Alex paused on the path. It was some kind of crushed gravel the color of slate. Through the tall windows, she could see a circle of people gathered in a variety of chairs, a few crowded onto a piano bench, some on the floor. She glimpsed glasses of red wine, plates poised on knees. A boy with a beard and a wild mane of curls was reading from something. She felt like she was looking into another Yale, a Yale beyond Lethe and the societies, one that might open and keep opening if she could just learn its rituals and codes. At Darlington’s house she had felt like a trespasser. Here she had been invited. She might not belong but she was welcome.
She knocked softly at the door and, when there was no answer, pushed gently. It was unlocked, as if there were never unwanted visitors. There were coats hung in heaps and in piles along a row of hooks. The floor was littered with boots.
Belbalm saw her hovering in the door and gestured Alex toward the kitchen.
Then Alex understood. She was staff.
Of course she was staff.
Thank God she was staff and wouldn’t have to try to pretend to be anything else.
Over Belbalm’s shoulder, Alex spotted Dean Sandow talking to two students on a settee. She slipped into the kitchen, hoping he hadn’t seen her, and then wondered why she should worry about it. Did she really think he had hurt Tara? That he was capable of something that gruesome? In the parlor back at Il Bastone, it had seemed possible, but here, in this place of warmth and easy conversation, Alex couldn’t quite get her head around it.
The kitchen was vast, the cupboards white, the countertops black, the floor a clean checkerboard.
“Alex!” crowed Colin when she appeared. Murder suspects on all sides. “I didn’t know you were coming! We need extra hands. What are you wearing? Black is fine, but next time a white button-down.”
Alex didn’t own a white button-down. “Okay,” she said.
“Just come over here and set these on a baking sheet.”
Alex fell into the rhythm of following orders. Isabel Andrews, Belbalm’s other assistant, was there too, arranging fruit and pastries and mysterious stacks of meats on different platters. The food they were serving seemed utterly foreign to her. When Colin said to hand him the cheese, it took her a long moment to realize it was right in front of her: not platters of cubed cheddar but giant hunks of what looked like quartz and iolite, a tiny pot of honey, a spray of almonds. All of it art.
“After the readings and the talk they’ll do dessert,” Colin explained. “She always does meringues and mini tartes aux pommes.”
“Was Dean Sandow here last week?” Alex asked. If he had been, then Alex could cross him off their list, and if Colin didn’t know, then maybe he hadn’t really been at the salon all night.
But before he could answer, Professor Belbalm sailed through the swinging doors.
“Of course he was,” she said. “That man loves to drink my bourbon.” She popped a tiny wild strawberry into her mouth and wiped her fingers on a towel. “He said the most inane thing about Camus. But it’s hard not to be inane about Camus. I’m not sure why I expected better—he has a Rumi quote framed beside his desk. It pains me. Darling Colin, please make sure we always have white and red at hand?” She held up an empty bottle and Colin’s face went ashen. “It’s all right, love. Grab a bottle and come join us. Alex and the others can keep things under control here, yes? Did you bring something to read?”
“I… yes.” Colin drifted from the kitchen as if his ankles had just sprouted wings.
“Meringues,” commanded Isabel.
“Meringues,” repeated Alex, walking over to the mixer and handing the bowl to Isabel. She snapped a picture of the kitchen for her mom and texted, At work. This was the way she wanted Mira to think of her. Happy. Normal. Safe. Everything Alex had never been. She texted Mercy and Lauren too. At Belbalm’s salon. Fingers crossed for leftovers.
“I cannot believe Colin gets to read tonight,” Isabel complained, piping the meringue onto a baking sheet. “I’ve been with her a semester longer than he has, and I aced her Women and Industrialism seminar.”
“Next time,” murmured Alex, brushing melted butter over the tiny apple tarts. “Was it this crowded last week?”
“Yes, and Colin bitched the entire night. We were here cleaning up until after two.”
Then Colin’s alibi was good. Alex felt a rush of relief. She liked Colin, liked sour Isabel, liked this kitchen, this house, this comfortable space. She liked this piece of world that had nothing to do with murder or magic. She didn’t want to see it disrupted by brutality. But that didn’t mean she could cross all of Scroll and Key off her list. Even if Colin hadn’t killed Tara, he’d known her. And someone had taught Lance portal magic.
“Did Sandow stick around for the whole salon last week?”
“Unfortunately,” said Isabel. “He always drinks way too much. Apparently he’s been going through some kind of awful divorce. Professor Belbalm tucked him away in her study with a blanket. He left a ring of urine around the powder room toilet that Colin had to clean up.” She shuddered. “On second thought, Colin totally deserves to read. You have so much to look forward to, Alex.”
Isabel had no reason to lie, so Dean Sandow’s bad aim had just earned him an alibi. Dawes would be glad. And Alex supposed she was too. It was one thing to be a murderer, quite another to work for one.
It was a long, late night in the kitchen, but Alex couldn’t resent it. It felt like working toward something.
Around one in the morning, they finished serving, tidied up the kitchen, packed bottles into the recycling bins, accepted air kisses from Belbalm, and then floated into the night with platters of leftovers in hand. After the violence and strangeness of the last few days, it felt like a gift. It was a beautiful taste of what life might become, of how little the societies mattered to most people at Yale, of work that asked nothing of you but time and a bit of attention in a house full of harmless people high on nothing more than their own pretensions.
Alex saw a Gray in Rollerblades ahead of her, weaving her way between the lampposts, drawing closer. Her skull and torso looked like they’d been crushed, a deep dimple left by the wheels of some careless driver’s car.
Pasa punto, pasa mundo, Alex whispered, almost kindly, and watched the girl vanish. A moment passes, a world passes. Easy.
Alex didn’t have classes the next morning. She got up early to eat breakfast and to try to do a little reading before trekking up to Marsh, but as she was finishing her pile of eggs and hot sauce, she caught sight of the Bridegroom. His expression turned disapproving when she followed up with a hot fudge sundae, but ice cream was available at all meals in every dining hall, and that was not an opportunity to be squandered.
After breakfast, she ducked into the bathroom off the JE common room and filled the sink. She wasn’t eager to talk to him; she wasn’t ready to discuss what she’d witnessed in his memories. But she also wanted to know if he’d had any luck finding Tara.
After a moment, North’s face appeared in the reflection.
“Well?” she said.
“I haven’t found her yet.”
Alex flicked the surface of the water with her finger and watched his reflection fracture. “Seems like you’re not much good at this.”
When the water stilled, North’s expression was grim. “And what have you discovered?”
“You were right. Darlington was interested in your case. But his notes weren’t in his desk at Il Bastone. I can look at Black Elm tomorrow night.” When the new moon would rise. Maybe then Darlington would be able to answer the Bridegroom’s questions himself.