“May I help you?” A friendly young man with his tie tucked into a sweater-vest stuck his head out of the school’s front office.
“Yes,” Haven started to say as she took off her hat.
“Oh, hello, Miss Moore. I almost failed to recognize you.” The man hurried out to greet her.
“Do we know each other?” Haven tried to camouflage her distress with a smile.
“Yes, but I wouldn’t expect you to remember me. We met at the Society a while back. I was working as a receptionist at the time.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be! The OS uniforms aren’t designed to make us memorable. My name is Albert Sinclaire. I’m the headmaster’s assistant.” He held out a hand, and Haven hesitated briefly before taking it.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she said, attempting to shrug off her awkwardness as she shook the man’s hand.
“So what can I do for you, Miss Moore?”
“I took the train up to visit some friends this afternoon. I’ve heard so much about the school, I thought I’d drop by and have a look around. See what all the fuss is about. It’s a lovely building—and so large! How many students do you have here?”
“Just short of two hundred at the moment,” Albert Sinclaire said proudly. “Although we may be accepting a larger number than usual next fall. The program has been a remarkable success. You must have heard that our first class will be moving on to college this year. All of our graduates have been accepted at Ivy League schools—without any intervention from Society members, I might add.”
“Very impressive,” Haven said, playing along. How long would it be before he showed her the door?
A phone began to ring, and the young man winced. He seemed torn for a moment, but on the second ring, he started backing toward the office.
“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Moore. I’d love to give you a tour of our school, but I’m quite busy at the moment. The headmaster is away on business, you see, and I’m the only one manning the fort. Would you mind if I let you have a look around on your own?”
Halcyon Hall was certainly full of surprises. “Is that allowed?” Haven asked.
“Well, no, not usually. But since you’re a friend of the Society, I’m sure no one will mind. We’re a school, after all, not a prison. The classrooms used by grades four through eight are on the second floor. High school classes are on the third floor, and living quarters are on the fourth. Feel free to wander around, listen in if you like. But please don’t interrupt any lectures. If you have questions, I’ll be right here in the front office.”
“Thank you,” Haven called as he bolted for the phone.
THE SECOND-FLOOR HALLS were decorated with student artwork. Haven remembered that her own grade school in Tennessee had tacked finger paintings and self-portraits to a giant bulletin board next to the principal’s office. Haven’s drawings had never been posted. They made the others’ art look bad, a teacher had informed her. At Halcyon Hall, however, student art was framed behind glass, and with very good reason. Most of the works could have found a home in any New York City art gallery. Haven bent to examine a small white card beside a painting of an electrical storm passing over the Hudson Valley. The lightning illuminated a strange scene in the foreground, where two men in a cemetery were either digging a grave or exhuming a body. Jillian Thomas, grade four, the card read.
As she continued down the hall, Haven’s ears detected the soft sound of a violin playing a Mozart sonata. Peeking through the little glass window set into one of the classroom doors, she saw a small boy with the instrument tucked under his chin. When the music ended, he blushed and took a bow while his classmates and teacher applauded with gusto. In another classroom across the hall, a girl of about the same age was drawing a series of complex molecules on a blackboard with multicolored chalk. It took Haven a minute to realize that the girl wasn’t solving a problem posed by a teacher. She was actually instructing the class.
This was the nightmare academy Phoebe had described? The sinister school where terrible things happened to small, helpless children? A bell rang and suddenly rowdy kids rushed from their classrooms, barely acknowledging Haven’s existence as they weaved around her. They were giggling, joking, tugging on each other’s backpacks, whispering with their friends. They weren’t even wearing uniforms, Haven noticed. Just their own jeans, sneakers, and sweaters.
“You lost, good-looking?” The high-pitched voice belonged to a little boy.
Haven looked down to find a short child with dark, curly hair. When he winked at her, she couldn’t help but laugh. “No,” she said. “I’m having a look around. Do you always flirt with older women?”
“Just the sexy ones,” said the boy. A couple of his friends waiting across the hall giggled. He was putting on a show for them. “Are you somebody’s mother or something?”
“What?” Haven feigned outrage. “I’m not old enough to be anyone’s mother. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Jorge,” said the boy.
“I’m Haven. So, do you like going to school here, Jorge?”
“Yeah, it’s great,” the boy said. “Everyone’s smart, and we get to study all the things that we like. It’s a whole lot better than P.S. 20. That place always smelled like poop.”
“Don’t you ever miss your parents?” Haven asked.
“Why would I miss them?” The boy put on a tough face. “They drive up from the Bronx every weekend. I told them to stop. All the other parents come once a month, but my mom and dad won’t leave me alone. They’re really starting to cramp my style.”
“Well, they’re probably just proud of you,” Haven said.
“Sure they are. I’m going to be someone very important when I grow up. Everyone here is.”
“Do you know what you want to do?” Haven asked.
“First I’m going to be a male model,” said the boy.
“Of course.” Haven barely managed to keep a straight face. “That makes perfect sense.”
“Yeah, and then when I’m older, I’m going to go into politics. That’s what I did the last time around. And Mr. Adam says it would be a shame to let this personality go to waste.”
“He’s certainly right about that,” Haven agreed. “What about your two friends over there?”
Jorge pointed at the first boy. “Inventor,” he said. Then he gestured toward the second boy. “Alcoholic.”
“Hey!” the second boy whined. “That was two whole lives ago!”
“I’m kidding, you old drunk,” Jorge laughed. “He was some kind of famous writer or something. You wanna come have lunch with us, Miss Haven? It’s hamburger day.”
“Thanks,” Haven said, “but I should probably be getting back to the city soon.”
“Well, next time you’re in town, why don’t you look me up?”
“Sure thing, Jorge,” Haven told him. “I definitely will.”
“See?” she heard Jorge tell his friends as the trio sauntered toward the cafeteria. “I told you I’ve always had a way with the ladies.”
HAD SHE MISSED something? Haven wondered. Was there a secret dungeon under her feet, or a frigid attic where ill-behaved students lived on a diet of stale bread and murky water? Every child she passed on her way upstairs to the high school classrooms seemed as normal and happy as Jorge. The teachers and other adults she encountered in the halls either smiled or politely nodded in her direction. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Except.
A locker door swung closed, and Haven found herself face-to-face with Milo Elliot. He wore a navy blazer with brass buttons over a crisp oxford shirt. His blond hair defied the laws of gravity, and his blue eyes were blank. Haven had encountered toasters with more personality. Where was the charismatic young man from the fund-raiser? Was there a switch or a button somewhere on his back that brought the android to life?
“Pardon me,” Milo said, stepping around Haven. He gave no indication that he’d recognized her. Three books were tucked under his arm. She tried t
o read the titles, but all she could see was the name of one author, Edward Bernays.
Milo opened a door in the hall and joined a class already in progress. Relieved, Haven continued her tour, strolling by a room filled with teenagers just a few years younger than herself. A swatch of bright silk caught Haven’s eye as she passed, and she quickly doubled back.
At the front of the class there stood a plain girl in a dazzling dress—a robe à la française grand enough for Napoleon’s wedding. The girl spun slowly as a boy pointed out details of the costume she wore. He was a slender bottle-blond with features prettier and more delicate than those of his female classmates. He had created the dress, Haven could see, and it was nothing short of a masterpiece. The boy’s skills with a needle rivaled her own. And his sense of color and proportion were every bit as good as Beau’s.
Haven’s head jerked toward the other students. They were quietly taking notes. A boy at the back, a burly athletic type, raised his hand and posed a thoughtful question about the stitching on the gown’s bodice. There were none of the snickers or jibes Beau had been forced to endure back in Snope City, Tennessee. No one inquired where the boy kept all the dresses he made for himself. Or asked him what kind of panties he wore under his jeans. Here the boy was accepted as an artist, and his talents were given the praise they deserved.
Haven turned away from the scene, a sob lodged in her throat. She wondered if the boy had any idea just how lucky he was. If only Beau could have found a place like Halcyon Hall—a place where he didn’t have to throw punches or footballs just to earn a little grudging respect. It had taken every ounce of Beau’s strength to survive in Snope City, and the wounds he’d suffered might never heal.
Who knew what Adam’s motives had been when he first founded Halcyon Hall? Haven no longer cared. In the end he’d created a school where kids like Beau had a chance to become the people they were meant to be. Maybe Adam had once planned to turn them into mindless drones like Milo Elliot. But there were two things Haven now knew for certain. The Halcyon Hall kids weren’t all little robots. And the Ouroboros Society had to be saved.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The café door flew open with a bang. Owen Bell stood on the threshold and let his eyes scan the room. Haven, Alex, and Calum sat at a table in the center of the empty restaurant while an anxious waiter lurked behind the counter. Haven had asked Alex for Owen’s number, hoping she could meet him alone for coffee, but Alex had insisted on organizing a get-together.
“Alex! Did you make them shut down this whole place just for us?” Owen asked as he shrugged off his coat. “Don’t you think that’s a little obnoxious?”
“Is it?” Alex sounded genuinely surprised. “But I’m paying the owner handsomely.”
“I believe Mr. Bell was thinking of the other customers, my dear,” Calum explained as though translating from another language. “He’s always so considerate.”
Owen gave Haven’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “You know, I’ve been to your house, Alex. You have a ten-thousand-dollar espresso machine sitting in your kitchen and a maid who actually knows how to use it. Why did you feel the need to boot everyone out of a café at eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning?”
“Owen loves to lecture me like this,” Alex said, rolling her eyes as she turned to Haven. “He thinks I don’t remember what it’s like to be a real human being.”
“It’s not you,” Calum said. “Owen’s turning into a robot. He doesn’t know how to have fun anymore. I bet he’s not even going to the party tonight.”
“Party?” Haven asked.
“One of the fashion people is throwing it,” Alex explained. “You must come! There will be tons of members who’ll be thrilled to meet you.”
“Forget networking, this party’s going to be a throwback to the good old days,” Calum said. “Booze, drugs, and pretty boys and girls who haven’t learned how to balance their accounts.”
“My three favorite things,” Owen noted mirthlessly. “Too bad I have to work tonight.”
“He means he needs to hang out with his best friend, Milo,” Calum said.
“Milo doesn’t have any friends,” Owen countered. “He has contacts . He collects people who can help make him president.”
“President of the OS?” Haven asked.
“President of the U.S.,” Owen corrected.
“Owen, I know I’ve said it a thousand times, but you’re the one who should have a future in politics,” Alex remarked.
“And I’ve told you a thousand times—I’m a behind-the-scenes guy,” Owen said. “I don’t need the limelight like the two of you do. I prefer to write the speeches, not give them.”
“Oh, but you’d look so good in the limelight!” Alex said before appealing to Haven. “Can’t you just see him in one of his navy suits standing in front of an American flag? He’d look so handsome and trustworthy. He could be our first gay president.”
Haven tried not to show her surprise. It had never occurred to her that Owen Bell might be gay. It had never occurred to her that he might have a sex life of any sort.
“You don’t get it, do you, Alex?” said Calum, leaning across the table. Haven could see he was about to explode. Whatever was about to be unleashed must have been building inside him for quite some time. “Owen stays behind the scenes because he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s a big old poof.”
Owen refused to take the bait. “I value my privacy. I don’t want people poking their noses into my business.”
Calum wasn’t buying it. He seemed personally offended. “You sure that’s the reason? You’re not in the Middle Ages anymore, Owen. Being gay isn’t a capital offense here in the twenty-first century. There are plenty of people like us in public office.”
“There’s no one like you in public office,” Owen tried to joke. Calum didn’t laugh.
“You know, if someone asked me to go into politics or take over the Society, you can bet your ass I wouldn’t be afraid.”
“Calum!” Alex said, looking shocked. “We’re supposed to be having fun. Haven doesn’t need to hear you two bickering.”
“Well, I’m sick to death of listening to everyone ramble on and on about what a fantastic leader Owen would make. How can he inspire people if he’s ashamed of who he is?” He locked eyes with Owen. “What would lover boy think if he knew you’d become such a wuss?”
“Calum!” Alex grabbed the young man by the back of his shirt and pulled him up out of his chair. “That’s enough. You come with me right now!” She dragged him over to the café’s counter and forced him to look at the pastry display with her while he cooled off.
“Wow,” Haven said. “That was intense. I didn’t know Calum had it in him.”
“You didn’t?” Owen asked. “You were under the impression that Calum Daniels is a sweet, gentle soul?”
“No, but I didn’t think he could be so judgmental.”
“It’s easy for Calum to judge me,” Owen said. “He spent his childhood being coddled by the Society. I spent mine with two otherwise decent people who think homosexuality is a moral disease. I left home a year ago, and it may take a few more years to recover from that particular experience. And believe it or not, Haven, this has been one of my easiest lives. I’ve told Calum a little bit about my previous existences, but he’ll still never understand how it feels to be betrayed, disinherited, thrown in jail, or murdered—just for being gay. I’ve had nightmares almost every single night since I was a kid. So that’s why I’m not eager to publicize my preferences. But, for the record, I don’t hide them, either. Calum says I’m being archaic. Maybe he’s right.”
“Even if he is, it doesn’t give him an excuse to be mean,” Haven said angrily. “Why in the hell are you friends with him, anyway?”
“Calum decided to be friends with me,” Owen said, setting her straight. “I’ve never had much of a say in the matter.”
“Well, I know someone you might get along with a little bit better,” Haven said, rushing to co
mplete her secret mission before Alex and Calum returned to the table. Owen, she’d decided, was the one person who might stand a chance of convincing Iain to spare the Society. “He used to be a member of the OS, but he left because it was so corrupt. I’ve been trying to tell him that it’s going to be a whole new place soon. I haven’t been very successful. I think he needs to talk to someone like you.”
Owen shook his head. “I hate to disappoint you, Haven, but even without the drug dealing and prostitution, the OS is almost the same as it was when I joined.”
“What do you mean?” Haven asked, her enthusiasm trickling away.
“Look around.” Owen gestured to the empty restaurant. “Is this how points are meant to be used? To let some nineteen-year-old movie star empty out an entire café on a Thursday morning? I’m not insulting Alex. She’s a sweet girl, and she doesn’t know any better. But I’m fairly sure this is not what August Strickland had in mind when he devised the OS points system.”
“Dr. Strickland didn’t invent the system,” Haven said. “There were no points while he was alive. They were introduced after he died.”
Owen grinned. “That’s right! Alex told me that you were one of the original members of the Society. So there were no points back then, huh?”
“Nope.”
“So how did people keep track of the favors they performed?”
“They didn’t,” Haven said. “Dr. Strickland taught that doing good should be its own reward.”
“Interesting theory,” Owen mused.
“You know, I really think you should meet my friend,” Haven repeated just as the door opened, and two men entered the café. They were both dressed in Dockers and white button-down shirts. They looked nothing alike, and yet they could have been twins.
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