Хлоя Нейл - Firespell

“You aren’t allowed to tell me, or anyone else, that something big and loud and powerful is hanging out beneath a big-ass metal door in the basement? And that you go down there willingly?”

She nodded matter-of-factly. “That’s pretty much it.”

I blew out a breath and shook my head. “You’re insane. This whole place is insane.”

“St. Sophia’s has a lot to offer.”

“Other than nighttime escapades and maniacs behind giant cellar doors?”

“Oh, those aren’t even the highlights, Lil.” Scout turned and resumed the trek back home.

When we reached the suite, Scout walked toward her room, but then paused to glance back at me.

“Whatever you’re involved in,” I told her, “I’m not afraid.” (My fingers were totally crossed on that one.) “And if you need me, I’m here.”

I could tell she was tired, but there was a happy glint in her eyes. “You rock pretty hard,

Parker.”

I grinned at her. “I know. It’s one of my better qualities.”

Whatever the St. Sophia’s “highlights” were, they weren’t revealed during the next couple days of school. I still wasn’t entirely sure what Scout was doing at night, but I didn’t see any strange bruises or scratches or broken bones. Since she wasn’t limping, I kept my mouth shut about her disappearances . . . and whatever was going on in the corridors beneath the school.

On the other hand, the dark circles beneath her eyes showed that she was still going somewhere at night, thatsomething was going on, regardless of how oblivious the rest of the school was. I didn’t pester her, mostly because I’d weighed the benefit of pestering her (nil, given how stubborn she was) against the potential cost (hurting our newfound friendship). We were still getting to know each other, and I didn’t want that kind of tension between us . . . even though her secret was still between us.

However, there was still one skill I knew I could bring to the Scout Green mystery game—I was patient, and I could wait her out. I could tell it bothered her to keep it bottled up, so I guessed it wouldn’t take much longer before she spilled.

That mystery notwithstanding, things were moving along pretty much par for the course, or at least what I learned was par for the course by St. Sophia’s standards. That meant studying,

studying, and more studying. I managed to squeeze in some nerdly fun with Scout—a little sketching, checking out her comic book stash, walking the block over the lunch hour—and I’d had a few rushed conversations with my parents. (Everything seemed to be going fine in Deutschland.) But mostly, there was studying . . . at least until my first Thursday at St. Sophia’s.

I’d been in European history when it happened. Without preface, in the middle of class, the door opened. Mary Katherine walked in, her hair in a long, thick braid that lay across one shoulder, a gray scarf of thick, felted wool knots wrapped around her neck.

She handed Peters, our surly history teacher, a note. Peters gave her a sour look—the fate of European peasants being the most important thing on his mind—but he took it anyway, read it over, and passed it back to M.K.

“Lily Parker,” he said.

I sat up straight.

Peters tried to arch one eyebrow. But he couldn’t quite manage it, so it just looked like an comfortable squint. “You’re wanted in the headmistress’s office.”

I frowned, but bobbed my head in acknowledgment, grabbed the stuff on my desk with one hand and the strap of my bag from the other, and stood up. M.K., arms crossed, rolled her eyes as she waited for me. She was halfway to the door by the time I got to the front of the room.

“Nice shoes,” she said when we’d closed the classroom door and had begun walking down the hall. She walked in front of me, the note between her fingers.

I glanced down at today’s ensemble—button-up shirt, St. Sophia’s hoodie, navy tights, and yellow boots in quilted patent leather—as I situated my messenger bag diagonally across my chest. The boots were loud and not everyone’s style, but they were also vintage and made by a very chichi designer, so I wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic. I assumed, since they were pretty fabulous, that she was being sincere.

“Thanks,” I said. “They’re vintage.” Unfortunately, the owner of the thrift shop in old,

downtown Sagamore knew they’d been vintage, too. Three months of hard-saved allowance disappeared in a five-minute transaction.

“I know,” she said. “They’re Puccinis.”

Her voice was mildly condescending, as if I couldn’t possibly have been savvy enough to know that they were Puccinis when I bought them. Three months of allowance knew better.

That gem was the only thing Mary Katherine said as we walked through the Great Hall, crossed the labyrinth, and turned into the administrative wing. It was the same walk I’d taken when I’d met Foley at the door a few days ago, except in reverse . . . and presumably under different circumstances this time around.

When we reached the office, M.K. put her hand on the doorknob, but turned to face me before opening it. “You’ll need a hall pass before you go back,” she sniped. She opened the door and after I walked inside, closed it behind me. Friendly girl.

Foley’s office looked the same as it had a few days ago, except that she wasn’t in the room this time. Her heavy oak desk was empty of stuff—no pencil cups, no flowers, no lamp—but for the royal blue folder that lay in the exact middle, its edges parallel with the edges of the desk, as if placed just so.

I walked closer. Holding my bag back with a hand, I leaned forward to take a closer look. LILY PARKER was typed in neat letters across the folder’s tab.

A folder bearing my name in an otherwise empty room. It practically begged to be opened.

I glanced behind me. When I was sure I was alone, I reached out a hand to open it, but snatched it back when a grinding scrape echoed through the room.

I stood straight again as the bookshelf on one side of Foley’s office began to pivot forward.

Foley, tall and trim, every hair in place, navy suit perfectly tailored, stepped through the opening,

then pushed the bookshelf back into place.

“Can I ask what’s behind the hidden door?”

“You could ask,” she said, walking around the massive desk, “but that does not mean I’d provide an answer to you, Ms. Parker.” Elegantly, she lowered herself into the chair, glanced at the folder for a moment, then lifted her gaze, regarding me with an arched brow.

I responded with what I hoped was a bland and completely innocent smile. Sure, I’dwanted to look, but it’s not like I’d actually had time todo anything.

Apparently satisfied, she lowered her gaze again and, with a single finger, flipped open the folder. “Have a seat,” she said without looking up.

I dropped into the chair in front of her desk and piled my stuff—books and bag—on my lap.

“You’ve been here three days,” Foley said, linking her fingers together on top of her desk. “I have asked you here to inquire as to how you’ve settled in.” She looked at me expectantly. I guessed that was my cue.

“Things are fine.”

“Mmm-hmm. And your relationships with your classmates? Are you integrating well into the St.

Sophia’s community? Into Ms. Green’s suite?

Interesting, I thought, that it was “Ms. Green’s suite,” and not Amie’s or Lesley’s suite. But my answer was the same regardless. “Yes. Scout and I get along pretty well.”

“And Ms. Cherry? Ms. Barnaby?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking a vague answer would at least save my having to answer questions about the brat pack’s attitude toward newcomers.