“Good,” Lenora said. “So, Mrs. Brennan, if you don’t mind, we’d like to speak to Reed alone. Just for a few minutes.”
My mother’s face turned red, but she didn’t respond. She simply looked at me.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Okay, then,” she replied. “I’ll wait for you down in the lobby.”
All was silent as my mom walked out and stepped into the private elevator. Mrs. Lange was staring at me like, well, like I was her long-lost granddaughter. When the doors slid shut and we heard the ping that told us my mom was on her way, she finally made a move.
“Have a seat,” she said, extending a hand toward the formal-looking sofa behind me. “Would you like something to eat?”
I backed up and sat down. My stomach was grumbling and I would have killed to tear into one of those yummy, buttery-smelling croissants, but I had a feeling that eating during this conversation might present a choking hazard.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“All right, then, we’ll just get right to it,” she said.
I expected her to sit down in one of the wing-backed chairs on the other side of the coffee table and maybe whip out some blue-backed legal documents for me to sign, swearing that I’d never lay claim to any of the Lange fortune. Instead, she sat down next to me on the couch. So close, our knees were touching.
“Reed, I want you to know I am so sorry about everything I put you through over the last several days,” she said, reaching out and placing her hand over mine. Her fingers were surprisingly warm, and she had the hands of a much younger woman. Not frail in the slightest.
“Wait a minute, what you put me through?” I said, glancing at Noelle. “I thought—”
“None of this was Noelle’s idea,” Mrs. Lange said, looking at Noelle as well. “Please don’t blame her. She was merely doing what was asked of her.”
My brain felt unsteady, like it was resting on a plate of Jell-O. “I don’t understand. Why?”
“We needed to make sure that you were ready,” she replied. “That you were strong enough for what’s to come.”
“What’s to come? What are you talking about?” I said, my eyes flicking from her face to Noelle’s. “How long have you guys known about me? That I was your sister?” I said to Noelle.
“I only just found out, Reed, I swear,” Noelle said.
“What does ‘only just’ mean?” I asked. “Like yesterday or last week or—”
“Right after you started up the BLS,” Noelle said.
My heart turned inside out. “That was more than a month ago! Funny definition of ‘just,’” I spat. This infraction I could blame her for. “How could you not tell me?”
“I didn’t know how to!” Noelle replied, throwing up her hands. “I know how much you worship your dad and I didn’t want you to think my dad was some kind of philandering man whore. He’s not—”
Mrs. Lange held up a hand and Noelle stopped talking instantly. The older woman pursed her lips. I guess it wasn’t every day she heard her son referred to as a philandering man whore.
“Who knew what when is not important,” she said firmly.
Hell if it wasn’t. My blood started to boil in my veins.
“What’s important is what the two of you do with this information,” she added, looking at the both of us. “What’s important is what happens next.”
“Okay, Grandmother. You’ve been talking around this for days. What happens next?” Noelle demanded, ducking her chin as she faced off with her grandma. Our grandma.
“Noelle, come here, please,” Mrs. Lange said, shifting to make some room on her other side.
Noelle rolled her eyes and sighed, but sat down. Mrs. Lange grasped Noelle’s hand atop her leg. Suddenly, my chest was filled with this overwhelming and unexpected lightness. Seeing this woman’s hands clasping Noelle’s and mine in the exact same way made me suddenly feel like Noelle and I were perfectly and totally equal. For the first time ever. And then, another wave of headiness hit me even harder.
Noelle and I were sisters. Sisters. I had an actual sister. Who just happened to be the person who had alternately tortured and protected me during the past two years. Which, actually, kind of made sense. Wasn’t that the way sisters treated each other?
“Haven’t the two of you ever wondered what makes you so special? What makes Billings so special? Why you were both chosen to become Billings sisters?” Mrs. Lange asked.
“I thought she got in because you were in, and I got in because psycho Ariana Osgood wanted me in,” I said acerbically.
She pursed her lips once more. “Ah, Miss Osgood. So much misplaced potential.”
My brow knit at her nostalgic tone. Ariana had turned into a coldblooded murderer. How could anyone talk about her like she was missed?
“I can see why you might think that, Reed,” she said, squeezing my hand, “but it’s more than that. Everything happens for a reason.”
I felt a chill of recognition go down my spine as Mrs. Lange released our hands and stood. Noelle and I looked at each other with a sort of wary excitement. We both felt that something monumental was about to happen. Something huge.
Mrs. Lange walked over to a small, ornately carved wooden box sitting on a table in front of the window. When she opened it, I could see the dark purple velvet lining the inside. She removed an old-fashioned key, long and gold with a delicately scrolled knob, attached to a purple cord.
“Go to the chapel,” Mrs. Lange said quietly, her eyes shining as she dangled the key in front of us. It caught the sun streaming through the window, glinting in the light. “You must go tonight and you must go together. Everything depends on this, girls.” She stepped forward and placed the key in my hand, then placed Noelle’s hand over it, so that it was nestled between both our palms. Then she looked into our eyes and smiled. “Go to the chapel, my sisters. All the answers are there.”
It was a clear, frosty night, the stars out by the thousands overhead as Noelle and I trudged up the hill on the outskirts of campus and ducked into the woods. Neither one of us spoke, the crunching of the snow beneath our feet, the rhythmic bursts of our breath the only sounds around us. I tried not to think about the night I’d so recently spent alone in the woods, scared for her life, scared for my own. Tried not to think about how it was all a joke, a test of some kind. All I wanted to know right now was what lay ahead.
We arrived at the old Billings Chapel, its spire rising up against the stars, and we both paused for a moment to take in its stark, white beauty.
“Do you think it’s possible that the old bat is just off her rocker and we’re doing all of this for no reason?” Noelle said suddenly.
“You tell me. She’s your grandmother,” I said sarcastically.
“And yours,” she replied.
“Right. But you’ve known her slightly longer.”
Noelle smirked. “Come on. Let’s get inside.”
We shoved open the heavy door of the chapel and it let out its now familiar creak. Moonlight streamed in through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful shadows all over the room. I smiled, noting for the millionth time how the Billings Literary Society had taken the once dirty, abandoned space and made it cozy and welcoming. The floors had been swept clean, there were fresh candles in the many sconces lining the walls, and up on the platform around the pulpit was a collection of colorful silk pillows, plush chenille throws, and even a fur blanket Vienna had left behind after our last meeting.
I walked over to the first sconce and lit the two taper candles with a match. Then I took them both down and handed one to Noelle.
“Have you ever seen any lock this key would fit?” Noelle asked, tugging the key out of her coat pocket and holding it up.
“No. But I haven’t been looking for one before now.”
I turned around and started along the right side of the chapel. Noelle took the left. I passed through the first arch in the wall, into the storage area with all the o
ld wicker collection baskets, the shelves full of dusty old hymnals. Nothing. Through the next arch was a tall bookshelf, packed from top to bottom with bibles, more hymnals, and a stack of ceramic bowls and cups. Again, nothing. As I stepped out of the archway, Noelle emerged from the one across the chapel. I raised my eyebrows. She shook her head.
I crossed the room to her and together we walked into the old chaplain’s office. There were more bookshelves in here, these mostly bare, and a rickety old desk and chair.
“What about the drawers?” I asked.
Noelle placed her candle into an ancient, brass candleholder atop the wooden surface and tried the drawers. The first two slid open with no problem. The third she had to struggle with since it was welded shut from years of moisture and warping, but it finally flew open.
“Nothing but crumbling paper,” Noelle said, throwing her hands up and letting them slap down at her sides.
Holding my candle aloft, I carefully moved around the small room. We hadn’t cleaned up in here, so there was still a thick layer of dust on every surface. I saw a small box on one of the bookcase shelves and moved in to take a closer look. As I did, something on the floor caught my eye and I froze.
It was a scratch—a deep, arcing scratch in the wooden floor. It extended out perfectly from the edge of the bookcase, out into the room. Suddenly my heart was in my throat.
“Noelle, come here,” I whispered.
“What? What did you find?” she asked, lifting her eyes from the book she was perusing.
“I’m not sure. Just come here.”
Noelle dropped the book on the desk and walked over. “Okay, but why are you whispering?”
I paused. “I don’t know.”
I took the candle and walked around the side of the bookcase. “I think maybe this bookcase swings out,” I said, nodding at the floor. Then I walked around the other side and blinked. “Oh my God. Hinges.”
Noelle’s eyes widened. “No way. A secret passageway?”
I grinned. “Let’s find out.”
I placed my candle into an empty sconce on the wall and slipped my fingers into the small space between the wall and the bookcase. Noelle did the same, our arms interlacing.
“One, two, three,” she said.
We pulled, and the bookcase swung open like a door. Behind it was another door, small and white, with a keyhole just above the doorknob.
My mouth was completely dry. “Try it,” I said.
Noelle whipped out the key again and shoved it into the lock. She looked me in the eye and turned. The click was so loud we both jumped. She turned the doorknob and the small, wooden door swung open with an eerie, groaning wail. I’d never seen Noelle look so scared in my life.
“Get the candles,” she said, her breath short and shallow.
I did as I was told and handed her one. We held them both out in the doorway. Their flames danced as they illuminated the top of a slim, winding staircase.
“Okay. So maybe the old bat’s not entirely off her rocker,” Noelle said.
“Unless we’re about to walk into a tomb full of dead bodies,” I replied.
Noelle narrowed her eyes at me. “Thanks for that image. That’s exactly what I needed right now.”
Then she took a deep breath and stepped onto the staircase. It creaked beneath her weight, and she pressed her free hand into the wall to steady herself.
“Wait,” I said. “Are you sure you want to go down there?”
“All that matters is what lies ahead, right?” she said over her shoulder. “What’s the matter, Glass-Licker? Ya scared?”
I rolled my eyes. “Lead the way.”
So she did. Slowly, carefully holding on to the wall all the way, we descended the winding staircase into the ice-cold basement of the Billings Chapel. At the base of the stairs, we each held our candles out in front of us, the flames flickering like wild now, since our arms were trembling.
The room was a perfect circle. Tapestries decorated the walls, and a set of chairs stood in a smaller circle, all facing a thick, wooden book stand that was directly at the center of the room. I took a breath and counted. There were exactly eleven chairs.
“Maybe the BLS didn’t hold their meetings upstairs in the actual chapel,” I said quietly, staring at the bookstand. I could just imagine Elizabeth Williams standing behind it, the Billings Literary Society book open in front of her. “Maybe they held them here.”
“This is it?” Noelle asked. “This is what she sent us here to find? A basement and some old chairs?”
“Wait a second.” I took a couple of steps into the room, reaching my candle out in front of me. “There’s a book on there.”
Noelle and I glanced at each other. That same sizzle of anticipation I’d felt back in the presidential suite went through me now. Together we walked forward, sliding a pair of chairs aside to enter the circle. We parted at the bookstand and walked around it, coming together again in front of the open book.
The pages were yellow with age and covered in dust. I reached out one hand and swept it across the pages, clearing an arc of the tiny script. My heart caught as I recognized the handwriting.
“Elizabeth,” I breathed. “This is Elizabeth Williams’s book.”
Noelle reached out and closed it, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. The silt filled my nostrils and mouth and we both coughed, waving our hands in front of our faces as the air cleared. When it did, we stared down at the inscription in the center of the leather cover, the words as clear as day. Whatever I’d been expecting, whatever I had thought Mrs. Lange was talking about when she’d told us we were special, that Billings was special—when she’d asked us if we’d ever wondered why—it had not been this.
The inscription read: THE BOOK OF SPELLS.
Even at the tender age of sixteen, Elizabeth Williams was the rare girl who knew her mind. She knew she preferred summer to all other seasons. She knew she couldn’t stand the pink and yellow floral wallpaper the decorator had chosen for her room. She knew that she would much rather spend time with her blustery, good-natured father than her ever-critical, humorless mother—though the company of either was difficult to come by. And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that going away to The Billings School for Girls was going to be the best thing that ever happened to her.
As she sat in the cushioned seat of her bay window overlooking sun-streaked Beacon Hill, she folded her dog-eared copy of The Jungle in her lap, making sure to keep her finger inside to hold her place. She placed her feet up on the pink cushions, new buckled shoes and all, and pressed her temple against the warm glass with a wistful sigh. It was September 1915, and Boston was experiencing an Indian summer, with temperatures scorching the sidewalks and causing the new automobiles to sputter and die along the sides of the roads. Eliza would have given anything to be back at the Cape house, running along the shoreline in her bathing clothes, splashing in the waves, her swim cap forgotten and her dark hair tickling her shoulders. But instead, here she was, buttoned into a stiff, green cotton dress her mother had picked out for her, the wide, white collar scratching her neck. Any minute now, Maurice would bring the coach around and squire her off to the train station, where she and her maid, Renee, would board a train for Easton, Connecticut, and the Billings School. The moment she got to her room in Crenshaw House, she was going to change into her most comfortable linen dress, jam her floppy brown hat over her hair, and set out in search of the library. Because living at a school more than two hours away from home meant that her mother couldn’t control her. Couldn’t criticize her. Couldn’t nitpick every little thing she wore, every book she read, every choice she made. Being away at school meant freedom.
Of course Eliza’s mother had other ideas. If her wishes came true, Billings would turn Eliza into a true lady. Eliza would catch herself a worthy husband, and she would return home by Christmas triumphantly engaged, just as her sister, May, had.
After two years at Billings, eighteen-year-old May was now an engaged woman—a
nd engaged to a Thackery, no less. George Thackery III of the Thackery tanning fortune. She’d come home in June, diamond ring and all, and was now officially their mother’s favorite—though truly she had been so all along.
Suddenly the thick oak door of Eliza’s private bedroom opened and in walked her mother, Rebecca Cornwall Williams. Her blond hair billowed like a cloud around her head and her stylish, anklelength gray skirt tightened her steps. She wore a matching tasseltrimmed jacket over her dress, even in this ridiculous heat, and had the Williams pearls, as always, clasped around her throat. As she entered, her eyes flicked over Eliza and her casual posture with exasperation. Eliza quickly sat up, smoothed her skirt, straightened her back, and attempted to tuck her book behind her.
“Hello, Mother,” she said with the polished politeness that usually won over the elder Williams. “How are you this morning?”
Her mother’s discerning blue eyes narrowed as she walked toward her daughter.
“Your sister and I are going to shop for wedding clothes. We’ve come to say our good-byes,” she said formally.
Out in the hallway, May hovered, holding her tan leather gloves and new brimless hat at her waist. May’s blond hair was pulled back in a stylish chignon, which complimented her milky skin and round, rosy cheeks. Garnets dangled from her delicate earlobes. She always looked elegant, even for a simple day of shopping.
Eliza’s mother leaned down and snatched the book right out from under Eliza’s skirt.
“The Jungle?” she said, holding the book between her thumb and forefinger. “Elizabeth, you cannot be seen reading this sort of rot at Billings. Modern novels are not proper reading for a young lady. Especially not a Williams.”
Eliza’s gaze flicked to her sister, who quickly looked away. A few years ago, May would have defended Eliza’s literary choices, but not since her engagement. For the millionth time Eliza wondered how May could have changed so much. When she’d gone away to school she’d been adventurous, tomboyish, sometimes even brash. It was as if falling in love had turned her sister into a different person. If winning a diamond ring from a boy meant forgetting who she was, then Eliza was determined to die an old maid.