Firespell (9 page)

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.”

6

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, that
something
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’d
wanted
to look, but it’s not like I’d actually had time to
do
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.

Foley nodded. “I encourage you to expand your circle of classmates, to meet as many of the girls in your class as you can, and to make as many connections as possible. For better or worse, your success will be measured not only by what you can learn, by what you can be tested on, but on whom you know.”

“Sure,” I dutifully said again.

“And your classes? How are your academics progressing?”

I was only in the fourth day of my St. Sophia’s education—three and a half pop-quiz- and final-exam-free days behind me—so there wasn’t much to gauge “progressing” against. So I stuck to my plan of giving teenagerly vague answers; being a teenager, I figured I was entitled. “They’re fine.”

She made a sound of half interest, then glanced down at the folder again. “Once you’ve settled into your academic schedule, you’ll have an opportunity to experience our extracurricular activities and, given your interest in the arts, our art studio.” Foley flipped the folder closed, then crossed her hands upon it, sealing its secrets inside. “Lily, I’m going to speak frankly.”

I lifted my eyebrows invitationally.

“Given the nature of your arrival here and of your previous tenure in public school, I was not entirely confident you would find the fit at St. Sophia’s to be . . . comfortable.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Comfortable,” I repeated, in a tone as flat and dry as I could make it.

“Yes,” Foley unapologetically repeated. “Comfortable. You arrived here not by choice, but because of the wishes of your parents, and despite your having no other connections to Chicago. I can only imagine how difficult it is for you to be here in light of your current separation from your parents. But I am acquainted with Mark and Susan, and we truly believe in their research.”

That stopped me cold. “You know my parents?”

There was a hitch in her expression, a hitch that was quickly covered by the look of arrogant blandness she usually wore. “You were unaware that I was acquainted with your parents?”

All I could do was nod. The only thing my parents told me about St. Sophia’s was that it was an excellent school with great academics, blah blah blah. The fact that my parents knew Foley—yeah. They’d kind of forgotten to mention that.

“I must admit,” Foley said, “I’m surprised.”

That made two of us, I thought.

“St. Sophia’s is an excellent institution, without doubt. But you are far from home and your connections in Sagamore. I’d assumed, frankly, that your parents chose St. Sophia’s on the basis of our relationship.”

She wasn’t just acquainted with my parents—they had a
relationship
? “How do you know my parents?”

“Well . . . ,” she said, drawing out her one-word response while she traced her fingers along the edges of the folder. The move seemed odd for her—too coy. I figured she was stalling for time. After a long, quiet moment, she glanced up at me. “We had a professional connection,” she finally said. “Similar research interests.”

I frowned. “Research interests? In philosophy?”

“Philosophy,” she flatly repeated.

I nodded, but something in her tone made my stomach drop. “Philosophy,” I said again, as if repeating it would answer the question in her voice. “Are you sure you knew my parents?”

“I am well acquainted with your parents, Ms. Parker. We’re professional colleagues of a sort.” There was caution in her tone, as if she were treading around something, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell me.

I dropped my gaze to the gleaming yellow of my boots. I needed a minute to process all this—the fact that Foley had known my parents, that they’d known her, and that maybe—just maybe—their decision to send me here hadn’t just been an academic choice.

“My parents,” I said, “are teachers. Professors, both of them. They teach philosophy at Hartnett College. It’s in Sagamore.”

Foley frowned. “And they never mentioned their genetic work?”

“Genetic work?” I asked, the confusion obvious in my voice. “What genetic work?”

“Their lab work. Their genetic studies. The longevity studies.”

I was done, I decided—done with this meeting, done listening to this woman’s lies about my parents. Or worse, I was done listening to things I hadn’t known about the people I’d been closest too.

Things they hadn’t told me?

I rose, lifting my books and shouldering my bag. “I need to get back to class.”

Foley arched an eyebrow, but allowed me to rise and gather my things, then head for the door. “Ms. Parker,” she said, and I glanced back. She pulled a small pad of paper from a desk drawer, scribbled something on the top page, and tore off the sheet.

“You’ll need a hall pass to return to class,” she said, handing the paper out to me.

I nodded, walked back, and took the paper from her fingers. But I didn’t look at her again until I was back at the door, note in hand.

“I know my parents,” I told her, as much for her benefit as mine. “I know them.”

All my doubts notwithstanding, I let that stand as the last word, opened the door, and left.

I didn’t remember much of the walk back through one stone corridor after another, through the Great Hall and the passageway to the classroom building. Even the architecture was a blur, my mind occupied with the meeting with Foley, the questions she’d raised.

Had she been confused? Had she read some other file, instead of mine? Had the board of trustees dramatized my background in order to accept me at St. Sophia’s?

Or had my parents been lying to me? Had they kept the true nature of their jobs, their employment, from me? And if so, why hide something like that? Why tell your daughter that you taught philosophy if you had a completely different kind of research agenda?

What had Foley said? Something about longevity and genetics? That wasn’t even in the same ballpark as philosophy. That was science, anatomy, lab work.

I’d been to Hartnett with my parents, had walked through the corridors of the religion and philosophy department, had waved at their colleagues. I’d colored on the floor of my mother’s office on days when my babysitter was sick, and played hide- and-seek in the hallways at night while my parents worked late.

Of course there was one easy way to solve this mystery. When I was clear of the administrative wing, I stepped into an alcove in the main building, a semicircle of stone with a short bench in the middle, and pulled my cell phone from my pocket. It would be late in Germany, but this was an issue that needed resolving.

“HOW IS RESEARCH?” I texted. I sent the message and waited; the reply took only seconds.

“THE ARCHIVES R RAD!” was my father’s time-warped answer. I hadn’t even had time to begin a response when a second message popped onto my screen, this one from my mother. “1ST PAGE IN GERMN JRNL OF PHILO!”

In dorky professor-speak, that meant my parents had secured the first article (a big deal) in some new German philosophy journal.

It
also
meant there would be a bound journal with my parents’ names on it, the kind I’d seen in our house countless times before. You couldn’t fake that kind of thing. Foley had to be wrong.

“Take that,” I murmured with a slightly evil grin, then checked the time on my phone. European history class would be over in five minutes. I didn’t think Peters would much care whether I came back for the final five minutes of class, so I walked back through the classroom building to the locker hall to switch out books for study hall later.