Sophia gently forces us to start studying, and for the next hour we go over our notes from class and ask each other questions. Sophia knows everything, so I’m not sure why she’s studying, but I think it has more to do with helping me. It’s obvious I need it.
“Thank you for going over everything with me,” I tell her when she finally closes her textbook.
“You’re helping me, too, you know.”
“Not even. You get all the answers right,” I point out.
Her expression turns contrite. “You’re right. I might’ve offered to help you study, but … I have an ulterior motive.” She drops her gaze to the floor, instantly shifty. Does Sophia have a secret she needs to confess? Wickham has no shortage of secrets, but I didn’t think Sophia was sitting on something juicy. She takes a deep breath, and I brace myself. “Really, I just wanted to hang out. It gets lonely out here.”
Relief gusts through me like a gale-force wind. I wasn’t wrong about Sophia—she really is one of the good ones.
I give her what feels like my first real smile since I arrivedin England. “Where’s your mom?” I assume her father is still on campus.
“In London for a few days. She likes to go on little shopping sprees every few weeks,” Sophia explains.
Must be nice. The Harringtons seem to have more money than they know what to do with.
But how?
“Headmaster” might sound fancy, but Sophia’s dad is a glorified school principal. I guess they could have family money, but the fact that Sophia’s mom cleans the house herself instead of employing a full-time housekeeper makes me think they’re not so accustomed to wealth that they’re willing to get careless with it.
“Want to stay and watch a movie?” Sophia suggests, filling the unintentionally long silence I’ve let hang between us.
“Yeah. That sounds fun.” I glance around the room. “I need to use the bathroom first, though.”
“Oh, the bathroom is right across the hall.” She grabs her laptop and pops it open. “I’ll search for something to watch while you go.”
“Great.” I don’t have any trouble locating the spa-like bathroom. I decide that if things here don’t work out, I might try to get the Harringtons to adopt me instead of heading back to the States. Actually, forget adoption—I’ll work for free. Dusting the chandelier in the front hall is probably a full-time job, like cleaning the outside of the Statue of Liberty.
When I step back out into the hall and my feet sink into the plush carpet, I can’t contain a little sigh of pleasure. I glance up and down the hall to make sure no one else is around before peeling off my socks and wiggling my toes intothe velvety pile. I do a little twist with my hips, then skip a few steps, looking behind me to see if I’ve left footprints in the pristine carpet. I haven’t, and I feel a little silly for thinking I might.
I roll my eyes at myself as I spin back toward Sophia’s room. But my eyes snag on a set of open French doors halfway down the hall. Curious, I hover in the doorway. Looks like I’ve found an office or library.
The door is open, so I step inside. No surprise, the llama motif continues. I kind of love this side of the Harringtons; it’s like finding out a stiff, tweed jacket is lined in bubblegum-pink silk. It’s quirky and weirdly endearing. Endless rows of books occupy shelves that stretch from elegant wooden cabinets to the ceiling—including a long line of familiar, gold-embossed yearbooks.
Jackpot.
I beeline for the late nineties and pull the book I need off the shelf. Flipping it open, I thumb through the class photos until I find her, right on the front page for the graduating class that year.
Samantha Arnaud. My mother. Her expression is downright serene, with a barely-there smile curving her lips. She looks incredibly young. Even a little … sad?
Maybe Mom has always had that hint of sadness clinging to her.
Beneath her name, it says, “Arts Merit Scholarship,” and it reminds me of the acronym Isla had in her notes. “ARTSMER.” I’m sure that’s what it stands for.
As much as I want to flip through the rest of the photos until I find Statue Boy, I’m wary of how long I’ve been awayfrom Sophia. She deserves better than me sneaking around her house. If I want to see these yearbooks, I bet I could just ask her to show them to me.
I shove the yearbook back into its spot and exit the room. On my way back down the hall, I pause at a gold-framed mirror hanging above a pedestal table with a small flower arrangement in the center. I stare at my reflection, looking for any resemblance to my mother at the same age that I am now. I spot it immediately.
I have that same sadness clinging to me.
The source is easy to understand—it’s Isla. But what was Mom’s reason? I’m not sure.
I’m also not sure if Isla was able to figure out if Mom was ever a llama or not. Does that even matter? I assume it does. But is that part of the reason someone tried to take my sister out? It doesn’t make any sense.
None of it does.
…
