“Yes, andalsopicking up my dramatic younger brother from the train terminal while he sulks and plays the piano. How exactly did that piano get in there, anyway? I don’t recall Grand Central having one…”
Octavius gave an innocent shrug. “Who knows. I think they installed it a few weeks ago,” he answered, omitting the fact thathemight have put in a special request to have the piano in his dorm room moved to the station. It wasn’t like he’d gotten in trouble for it yet. That was the wonderful thing about New York. No one asked questions. Not even when a piano seemed to fall from the sky.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Fola muttered, in the way she did when she was in problem-solving mode.
Octavius knew that he’d eventually be found out, that his misdeeds would not go unnoticed forever. But for now, at least, they’d slipped under the radar.
As the car rolled down the busy stretch of Forty-Second Street, Octavius braced himself for the impact of whatever disaster was to come next.
12:13P.M.—THE BUTTON MANOR
WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NEW YORK
The ride to the Button Manor didn’t take nearly as long as Octavius wished it had.
He hadn’t been back “home” since he’d left for boarding school almost three years ago. And he hadn’t intended on ever returning either.
The sprawling Button Estate was hidden away, off the side of an inconspicuous road in the heart of Scarsdale (the small hellscape of a town he’d had the misfortune of growing up in). The road that led to the Button Estate was obscured by a huddle of oak trees, the first of several security measures that were meant to conceal the entrance from the public’s view and deter any stalkers. Behind the trees were a massive set of iron gates that could only be opened by a very specific configuration of numbers based on a game their father had invented years ago. Octavius watched as the driver begrudgingly played the game, keying in the desired numbers into the control panel before the gate yawned wide open. This was one of the many pointless features their father had incorporated into the Manor’s functions; pointless games were Mr. Button’s favorite thing in the whole wide world.
This game setup was meant to keep the property inaccessible to outsiders, but this didn’t stop intruders. Once in a blue moon the family’s more persistent stalkers seemed to bypass the system and find a way in. Octavius recalled a time when he still lived inthe Underworld(the name he’d given to the Manor) and had snuck downstairs in the dead of the night to steal cookies from the pantry. He’d suddenly noticed a small man with a camera tucked away in the corner, seemingly waiting for him.
“I’m not gonna trouble you,” the man said, his limbs shaking from eitherexcitement or fear, Octavius wasn’t sure which. “I only want a picture.” In the dark, the stranger’s eyes glimmered, settling on Octavius gluttonously.
But before Octavius could respond, the alarm systems began to blare loudly around the house, red and blue lights streaking the walls and the cabinets.
Octavius sighed. It seemed he would not be getting his cookies after all.
“We’re here.” The memory dissolved like snow as Fola turned to him in the town car.
He felt his chest constrict as they pulled through the gates of hell and the vast Manor house came into view.
It looked as menacing as ever.
“Do you think they’ll believe me if I fake a serious illness?” Octavius said to no one in particular.
“Remember the year that Dee had appendicitis and still had to be there for the unveiling of her latest art piece?” Fola asked, checking her makeup in the small compact mirror she pulled from her bag.
How could Octavius forget? Their sister Perdita had to throw up blood before she was granted permission to leave the grounds. He could never quite get the sight of that out of his memory—as with much of his childhood, it was burned at the stake in his temporal lobe.
“I remember,” he said solemnly, staring out of the window with his cheek pressed hard into his knuckles, the motion of the car making him sway side to side as the tires struggled over the cobbled path. The clouds in the sky looked dark and heavy, ready to release havoc onto their world.
“Cheer up, Tavi. It could be worse,” Fola said, as the vehicle finally came to a stop by the stone staircase that led up to the Manor’s imposing front doors.
Could it?he thought. Octavius couldn’t imagine anything worse thanthis. Through the semi-opaque button-patterned glass panes of the front doors, he could see vague shadows. Shadows that looked so much like demons.
Two of his father’s security guards were stationed by the entrance, partially blocking the doors, and alongside them, a handful of cameramen, waiting to capture the arrival of two out of five of America’s messed-upgenius family—or as most peopleactuallyreferred to them: the Button Heirs.
It was the silly nickname his father’s cult of devoted followers loved to call them. Octavius had always wondered who first coined this group name and then their individual aliases. It certainly wasn’t their father.
There was Folathe Brain. Octaviusthe Maestro. Bilalthe Olympian. And Perditathe Artist.
He used to think having an alias made him some kind of superhero. But he’d soon discovered that there was nothing heroic about being able to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on twenty-seven instruments.
The driver briskly exited the car, opening the door for Fola first, who closed the lid of her mirror and stepped out in a swift, elegant manner.
Octavius could feel his muscles tensing as the driver neared his door.
Years ago, he had taught himself how to hot-wire a car engine, and briefly considered whether he’d have enough time to climb into the front seat and drive away. It would be so easy, since he’d done it many times before. In fact, as recently as last month (for reasons that wouldmost definitelyget him expelled from his boarding school if ever discovered).
