The Book of Miranda | gxg | ❖

(24) Suitably Clandestine Activity

I fully expect Clarice to show up that night with some kind of satchel loaded up with the tools of felonious enterprise, but she appears empty-handed. I eye her. "You can break into a room like this?"

Clarice pulls several hidden hairpins from her silky mane and treats me to the same smile that so unsettled me the first time we met. I've gotten used to it since then. As for her half of our mission tonight, I force myself to recall her lifting the brass nameplate from our dorm room door without any tools to speak of when she first arrived. I'm sure she had something up her sleeve that she used that time, but if that's the case, she likely makes a habit of hiding her tools.

Exie, meanwhile, has packed her usual exploration kit, her satchel bulging with what I can only imagine ranges from enough bandages to splint a compound fracture to at least three methods of documenting anything we find. I hope she's included fire-lighting materials in that assemblage. She's the one with the portable candle holder, and I've never seen her without matches despite her expressed reluctance to use them on this school. But the ever-present specter of what's happened to six students here already means leaving things to chance gives me hives.

I try not to think about what we might encounter tonight, out in the halls of Melliford Academy. One student nightly means the demon rolls dice between dusk and dawn to decide who'll be his next victim. Exie and I escaped that fate on our first round of exploration six days ago, but there's nothing to say we'll be so lucky a second time. Only the miraculously worse alternative of waiting and letting the rest of the school fall keeps me going right now.

We debrief a few details like where we'll run or hide or meet up again if we get spotted or attacked. Then I crack open Exie's door and scan the hallway outside for any signs of staff or eavesdroppers. The school is hauntingly empty.

"Go," whispers Exie, and punts me out the door. She turns to liquid shadow along the wall the moment she follows me. I slip in behind her, trying to match her sneaking pace and grace, pretty sure I'm failing miserably.

Clarice will tally several minutes after our departure before starting her own clandestine activity. It means she'll have warning if anyone ambushes us, but it also means we're on a timeline. The added pressure unlocks the part of me that responds well to accountability, and my thoughts streamline themselves a little. I still can't stop checking over my shoulder every three to five seconds, but at least I can think about Mrs. Hardwick's office again. Which is good, because we've already reached the staircase, and it takes every ounce of focus I possess to keep from vomiting all over those dark stone stairs.

"Keep up," whispers Exie.

She half leads, half drags me up the staircase after her. My feet have decided I'm wearing imaginary shoes much to heavy for me, and I stub my toes twice before we reach the blessedly unlocked door to the teachers' quarters. When we arrive on the balcony, my breathing eases. We might be trapped up here, but at least I won't step on a body.

Mrs. Hardwick's door felt much farther away the last time we infiltrated. Exie fiddles with the key she copied, and fear that the copy wasn't good enough takes its turn across my mental faculties a moment before the door clicks open. Exie's grin flashes in the darkness. One more check over the railing, and we dive inside. The thrill of doing something so flagrantly illegal rouses my sense of adventure. I could do without the Colson flashbacks, but I have to admit, there's a certain shine to sneaking into a cult member's personal rooms in the company of a cute girl several times smarter than I am. I take a deep breath and force that feeling into precedence. Now I can do this.

Moonlight floods Mrs. Hardwick's office. There's a full moon outside. In its silver bathing, you could convince me this place was inhabited by Bloody Mary's sister, or some similarly overlooked specter with a penchant for the mundane. Mrs. Hardwick is an almost painfully stereotypical schoolteacher. Her office is spacious—I don't want to know the rent she'd pay for a space this size back where I come from—and lined wall-to-wall with academic paraphernalia. The back houses a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. Centering the room is a thick desk and a smaller, more elegant table, both teetering with stacks of books used as stands for inkwells, notepads, and at least one globe. There are stray papers everywhere.