The Complete Private Collection: Private; Invitation Only; Untouchable; Confessions; Inner Circle; Legacy; Ambition; Revelation; Last Christmas; Paradise ... The Book of Spells; Ominous; Vengeance (250 page)

Just as I was about to turn back to my book, I spotted Josh coming through the doorway with Trey. The moment he saw me, he turned red, ducked his head, and veered off toward the coffee counter. Clearly confused, Trey hesitated for a moment, then followed.

My face burned. Was the idea of saying hello to me so very awful?

“I can’t believe they actually wanted to tear down the original library in the eighties,” Rose said, reaching for her coffee. “I love that building.”

“I know. Good thing the Whittakers put a stop to it,” Kiki said. “Thank your boyfriend for us, C.”

Constance beamed and grabbed her phone. “I’ll text him right now.”

I forced a smile, trying to put Josh out of my mind, and scanned the page of the handbook in front of me, searching out tough but fair questions. As I jotted down a note about the number of books housed within the Easton library, I felt a shift in the solarium’s jovial vibe.

“Incoming,” Kiki whispered.

Headmaster Hathaway was strolling toward our table, all hip-casual in a cashmere sweater-over-shirt combo and flat-front pants. He had a quizzical look on his face. My friends pulled their books a bit closer, drawing the thick tomes into their laps or holding them directly in front of their faces.

“Good evening, ladies,” he greeted us, standing just over Rose’s
shoulder. Rose slipped her handbook from her copy of
The Bostonians
and placed it in her lap under the table. “Getting in a little light reading?”

Every pair of eyes slid toward me. I closed my copy of
Clarissa
and placed it flat on the table, folding my hands over it.

“Actually, we’re thinking about forming a literary club,” I said.

A few of my friends tensed. But the closer my words were to the truth, the harder it would be to peg them as outright lies.

Over the past year and a half I’d learned a few things from Noelle and Cheyenne. Even Ariana and Sabine. God help me.

The headmaster rubbed his chin.

“Interesting. Are your teachers not giving you enough class work? Because I can have a chat with them about that if you like,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh no. Our workload is fine,” Kiki said, dropping her heavy copy of
War and Peace
on the table with a thud. “It’s just that we Billings Girls
love
to read. It’s kind of what we’re known for.”

Everyone, including me, barely held in the laughter.

“Did they not tell you that about us?” Astrid put in. “We are extraordinarily dedicated to the advancement of our intellect.”

The headmaster furrowed his brow. He was no longer in on the joke, and he clearly didn’t like the feeling.

“Well. That’s refreshing to hear,” he said after a beat. Then he cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “But let me remind you all that the Billings Girls no longer exist. You are all simply students of Easton Academy now.”

“Oh yes,” Missy said, pressing her lips together to keep from smiling. “We’re aware.”

“Very aware,” Lorna added, smoothing her freshly straightened hair over her shoulder.

“Good,” he said. Then he gave me a quick nod and a smile. “Enjoy your reading.”

We all held our breath as he walked away. Somehow we managed to wait until he left the solarium, fresh cappuccino in hand, before we doubled over laughing.

At midnight on Monday, everyone gathered once again in the basement of Hell Hall. I’d gotten there early to rehang the dark drapes over the furniture, but this time there would be no light aside from that generated by the large white candle I held in my hands. The room was so hushed I could hear the wick burning slowly down. Standing in a wide circle around me were the fourteen potentials, all of them dressed in head-to-toe white, as instructed. Which, given the fact that it was January, couldn’t have been easy. There were a few minidresses, a couple pairs of wrinkled linen pants. Constance was wearing a floor-length white flannel nightgown that made her look about eight years old. Kiki sported a tank top and white boxers. Tiffany kept her white coat buttoned over whatever she was wearing underneath. Noelle, of course, had donned a white silk dress that looked as if it had just been whisked off some runway model mid–fashion show and flown in for the occasion.

I took a breath and looked down at my candle. The book had instructed that I pose a question to a prospective, then tilt the candle over that person’s hand as they answered. If an answer took more than five seconds, I was to drip hot wax on that person’s hand.

The very idea had kept me up at night. It seemed 1915 had been a mite closer to medieval torture times. So I’d decided to change it slightly—update it to fit with the times. Upon their arrival, each of the potentials had been given a book of matches. Lorna turned hers over and over in her fingers.

I glanced at my watch. It was one minute past twelve.

“You have all gathered here in confidence to have your worthiness tested,” I began.

A couple of people flinched at the sound of my voice. My candle flickered. I took a breath and told myself to chill.

“I have arranged you in order of your seniority at Easton,” I said, turning to face Noelle. “The eldest will be tested first.”

Noelle smirked. My hand shook.

“You will light one match. I will pose my question. You must answer correctly before the flame is extinguished,” I instructed. This way, I had figured, the time restriction would still be in place, and maybe a few fingertips would be singed, but at least I wouldn’t have to personally injure anyone. “A late answer will be marked as a wrong answer. Each of you will be asked five questions in turn.” I fixed each girl with a brief stare. Amberly looked like she was about to pass out. “There will be silence throughout this process. Only myself and the person before the flame may speak.”

It felt weird, speaking to my friends so formally, and they obviously felt it too. A few of them had to press their lips together to keep from laughing or smiling. This niggled at my nerves and I felt a sudden desire to just get this over with. Who was I to be doling out rules and regulations? To be running a meeting like this? I looked at Noelle again and my thoughts were reflected in her eyes.

My very bones burned with ire.

“Light your first match, plebe,” I said, looking her directly in the eye. Which, I’ll admit, took some serious effort.

“Reed, don’t you think this is a tad . . . ill-advised?” Noelle replied. “We already torched Gwendolyn this year and I—”

“You will not speak until you are asked a question,” I blurted forcefully.

Someone behind me took in a sharp breath. Noelle’s jaw stiffened.

“Fine.”

“Shh!” Vienna’s eyes were wide as she shushed Noelle. I stood a bit taller, inflated with pride. At least I was intimidating
someone
. Noelle rolled her eyes but lit the match. Over the tiny flame, she eyed me with annoyed impatience.

“What is the acreage of the plot on which Easton Academy is sit—”

“Twenty square acres,” she replied before I could even finish.

She blew out her match, dropped it on the floor, and lit another. I hesitated, thrown by the fact that a) I hadn’t even finished the question b) she’d answered correctly and c) she’d already moved on.

“Um . . . in what year was the Billings School for Girls absorbed by Easton Acad—“

“Nineteen seventy-five,” Noelle replied.

Flame extinguished. Flame ignited. This time, I was ready.

“The Easton chapel was constructed in the style of what religious sect?”

“Christian-Dutch reform,” Noelle answered.

Crap. That was my hardest question. I felt myself start to give in. I should just give Noelle her gold star and move on. But I’d said five questions, and five it would be.

“How many men were in Easton’s original graduating class?” I asked.

“Ten,” she replied.

“What is the oldest building on the Easton Academy campus?” I asked.

“Well, it
was
Gwendolyn Hall until recently. Now it’s the chapel,” she replied.

She waved her fingers to extinguish the last match, then crossed her arms over her chest like she just couldn’t wait to get out of there. I felt all trembly inside, as if I’d just confronted my worst enemy and failed. I turned to Tiffany, resolving to be tougher this time.

Faster, stronger, better. I couldn’t remember where that motto came from, but now it was mine.

“How many former headmasters’ portraits are currently hanging in the art cemetery?” I asked, my voice steady.

“Fifteen,” Tiffany answered.

Slowly, I moved through the circle of potentials. Tiffany went five for five, as did Ivy. Vienna got four right. Portia nailed all five and Shelby got four, but London got only two correct and was tearful by the end of it. Suddenly I started to wonder what we were all doing here. Couldn’t I just say, “Hey, let’s form this secret society,” and invite them all to join me?

I glanced shakily at Ivy. She narrowed her eyes slightly, urging me on. We were doing this to honor our sisters’ memories. The ritual of it was important. The tradition mattered. These were the things that made the Billings Literary Society special. Succeeding at these tests would set our members apart.

Rose went five for five. Astrid too. Kiki answered hers even faster than Noelle had. Missy got four out of five. Lorna managed all five without breaking a sweat. Finally, I came to Constance, the last in the circle aside from Amberly. Constance grinned as she struck her first match.

It didn’t light. She tried again. Again, nothing.

Noelle
tsk
ed impatiently. I shot her a silencing glare and she raised her hands in mock surrender. My shoulder muscles coiled at her total lack of reverence. If this was such a joke to her, why didn’t she just leave?

I turned around again and focused on Constance. Finally, on the fifth try, the match lit, but Constance’s hand was quaking and the grin was gone.

“The building that now houses the Easton gymnasium was originally constructed as what?” I asked.

Constance’s eyes widened. My heart skipped a beat.

A civil war hospital,
I told her telepathically.
A civil war hospital!

The flame went out. “Ow.” Constance shook her hand, then sucked on her fingertips. I felt sick to my stomach. No answer meant a wrong answer.

“Second question,” I said, my voice quavering.

It took her three tries to get the match lit this time. Finally, the flame flickered to life, playing over her pale face. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears and my heart constricted. My next question was even harder than the first. I couldn’t do that to her. She needed to get her confidence back. Even as my conscience prattled on in my ear, telling me that fair was fair and that all the questions tonight had been hard, I knew what I had to do.

“In what year was Easton Academy founded?” I asked.

Someone scoffed. It was arguably the easiest question of the night.

“Nineteen fifty-eight,” she answered.

I felt like a lollipop stick had lodged itself sideways in my throat.

“I mean, 1858,” she corrected, then laughed nervously.

“Right.” But according to the book, I had to mark it as wrong. The first answer was the final answer.

It took Constance six tries to get the next match lit.

“What were the first names of the founding brothers?” I asked.

Amberly’s jaw dropped. I knew what she was thinking. Her questions had better be this easy.

But she didn’t understand. Constance was the weakest of the bunch. Not when it came to friendship and loyalty and compassion,
maybe, but when it came to self-confidence, to overcoming nerves, to being singled out in a crowd.

“Micah and Mitchell,” Constance said confidently.

Right. Thank God. Only one try on the match this time.

“And their sister was named?”

“Ma—” Constance stopped. Her face turned green. She blinked up at the ceiling, her lips screwed up in concentration. “Mary—no. Maryyyyy . . . something.”

Dammit. She knew this. I knew she knew it. She was the one who had told us all about her at the solarium that night. She had to remember this.

“Mary . . . Mary-Alice?” she said.

I swallowed hard. “Incorrect.”

Her face crumpled. She blew out the match. And then she started to cry. My heart shattered into a thousand tiny pieces and fluttered to the floor. Lorna leaned over and put her arm around Constance, whispering something in her ear.

“Fifth question,” I said, hating myself.

Lorna lit the match for Constance. Even though it was technically against the rules, I said nothing. Ivy blinked but remained silent.

“Name one of the original members of the Billings Literary Society.”

They had all been given a list. My original intent had been to have her name all of them, but I wasn’t about to go there.

“Theresa . . . Theresa Billings,” Constance mumbled.

That, at least, was right.

It seemed to me that even the windows and desks and doors sighed with relief as Constance extinguished her final match. As I turned to Amberly, Constance continued to sniffle. I had to wonder if, through the years, the previous members of the BLS had endured nights like this one.

Suddenly I wasn’t sure I had the nerve to administer the next two tasks—to put my friends through the wringer like this. I wasn’t sure it was in me. Maybe whoever had left the book in my room had made a mistake. Noelle was much better suited to this type of leadership role. She was the one who could order people around without batting an eye. The one who always remained cool in the face of other people’s raw emotions. This role was practically written for her.

So, as I caught sight of Constance’s red eyes, I had to wonder why was I the one playing the part.

On Tuesday morning, I paused outside the food line in the dining hall, holding my tray of cereal and toast in front of me. The Billings tables were quiet. No animated conversation, no going over homework and paging through magazines. Everyone was staring at their food, not even acknowledging one another. I hesitated—told myself that we were all tired after sneaking back to our dorms at almost 2 a.m. That they weren’t angry or disgruntled about the emotional roller coaster of the night before. But it was difficult to believe.