ragged breath before she released me and regarded my oversized sweater and jeans with a disdainful expression.
“They’re borrowed,” I explained.
In a rare display of generosity, Casimir had loaned me some of his clothes, since I couldn’t exactly stride onto campus wearing the blood-stained dress from the party. I still wore Gwen’s silver heels beneath Casimir’s baggy black jeans.
“Listen, before you forgive me,” I said with a grimace, “there’s one more thing I have to tell you.”
After securing her promise not to murder me outright, I reluctantly showed Gwen the ruined silk dress, all the while profusely apologizing and promising to reimburse her for it. Unsurprisingly, Gwen was extremely gracious about the whole thing and refused to accept any money, which only compounded my guilt.
The following days passed in a haze as I forced myself through the motions. Study, sleep, eat, repeat. Anxiety clawed at my gut throughout an excruciatingly long lecture with Professor Skinner. I jiggled my leg impatiently as he droned on and on about Julius Caesar. Or was it Alexander the Great?
I was itching to run back to Ash Hall and retrieve the Book so I could interrogate it about the ritual again. Casimir and I had agreed to meet early on Saturday morning to practice resisting and detecting glamours, giving us eight days until the full moon to figure out how to stop the ritual. I successfully avoided Devereaux and the Gilded Circlites until my luck ran out.
On Wednesday evening, I narrowly avoided a head-on collision with none other than Monty Prescott on my walk back to Ash Hall. I skidded to a halt, my heart stuttering like a wild rabbit caught out. Monty, it seemed, had no desire to repeat what had occurred at the party.
“Oof! Apologies, Arden—I mean, Miss Farrow—” he corrected himself with an unctuous formality that grated on my nerves.
He avoided meeting my gaze directly; however, glancing down, I realized that his right hand—the very same hand Casimir had threatened to break—was in a cast. My eyes widened at the sight of his injury.
“What happened there?” I asked.
Monty winced as though the question triggered a painful memory. “Oh, I’m just clumsy, I suppose,” he laughed weakly. “Hurt myself in a sailing mishap.”
The lie grazed over my tongue like bitter charcoal. I scrunched my nose in distaste.
Monty’s smile did not reach his eyes as he waited for me to speak. His body language plainly said he was eager to end this interaction and flee the vicinity as soon as possible.
“I see,” was all I could think to say in reply.
Monty’s eyes darted around the corridor, toward the darkened hall behind me. He swallowed. “Anyway, I’d best be off.” He began backing away as though I were some venomous serpent poised to strike.
Without waiting for my reply, he bolted from the corridor. I stared after him. Why was Monty lying about how he’d hurt his hand? And why was he acting so strangely?
The answer was obvious.