I stepped aside. Ashton walked past me to the end of the row, then turned, hesitant. “It’s down here, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Peter’s stash. He came here a lot, especially after he’d been out…borrowing stuff.”
Ashton waited for an answer. I stared back at him with my mother’s gaze—nothing behind the eyes. He shuddered and turned back toward the stairs.
I felt Peter’s ghost again. All these loose ends after his culling, roots crawling through the dirt.
Why had Peter kept this secret, when it could have saved him?
Where had the money gone? He’d already collected over a grand in interest. Uncle Cyrus would’ve asked about that much cash among his things.
I remembered Peter’s favorite dead drop.
On a lonely shelf numbered 001.944 (monsters and related phenomena) was an empty space between two disreputable tomes on Loch Ness, just wide enough to slide a knife.
Hoisting myself up, I reached inside.
Instead of cash, my fingers closed on a ring with two keys on it. One a six-pin Medeco, the other for a padlock.
“Fucking Peter,” I said.
12
The First World War was unkind to Helshire.
With so many unremarkable sons dead in the Argonne, the student body dwindled, becoming too small to justify stables and tennis courts. In search of new sources of tuition, the college embraced coeducation.
The Mortons approved, and we increased our presence. In that era, few things were more dangerous than an educated woman.
To my great-great-grandparents’ surprise, the Lindqvists began sending their offspring to Helshire as well. The college experience joined weddings, feasts, and archery competitions as a way to keep the fragile peace. How could there be open conflict among fellow alums?
These days, all the dormitories are coed, but Ogden was the first women’s house and still reflects the radical ideas of the 1920s. The rooms are organized into pods, each sharing a common kitchen, with members taking turns cooking. No Dining Commons waiters, no cleaning staff.
Egalitarianism has many versions, some less equal than others.
As I climbed the stairsof Ogden’s south tower, a face peeped over the rails above me, then ducked out of sight. I heard the news of my arrival scurrying upward. It had been months since my last visit.
Gertie’s pod occupied the highest floor in the tower. She was only asophomore, but had already assembled a little tribe of legacy groupies. Most of us keep clear of ordinaries who fetishize our inherited clothes and dark reputations, but my cousin always took her own path.
At the top of the last stairs, a girl in a fluffy pink dress waited for me. I couldn’t recall her name—the podmates tended to blur.
She curtsied and said, “Good afternoon, Jessica.”
“Is Gertie here?”
“Yes!” the girl enthused, as if Gertie ever left. “She’ll be with you in a moment. Would you like tea?”
“I would.”
She led me to the kitchen, which smelled like cookies, bread, and jam. Two more of the pod were rolling out dough, working on a scarred old farmhouse table that must have taken ten people to carry up the stairs. These two also wore pink, clearly the color of the month.
Gertie liked to coordinate.
“Mint? Chamomile? Boba?”
“Caffeine,” I said. “No milk.”
