Under the Rose (28 page)

Poe scowled. “I’ll put out the word to everyone in your club to double bolt their doors and report back any suspicious activity. But to be honest, I don’t think this conspiracy theorist is the type that leaves his house much. And he’d be trying to get into the tomb, not your place. No, I think you were targeted because you were nosing around Jenny’s room. And if so, then all of this has gotten out of hand.”

He left me at his assigned study carrel, which came complete with a bag of Doritos. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“I wouldn’t,” I said. “You’ve been helping me all day. I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

He frowned. “Don’t mistake me, Amy. It’s not for you, it’s for Rose & Grave.”

As if I’d somehow mix that up.

Nine hours, seven pages, and twenty-five hundred words later, I had a completed paper and a pounding headache, both of which I attributed to the four cups of Law Library coffee I’d consumed throughout the night. I’d also managed to stay up later than I had in the past three years, which I attributed in equal parts to panic and fear. Ever try to write a paper when you’re certain someone is watching you, waiting for a chance to strike? Was I about to be snatched wholesale from Poe’s study carrel, leaving behind little more than the dregs of my last latte and a half-eaten bag of Doritos? (Yes, I ate his Doritos. I owe him fifty-nine cents.) At least, in this case, they’d know straight off it was foul play. The library may be populated solely with zombies at this godforsaken hour, but even they would rouse at signs of a struggle.

Probably. If only to debate the ethics.

I was sick of being awake, of being paranoid, and of eighteenth-century stable-men. Unfortunately, due to the caffeine swirling through my system, I was not about to enjoy oblivion any time soon. Nor would I be returning to my cold, empty, recently violated room. There was safety in public places. I put my head down on the table and tried to breathe deeply, hoping that, if not sleep, at least I’d be able to meditate.

When it began to grow light beyond the windows, I gave up, packed my things, and began my academic walk of shame over to the English department to drop off my paper before my professor showed up at her office to collect.

Admittedly, I haven’t spent a lot of time enjoying the early morning during college (or, you know,
ever
), but you’d think that on the few occasions I’d managed to rouse myself at the butt crack of dawn, the least Eli University could do was make it worth my while. But today the only discernible difference between night and not-night was a sickly looking glow behind the dark clouds that had engulfed the campus and, from what I could tell, the entire eastern seaboard. The air was frigid and wet, and the sky hocked loogies on anyone stupid enough to venture outside.

I found the English department locked, if “locked” was an accurate description of a catch that hundreds of students forced open every day in order to use the front entrance to the building. (Because Eli’s Old Campus is gated and closed every night except to the students, the powers that be aren’t as interested in security on the quad-facing side of the building as on the streetside.) I took the stairs to my professor’s office, checked the floor for dust bunnies, and slid my paper under the door. There.

Maybe Hale had some bagels in the tomb. Since I was down on High Street, it was worth a look. The media had gone home, or at least weren’t yet out, having no doubt been exhausted by the non-stop excitement of their stakeout of a windowless building with negligible landscaping. I skipped across the deserted street and entered by the open gate, which in society code meant there was someone in the tomb. At this hour? Clearly I wasn’t the only Digger behind on my work.

I crept through the hall, fearful of waking another survivor of the all-night push, and into the Grand Library, where I found Juno, Bond, Angel, and Puck seated on the couches, drinking Earl Grey and eating cornbread.

“’Boo!” Puck cried. “Come and join us.”

“What are you doing here so early?” I waved off Angel’s proffered teacup (no more caffeine for me, thank you very much) and grabbed a slice of cornbread.

“You mean so late,” said Puck. “I got word late last night that my stepmom had to go into surgery, and they were worried about the baby. I just heard that everything’s fine, and we’re celebrating. I’m going to be a big brother!”

“The earth trembles at the prospect,” said Angel. She beamed at me. “I just got back from the best date of my life. I think I’ve met The One.”

“I’m trying to convince her there’s no such thing,” said Puck.

Careful, Clarissa. That’s how he got me.

“I fell asleep here,” Bond admitted, pointing at a nearby desk strewn with paper. “The first draft of my senior project is due before your national Puritan/Native celebration, and I haven’t even started.”

“I’m fresh from Tai Chi,” said Juno. “Sad turnout today. I guess too many people thought their energy wouldn’t be flowing in the frozen mud pit we usually call the New Haven Green. And you, Bugaboo?”

“I wrote seven pages about horseshoeing.”

Angel choked on her tea. “I think you may need brandy.”

But instead I got a mug of chamomile and settled in to listen sleepily to the rest of their conversation. Angel was wired, still fairly floating from her dream date; Bond seemed ready for a break from poetry translation; Juno worked her heretofore unknown Zen facets; and Puck set aside his usual contemptuous attitude toward his father and stepmother and exchanged it for obvious relief and good wishes. Over the next hour, the conversation meandered easily through a variety of topics: from Juno’s opinions on new spring fashion (gleaned from a swiped copy of Angel’s
Vogue
), to a debate about the all-important and upcoming Game between Harvard and Eli (Eli was up for the Ivy League Championship), to the various and contradictory historical accounts of the Black Hole of Calcutta. And no, I can’t remember how they all connected. Can anyone when they’ve got a good vibe going on?

Magic. I almost didn’t want to go to sleep. This should be what Rose & Grave was like all the time. Diggers, sitting in a room, sharing ideas and jokes and stories, without all the inner-society politicking and rancor that had hampered us since the start of school. This was what my club had been like in the beginning, or even over the summer, before we started worrying about missing funds and traitors.

But all good things must be spoiled by someone, and in this case that person was Angel. “So, has anyone heard from Lucky yet?”

Puck chuckled and nodded at me. “Ask Nancy Drew over there. Soze tells me she spent all yesterday investigating Lucky’s ‘disappearance.’”

“I’d disappear, too, if I were her,” said Juno. “Everyone’s so angry with her. What I can’t figure out is why she’d pull a stunt like that. Isn’t she a millionaire from some program she sold? It’s not like she needs the money.”

“Maybe she didn’t do it for the money,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“Then, what?” asked Bond.

I shrugged, because
She hates us
would totally smash the current lovey-dovey atmosphere in the room. But what would
Also, I think her disappearance is more like a kidnapping, and I’m not the only one
do to the energy? “Did Soze contact any of you last night?”

They all raised their hands. “Something about Lucky’s room being searched,” said Angel.

“And how you guys think it was arranged by a patriarch,” said Juno. “Sounds likely to me. They want to see what other dirt she’s got.”

Angel shuddered. “They creep me out, going into people’s rooms like that. Total power trip, if you ask me. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that crap. Soze told me there was someone in your suite, too.”

“Poetic justice?” Bond asked. “After all, you broke into Lucky’s room first.”

Puck winked at me. “’Boo’s growing into quite the fine little Digger. Look at all the neat tricks she’s picked up.”

“I was talking to Poe yesterday, after you guys ditched me,” I said, keeping the snark to a minimum, “and he agrees these people might have gone a damn sight further than just breaking into some rooms. We think she may be
missing
missing.”
You know, like I said to you people the night before last.

Everyone sobered up quickly, even Puck. “Come on, ’boo,” he said. “You don’t really think the patriarchs would have anything to do with—”

“I do,” said Angel. “My father is a corporate raider. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit he’s pulled. I bet he’s the ringleader.”

“Not the honorable White House Chief of Staff?” asked Juno. “Maybe a little CIA action, since we’re toying with the idea of a massive conspiracy?” She rolled her eyes.

But I was too tired and too unwilling to get into another argument. Let Poe or Soze come in and pick up the debate. “We spoke to her dean yesterday. He can’t file a missing persons report without evidence of wrongdoing until she’s been gone for more than forty-eight hours. We’re not there yet. Soze promised me that if she hasn’t contacted anyone by this morning, he’d tell the police about Lucky’s link to Rose & Grave.”

That shut up everyone. “He’d break his oath?” said Juno. “He really does think something is going on, then?”

“Yes. And thanks, by the way, for taking it seriously only when
he
thinks it. Guess who convinced him?” I poked my thumb at my chest. Okay, I was a little cranky.

“I’m sorry.” Juno’s expression went contrite. “I guess…”

“What?”

“I guess I’m not familiar with what these guys do,” she said. “I wasn’t here last year. You were. I didn’t see her room. You did. I didn’t—”

“Have some weirdo hiding out in your suite last night?” I prompted.

“Exactly,” said Juno. “I should have paid you more attention. I’m sorry. It was just—everyone in the club was going on and on about what the patriarchs were going to do to the traitor. It was getting a little hysterical in here. My bullshit meter was on high alert.”

“You weren’t alone,” I grumbled.

Juno came over, sat down beside me, and then, shockingly, gave me a hug. “I wasn’t being a good brother.
Support them in all their endeavors,
right?”

Finally, she gets it.

That, of course, led to group hugging, and—I think (I hope)—Puck copping a feel. And then another round of tea and cornbread.

After a while, Puck said, “I’m still not with you guys that she was kidnapped, but I do think she’s telling tales about us. I never could trust her. I’d always thought we should bond—you know, because of our names.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, fighting another yawn. I needed to go to sleep soon.

“Lucky’s a traditional name, like Puck, and Big and Little Demon,” said Angel. “They always come in pairs. Lucky goes to the tap with the
least
amount of sexual experience.”

Juno grinned. “So she’s a virgin. What kind of bonding were you considering, Puck?”

Yeah. What kind? I raised my eyebrows at my lover.

He shot me a look. “Nothing like that. Just pointers and stuff. Try to help her ‘get lucky.’ It’s a terrible name to deal with.”

“I’m sure
you’d
be embarrassed to have it.” I wanted another slice of cornbread, but was too tired to reach over.

“I think she was, too,” said Puck. “At least, that’s the impression I got from her.”

“I never got the impression she spoke to you at all,” said Angel.

“She did. We had the same History of Science section freshman year. Not that we knew each other. I barely went to the class. She, of course, rocked it.” Puck smiled. “If I were in charge of naming the club, I would have done Lucky better. Given her something appropriately kick-ass.”

“Like what?” asked Greg.

He leaned his head back on the couch. “I don’t know. Trinity, maybe? Deep Blue? Ada Lovelace?”

Ada Lovelace.
My eyes were drifting shut. “That’s too long for a society name.”

“No longer than Tristram Shandy,” said Angel. “Who’s Ada Lovelace? I only know of one Lovelace, from literature, and he wasn’t an Ada.”

That’s right. Lovelace, the villain of
Clarissa.
Of course Angel would remember.

“Not literature. History. She was the first computer programmer. Or something like that. Lucky did a report on her for one of the few class sessions I did attend.” Puck looked proud of himself for remembering. “She was Byron’s daughter and a mathematician.” He looked up at the bookshelves. “I bet we’ve got something on her.”

“Byron had a daughter named Lovelace?” Angel asked as Puck leapt up and began scanning the collection.

“Oh, yes,” said Bond. “I remember reading about that. Some story about how his estranged wife raised their daughter to be logical and scientific to contradict the Romantic influence of the girl’s father.”

Ada Lovelace.
Yeah, it was cooler than Lucky. I yawned again.

Bond pulled down a book and opened it to the index. “I think it was her married name. Here she is.” He opened the book and placed it on the coffee table. I roused myself to look. There, on the page, was a very familiar-looking portrait of a Victorian woman with Princess Leia hair.