Or she killed it.
“My belongings,” she said to Angela, setting the box down on the floor. She glanced at the rat, impassive. “How messy.”
A soft scuttling sound echoed from the rafters in the hallway.
Angela poked her head out of the door, peering up into the musty gloom. The student looked up with her, but there was no one above them. No one that could be seen, anyway. Only shadows, and an old drapery swaying beneath a draft. What sounded like breathing could just as easily have been wind, entering through spaces in the roof. Angela ushered her inside, shutting the door behind them, sick of feeling watched and hunted by everyone. Even invisible fears and creepy statues.
“I’m afraid,” the student was saying, “I interrupted someone’s dinner.”
“It was an animal that did that?”
“Did what?” Nina turned from the window, looking sick to her stomach. As if she already knew.
The student rearranged the curls of her hair, silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer. “They were rather quick. It’s easy to mistake what you see on evenings like these. Though I would suggest”—she picked up her belongings again—“that you both stay indoors a little longer.”
She moved to leave, but Angela grabbed her by the wrist.
Before the young woman could argue with her, more noise whispered through the hallway. It was faint, but it reminded Angela of a predator’s hiss, cool with frustration. Vaguely familiar.
“What is it?” Angela said. “A cat in the building?”
The student let go of the knob, seeming to resign herself to staying for a while.
Angela left her and picked up the broken knife handle left on the bed, pitching it into the trash bin to rest in peace with its other half. “My mother had a cat. Pearl. She caught mice in the basement and left them at my parents’ bedroom door. Like a gift, to show what a great hunter she was.”
“Yes,” the student said, gently turning the door lock with a free hand.
But she didn’t look very convinced.
“I suppose that is a way of showing affection.”
Three
Angela was wrapped deep within the embrace of her newest dream.
Sleep had come, the world vanishing with it, taking her to a better tableau of illusions.
There he was, the beautiful angel with the bronze wings, almost as distinct as in her portraits. She could have been wrong, of course. “He” could just as easily have been a “she,” and that probably made more sense considering his delicate features and poised mannerisms, the gentle way he could blink those large eyes. But there was an authority in his steps that always made her think otherwise, and his face commanded her to simply watch. Not listen or understand.
As usual, he had nothing to say to her.
His was one in a pair of eternally voiceless recordings, whisking in and out of her mind, intruding when she expected them least. Tonight the angel with the bronze wings leaned over a round desk made of glass, writing with a pen in some kind of blocky script—all circles, interconnected lines, and angles. He wore a form-fitting ivory coat, its fabric pristine even compared to the gleam of his feathers. Rubies dangled from chains woven through his hair.
Angela opened her invisible mouth to speak. To call to him.
He looked up from the desk, setting down the pen. He was turning his head, his winged ears fluttering gently.
He saw her.
No.
He was looking past her at someone else. Someone who literally walked through her invisible body to stand in front of him, her unearthly silver dress reflecting all the light. A young woman with flowing curls of hair, tall, mild-mannered, her hands clasped modestly above the knee, had arrived to confront him. But the angel straightened immediately, and he was not only taller than this new person but distinctly unhappy. Those pink lips pursed into a tightly controlled frown.
The woman pointed behind him—to a gray figure in the distance—but he shouted at her and dismissed her with a wave of the hand, surprisingly angry.
Then she was stepping aside, facing Angela with the distinct sense that they saw each other. They were suddenly in front of a gigantic staircase of light, each step clearer than diamond.
But most astonishingly of all, Angela knew who she was looking at.
Four
Grant, we beseech Thee, that the One who is destined to bring Iniquity will perish in the eternal flames. Oh, God, help us in our hour of greatest need. When the Ruin approaches, be not far from your children. Amen.
—CLOSING HYMN, FRESHMAN INTRODUCTORY CEREMONY
The student with the chestnut hair was named Sophia.
She had no living relatives, Angela learned. No personal belongings that amounted to anything valuable. The more they had talked, the more she became a mystery, and the night ended with her dancing in and out of Angela’s dreams as elegantly as the bronze-winged angel, her outfit suddenly an exotic dress of silver taffeta. But Sophia was a real, live, flesh-and-blood human being who could speak when she was spoken to, responding to a person’s feelings with practiced delicacy. The angels, of course, were always moving out of Angela’s reach, never truly glancing at her when she questioned them. Impolite and impressively untouchable.
Meanwhile, in the background, Sophia listened, smiled, and genuinely cared.
It had only been a day, and Angela feared she was developing a terrible infatuation with her, not understanding why until she awakened and noticed one of the dolls on her dresser. It was a Victorian-era miniature with a china complexion and vacant gray eyes. Her curls dropped to her waist in a waterfall of chestnut, their shorter strands snagged behind a black velvet headband. Nearby, like a blur in the corner of Angela’s vision, Sophia sat on the opposite bed, her own gray eyes lingering on the even grayer rain, its drops slanting onto the rooftops and framing the city with morning fog. Curls dribbled down her back, shiny and tempting, their ends gathered with a thin black ribbon. She’d folded her hands, settling them on top of her lap, looking like she was waiting for someone to pick her up and dress her. She’d never gone back to her own room after all, probably too frightened to leave after finding the rat at the door.
It was hard to blame her.
She turned to Angela again, smiling in that gentle way.
No. Sophia was prettier than the doll. Just as quiet, but definitely prettier.
“Will you be trying to kill yourself today?” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
The words were like a sharp knife, cutting through Angela’s leftover dreams. All too quickly the dazzling stairway, the light, even her beautiful angel, seemed like ridiculous details. So wrong in such a dreary world.
Angela sank back into the sheets, her skin sticky from the humidity. Winter couldn’t come fast enough. “I don’t think so,” she said after a minute had passed. “There are a few things I have to do around here first.”
“Oh? I was hoping you would say that.” Sophia left the bed and glided over to Angela’s desk, picking up a folder stuffed with papers, one of them Stephanie’s sorority invitation. But instead she pulled out a letter printed with font in an expensive signature-style script. The school seal had been embossed in gold leaf at the top, its large Tree glittering beneath the wall sconce that guttered above Angela’s desk. Most of the dorm’s chandelier candles had already melted to stumps, their wicks burned into little ash piles. “Today is the official introductory ceremony for incoming students. I was afraid I’d be attending it alone, but perhaps we can go together?”
She looked back to Angela, hopeful.
“Do the novices attend?”
“They preside.”
Angela kept silent for a little while, listening to the creaks and groans of the attic floorboards. Now that Sophia had moved upstairs, the lower levels of the mansion were cavernously empty. Any leftover noise probably came from the wood, expanding or contracting in the wet weather.
Probably.
“I guess I’ll go,” she said
at last. “My classes don’t start until tomorrow anyway. It would be better than wandering around the city with nothing to do.”
“Wandering in Luz alone”—Sophia was staring out the window again—“is not recommended, you know.”
“Because of the serial killer?”
Sophia put the folder back on the desk. “There are less sensational ways to die on this island. More people fall through the ocean grates on the city’s lowest tiers, or ignore the signs near the bridges and topple into chasms when the lamps are close to burning out. Of course, that’s in the areas without electricity. Most of the Academy streets have lamps with bulbs.”
“They should set up fences around the chasms. Barbed wire would keep people out.”
“Not everyone is afraid of barbed wire.” Sophia shook her head, curls bouncing. “Some even think of it as an invitation.”
“True. I know I certainly would.”
It was just her luck that drowning never worked out. She’d likely take all that trouble to jump, then merely float in the chill sea until somebody fished her out, her brain slipping in and out of unconsciousness. The air would be salty and thick with brine, but not suffocating or foul enough to murder her. She might as well stay in the bedroom, pretending that she’d already gone through the process.
Angela sniffed, wrinkling her nose.
A sour odor seeped throughout the dorm.
It had to be the blood. Blood on the broken knife in the trash bin. Blood staining the blouse she’d thrown on top of it. But mostly the smell of blood from that damned rat lying outside the door. Nina had left, and Angela still hadn’t bothered to dispose of the corpse, hoping that the cat would do it for her and lick up any remnants. She slid out of bed, looking for the towel she’d dropped next to the dresser the other night. Her floor-length pajamas thankfully hid the scars on her arms and legs, but the lace scratched at her feet when she walked, irritating new, tender skin. “Let me get rid of this rat outside, and I’ll get dressed. If we’re going to go to the ceremony, we should get there early. I’d like to find a seat where I can see but not be seen.”
“Oh, the rat?” Sophia said over her shoulder. She busied herself making the bed, straightening its silver-and-red comforter. “It’s gone. Since very early this morning.”
“Really?” Angela dropped the towel, immediately aiming for her dresser where she kept her tights and arm gloves. Those would—absolutely had to—go on first. “Thanks. I don’t like dead animals, especially throwing them out. I’m always afraid of contracting mites.”
Not a virus, though. Or bacteria. Angela, very disappointingly, couldn’t get sick.
Even when she deliberately tried.
“Oh, no, I didn’t touch it.”
Angela tugged open her bureau doors, grasping another blouse with the opulent Tree symbol. Her black-and-red skirt hung next to it, the gold buttons near the pocket snatching at the light. “So the cat came back sometime before this morning?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Sophia was waiting again, her hands folded atop her lap, her skirt neatly spread on either side of her legs. She had such a delicate, porcelain appearance, Angela didn’t want to believe she was anything else than a doll, a gift from the heavens to crown the collection ringing the room. Nina was an interesting person, and she had a few things in common with Angela, but she still had a very solid presence that grated after a few hours. Sophia blended much better with Angela’s paintings and artificial friends, like a precious coincidence that never stopped presenting itself. She imposed on Angela’s desire to be alone, but with the tact of a butterfly on a rose. It was like they’d been friends for years.
“This might sound odd,” Angela said as she stopped to peer into a mirror, disgusted by the knots in her hair, “but I was surprised to learn you didn’t have a roommate. I saw you talking to another student yesterday; some woman with blond braids. I thought maybe you lived in the same house.”
“She’s a member of the Pentacle Sorority,” Sophia said softly.
No way. That means—
“Are you?”
A brief pause. Then, “Yes.”
Goddamn it.
“So Stephanie sent you to spy on me?” Angela snapped, sounding more angry than she felt. It wasn’t easy to get mad at Sophia. Her disposition softened you somehow. Which must have been why Stephanie chose her. To entice Angela into dropping her guard even further.
And there I was giving her the benefit of a doubt.
“She didn’t send me,” Sophia said, lifting her hand. A golden ring, its red stone engraved with a gold pentagram, sparkled on a finger. “Don’t pay attention to this, all right? It’s a coincidence that we’re in the same house. Stephanie has nothing to do with rooming students together.”
“Yeah, well according to Nina, she only pulls every other string on this campus.”
“It’s true.” Her voice shook, genuinely upset.
“Why don’t you stay in their house anyway? Why are you on your own?”
“A punishment. I’m being punished.”
“For what?”
Sophia averted her eyes, her pretty mouth sealing shut. Angela was almost finished pulling up her tights by the time that whispery voice made itself heard again. “I can’t tell you why. It’s forbidden.”
“Then tell me this. Are you friends with her or not? You’re not a blood head. Neither is that blonde. You both had to ingratiate yourself with her somehow.”
“Like I said, I’m suffering through a punishment. The one you call ‘the blonde’ is in charge of that. It’s a fallacy that you have to be a blood head to join the sorority. That’s only the inner circle—the tier with privileges. A lot of students aren’t aware of that. Even those who’ve been here for years.”
Strangely enough, what Sophia said made sense. And instantly, so did the strange tension between Nina and Stephanie. In essence, Nina was bitter. Really, it wasn’t difficult to assume she’d also attempted to join the sorority, only to be cast aside like yesterday’s news. And if she’d told Angela the truth yesterday about hearing dead people moan and groan, then she’d also be a perfect candidate to join the lower tier. Instead, she’d been passed over, as if her abilities were defective at best.
“I’m not friends with Stephanie Walsh,” Sophia continued, “or with the blond woman you saw talking to me in the street. They can punish me. But my will is my own.”
She said the last words so strongly, a shiver crawled up Angela’s arms.
“What do you know about Lyrica Pengold? Or Brendan Mathers? Anything?”
Sophia frowned slightly, the expression full of polite contempt. “I’m kept from knowing too much about Stephanie’s personal affairs. Those names mean as much to me as they do to you and Nina Willis. Maybe less.”
“So you can’t tell me what’s going on in the Pentacle Sorority’s house?”
“I can tell you that Lyrica is the real underling to watch out for. Usually. Don’t be alarmed to find her spying on you or trailing you between classes.”
“I was more annoyed than shocked yesterday.”
“Good.”
Angela grabbed her clothes, hiding behind the dressing screen and its painting of extinct peacocks. What a sight they must have been, with their tails more gaudy than an opulent Vatican mansion, decked in iridescent purples and greens. She was slowly growing used to the gold scattered throughout the building, usually found in the form of tarnished brass. Her family had been rich but always preferred silver. “Never mind. I guess we should go to this ceremony together anyway. It’s not your fault if Stephanie’s punishing you—likely for something stupid. But if you cause me trouble of any kind”—Angela stuck her head out from behind the screen for a second—“you’ll pay dearly. I can tell you that much.”
Even if I am weakened by your smiles. Why do you have to be so damned nice?
“What if you pay dearly for befriending me?” Sophia was sitting in the same position when Angela stepped out a
gain. She barely acknowledged the sight of her tights and gloves, not even questioning them with her eyes, as if she understood why they existed in the first place. “There are stipulations in the sorority that apply to other students. I don’t have to reveal them to you.”
“I’m not really afraid of Stephanie. Not the version I saw of her anyway.” Angela slipped on a boot, lacing the leather until it cinched tight below her knees. “What I am afraid of is that she and everyone else will end up making my search ten times harder than it has to be. That I’ll be slowed down.”
“What are you searching for?”
Angela stopped tying her boots. There were a lot of answers she could give. Brendan. Kim. Her angels. Death. But each one also required a longer explanation than she felt like giving. Especially when it might find its way back to Stephanie’s curious ears. “For my sanity,” she ended up saying.
But that was probably too late by now.
“When you turned that lock last night,” she continued, “it was like being in the institution all over again. They always made sure we couldn’t get out of our rooms at night. And that no one else could get in. I’m not too keen on stray cats inside the building, but I wouldn’t have cared if it was hunting a mouse in the bedroom either.”
Sophia left her seat, reaching for the ceremony pamphlet. “The lock was for peace of mind. Not to act as any kind of barrier.” Her eyes were cold and opaque in the gloom of the room. “It would have held, but only for so long.”
“What—is this a super cat we’re talking about?”
“I never said it was a cat.”
An awkward silence drifted between them. Angela finished lacing her boots and stood, ready to leave the room, but not quite so ready to open the door. Now it seemed like nothing more than a sliver of wood positioned in front of a crushing and invisible menace. There was no cat? What, then? Angela would have heard a dog days earlier, and foxes and weasels were extinct on the island. Maybe a raccoon? “If the lock couldn’t keep it out—”
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