There’s no one waiting to greet me at Grandmom’s door. I turn the knob, but it doesn’t give. It’s locked. I try turning it again, but its resistance only churns my irritation. She didn’t mail Mom’s invite. On purpose. I shake the handle in frustration, my fingers prickling with chill, and twist harder. The door clicks open.
“Grandmom, hello?” I step inside. A fire burns, a newspaper is parted on the chair. “It’s Quell.” But no one answers. She must be in here or will be back shortly, so I sit and wait. I fold and unfold the newspaper and flip through the books on her coffee table, my curiosity getting the best of me. An arrangement of black flowers ornaments her writing desk. I press my nose to them, reminding myself they have no scent, and a card slips out.
I’m sorry, I can’t.
It’s unsigned. I put the card down and back away from Grandmom’s personal things. The clock ticks on, still with no sign of her. I peek my head into the hallway, but it’s vacant. I try her bedroom with a gentle tap.
“Grandmom? It’s Quell. I came to have a word with you.” But my voice is answered with silence. I push open the door and peek into Grandmom’s bedroom. It’s just as it was before, her velvet sitting area framed by a view of the grounds through an arched window. Her bed is tidied perfection as if it belongs in a palace museum. I step inside, and my heart thuds in my ears. I shouldn’t be snooping in her room when she’s not here.
I pass her vanity, and my fingers trace her golden brush and hand mirror. I glance over my shoulder and pick them up, imagining myself in this room as a girl growing into Season here. What should have been my home, if I weren’t broken. I slip open a drawer of her dresser. It is velvet lined and filled with sparkling jewels and a tiny golden key. I hold a necklace to my chest, a stud to my ear, twisting in the mirror. The reflection stills me. Not because I’m surprised by what I see, but because I am not. The rise of my chin, the set of my shoulders—slightly back—the lush fabric decadent on my skin. I look like I belong here.
Did Mom ever feel like this? My attention moves to the shelf of albums Grandmom showed me. She has so many. Her entire sitting room is lined with them, her bedroom, too. I replace Grandmom’s jewels and cosmetics and trace a row of spines on one of her towering shelves before taking one with a leather cover. In it are pictures, like before. I flip quickly through, trying to glean some indication of the dates. But the only photos are of Grandmom when she was much younger. I need something more recent. I put the book back and grab another, breezing through the pages. Still too long ago.
I set it on the table and grab a few more, anticipation rushing through me. After I’ve cleared half a row of one shelf, I finally spot a picture of Mom with a regal gold diadem flecked with green gems. My eyes fill with tears. She wears a long satin dress with a riband around her in House colors, ornamented with a fleur sigil. Her arms are looped with a masked guy. I stare, drinking all of her in. I smooth the tears from my cheeks, staring back at a whole life kept secret. I squint to see which sigil the guy wears, but the picture is too old and fuzzy to tell. I study his face, but it doesn’t look anything like mine. Mom’s never mentioned who my father is. It was just her and me from what I remember, after we left here. I turn the page and the next, but that’s the only one of her.
I rush back to the shelf for more but find nothing more than historical texts. I wander over to another wall of floor-to-ceiling glass shelves full of leather spines with tiny gold writing. These are behind lock and key. I pull at the latch, but the locked glass doesn’t give, and I recall the golden key among her jewels.
I bet this is where she’s chronicled all of Mom’s childhood. She loves her despite how she keeps her at arm’s reach.
The key from Grandmom’s vanity slips right into the locked wall of shelves and my bones chill in warning. I pull out a stack of three or four from what must be a dozen identical leather-bound albums.
I part the pages, teeth pressed to my lip in anticipation. But there is no photo. Only a name, scribbles of notes I don’t understand, and what looks to be a red ink stain. The Book of Names I signed to enter induction was full of blank pages and a short group roster. These are full. I check the spine again for a name. There is no title page. I flip and flip, but it’s more of the same, pages with red dots. I bring one to my nose, and the ache in my bones grows at its rusty scent.
Blood.
I turn a few more pages, but it’s more and more records. So many names. I rip through another book, hoping to make more sense of why she’d have records and blood samples. But it’s just more of the same. And another. And another. Blood rushes to my head, dizzying me, until I spot a book just like the one in my hands on Grandmom’s bedside table.
My heart thrums faster. The urge to get out of this room bites at my heels. But my feet move toward the book. I open it and flip past names and more names until I reach a page with the most recent entries.
Brooke Hamilton, House of Perl—0624
Alison Blakewell, House of Perl—0624
The girls from Jordan’s House. The numbers next to their names look like they could be dates.
Grandmom has records of dead people . . .
I try but fail to still my trembling hands. I take another glance at the page, hoping I don’t see what I expect. But there it is in black ink.
Nore Ambrose, House of Perl—0710*
*afflicted
July 10. Next to Nore’s name is a dark red spot, and there is no question in my mind. That is Nore’s blood. Grandmom said Nore was on sabbatical for the foreseeable future. But she’s not. If her name is in here with the other dead girls’, she’s dead.
Nore is dead.
That’s why her letter returned. I glare at the rows and rows of books just like this one and the truth cuts me sharp. So many records. Names upon names of dead débutants. There must be years, generations of records here. I pore over three, four, ten more registries to be sure I’m not losing my mind. But it’s all right here. Hundreds with dates and red spots. I blink and see a forest of dead trees. I blink again and remember Jordan telling me about the hundreds gone missing. I bar my mouth shut as if that could keep me from the weight of what this means.
I drop the book and back away. The supposition forming on my tongue chokes as the pieces of Grandmom’s facade click into place. The way she didn’t actually seem relieved when she made the announcement of Nore’s return. The way she insisted on knowing if Nore had mentioned anyone she was afraid of. She was trying to see if I was on to her. The way she wanted to be “hands-on” in the investigation. A perfect cover for making sure no one caught on to her. Grandmom killed Nore.
Tears form in my eyes at the warning glimpse Grandmom gave me of her cruelty when she’d thought I wasn’t ready for Second Rite. The way she threatened me without a flinch.
I skim the page again as if there’s an answer that could actually make this okay. Only a handful have an asterisk, indicating they have toushana. Jordan had said Draguns have attributed the hundreds who have gone missing to members taking the rules into their own hands.
But this isn’t any member—it’s a Headmistress.
The walls seem to close in around me as I search for some other way this makes sense. Some reason Grandmom would have walls and walls, years upon years of dead debs’ names cataloged under lock and key in her private bedroom. There isn’t one.
I run.
Out of her bedroom and out of her door, down the hall, my feet racing my pulse. Down the stairs, I have to reach Mom. The world darkens around me, and Jordan appears.
“Quell.”
I struggle for words.
“Are you okay?” He reaches for me. People are staring. Listening. I grab him by the wrist and lead him through the doors, through the courtyard. When the air hits my face, I break into a full-out run toward the conservatory.
“Quell.” He rushes after me, but I can’t stop. I can’t. If I stop, I might break. I reach the glass door, and to my relief it’s unlocked.
I throw myself inside, fall to my knees, and scream.
