I nod and dedicate myself to examining the base of his nightstand and the feet of his bed, but there doesn’t seem to be any discoloration.
Layla moves on from the trunk to inspecting the perimeter of the room itself. She takes a small piece of white paper out of her cloak and runs it along a couple of cracks in the stone.
I stick my head under the bed, but with the dim lighting in this place, it’s hard to see. “How risky is it if I light the candle? Will someone notice?”
She purses her lips for a second. “Someone may notice a match is missing, but it would be unlikely for Matteo to think it wasn’t his butler or for his butler to think it wasn’t Matteo.”
“Then come hold the candle for me? The last thing we need is for me to burn something,” I say.
Layla puts the paper back in her cloak and I slide under the bed. The mattress is resting on a frame of crisscrossing rope. Layla lights the candle and angles it just under the edge of the bed, with her other hand held below it to catch any dripping wax. The problem is that I can only see one section well at a time.
I slide my fingers along the wooden frame. “Move the candle closer to my head,” I say as I scan the rope and the underside of the mattress. “Okay, now move it slowly toward my feet.” I shift with her as the light moves. “Wait, hold on, go back.”
On the rope, about an inch long and half a millimeter wide, is a brown mark. I grab the rope and separate the fibers between my fingers as best I can. Brown flakes fall onto my shirt. “Oh god.”
“Slide out slowly,” she says in a commanding voice, and I listen, even though all I want to do is wiggle and run away like Scooby-Doo. Layla blows out the candle and puts it back where it was as I shimmy out from under the bed.
She kneels down next to me and licks her finger.
“Tell me you’re not going to—” But she’s already picked up a couple of the flakes on her fingertip and stuck them in her mouth. “Ohhh…that is so…You’re nuts.”
“Blood,” she says. “Someone definitely hid Stefano under this bed. Which means he was killed here and put in that hallway hours later for you to find.” She frowns in concentration.
I sit up and smack at my shirt, trying not to think about the fact that a dead guy’s blood was just on it. “Layla, how is figuring out the details of Stefano’s death going to help us sort out the bigger picture here? Isn’t the important part that we know who committed the murder? And why is knowing where his body was kept so urgent that we would sneak into this room today of all days?”
She looks at me for a long second. “From what you described, Stefano was stabbed in the heart. And in order for Charles to avoid making a huge bloody mess all over the furniture and the rug, there couldn’t have been much of a struggle. And for there not to be a struggle, Charles would have had to stab him in an instant kill zone, like the aorta. But it’s extremely difficult to get a clean shot like that. And Stefano was a good fighter. So the only thing that makes sense is that Stefano was taken by surprise.”
“Okay…so then Charles killed him right when he walked through his door, or something like that, before Stefano even realized there was a threat?” I say, trying to follow her train of thought.
“Something exactly like that,” she says. “Remember how we were talking about figuring out a timeline for who had seen Stefano last? Then there was that assembly and Charles was accused and it became a moot point. Well, last night I asked Ash to check anyway. He told me that no one saw Stefano after his last class, not at all.”
“So Stefano was killed right when he got back from class that day?” I say. “Actually, that does fit your timeline for how long he was dead, considering he was only a little stiff. But I still don’t understand.”
“Hear me out,” Layla says. “Matteo’s last class ended at six-thirty that day. But no one saw him after that, so the only thing we can conclude is that he went straight to Blackwood’s office and was sent to his punishment without being allowed to return to his room. Now, Stefano’s class wasn’t supposed to end until six-forty-five—he was in boxing with Ash, and Ash said that the teacher let them out twenty-five minutes early.” She looks at me expectantly.
“Hang on,” I say, and hold up my hands, my mind spinning. “You’re saying that whoever was here was actually trying to kill Matteo, not Stefano?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she says. “I think Charles was trying to take advantage of the fight you got in with Matteo by murdering him and making it look like you did it in retaliation. Which makes far more sense if you think about it. However, Charles wasn’t aware that Matteo had been sent to the outer perimeter, rather than being allowed back to his room. And Stefano’s class got out early, putting Stefano in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
I brush my hair back from my forehead. “So Charles wanted to take out the firstborn of the Bear Family? I guess that does make more sense. A neat crime that he could pin on someone else. But why me? Because I got into that fight with Matteo and it was a good opportunity?”
“It was a good opportunity for sure, but my guess is that there’s more to it than that. Otherwise why put that blood in your room? Why send Nyx after you publicly? And why was that guard killed?” she says, and for the first time I fully understand why she’s been so insistent that things don’t add up.
“You were right, Layla. We did need to come here. I’m sorry I fought you on it,” I say.
She smiles a little. “But now we need to go,” she says, and I don’t hesitate.
I jump up and straighten out the comforter. Layla wipes fingerprints off the trunk with her sleeve.
She checks the floor for stray hair or anything we might have tracked in, and we make our way to the door. Layla cracks it open, peering out. She nods and we slip back into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind us.
Class must have just let out. I can hear doors opening and hushed conversation. We round the corner and come face to face with Dr. Conner.
He eyes us both. “The boys’ dorm?”
“Yes,” Layla says with a neutral expression. “Just passing through on our way from the library.”
“I see,” he says, but I can tell he’s reading more into it.
At which point Felix and Aarya pass and give us a look, also assessing which direction we came from.
Layla makes a small curtsy to Conner and we continue walking.
“Conner knows something, doesn’t he?” I whisper to her as soon as we’re out of hearing range.
“Unfortunately, yes. He’s the head of assessment. He misses nothing. And Aarya seeing us doesn’t help. I would bet money she tells Matteo just to stir up trouble. That missing match could become a problem. We didn’t burn the candle itself long enough for there to be a noticeable difference in height, but if someone checks it soon they will discover the hot wax.”
My stomach does a quick flip. “Can we at least replace the match?”
Layla shakes her head. “No. If a match is missing and then shows back up, it will look a hundred times worse. We’re stuck.”
LAYLA AND I walk into poisons class and take a seat at our table. It feels like a medieval version of the chemistry lab back at Pembrook. There are two students to a table with various metal instruments and glass jars. Only, instead of individual Bunsen burners, there is a fireplace used to heat things, and there are no safety glasses or plastic gloves to protect us. Layla says everyone learns the hard way what not to touch, which means I’m not touching anything I don’t absolutely have to.
We’re now in our second class of the day and there hasn’t been a word about the guard’s murder. No one’s questioned us or announced that there will be an investigation. It’s obvious the other students are on edge, too. Except for Aarya, who, as far as I can tell, seems to find everyone else’s discomfort amusing.
Brendan stops in front of our ta
ble and picks up a glass vial of god knows what. He twirls it and studies the liquid inside like it’s captured his complete interest. “Two murders since you’ve arrived, November—and I hear one was right outside your dorm room. Yet you’re sitting here, while Nyx is in the dungeon.” He looks over at me and I can see the threat in his eyes. He was close with Charles, but it’s clear that what happened with Nyx is a much bigger deal to him and he’ll make me suffer for it if he can. “But I’m sure that will be corrected soon enough.” He drops the vial carelessly on the table, sending it rolling along the wood, and goes to take his seat.
Layla grabs the vial before it crashes to the floor, and by the look on her face, I know whatever is in it is definitely something toxic.
“Sit, my beauties,” says Professor Hisakawa.
Hisakawa…Japanese in origin and can be broken down into two parts, hisa, meaning “a long time ago,” and kawa, meaning “river” or “stream.” I was fascinated by the name as a kid because of one translation I found that listed the meaning as “river of forever.”
Hisakawa stands in front of the fireplace humming while everyone settles. She’s a tall thin woman with blunt-cut bangs and hair that reaches all the way to her waist. “We often talk about poisons in terms of their specific formulas and intentional implementation, but today I would like to discuss poisons a little differently. You all know King George the Third, who was born in 1738 and held the British throne through the American Revolution? Well, it’s been proposed that he had a genetic condition that caused him to suffer periodic attacks that the royal physicians at the time were treating with tartar emetic—an antimony-based medicine used to induce vomiting. Antimony is frequently found in nature with arsenic…and often contaminated with it.” She pauses. “Ahh, I can see the lights turning on in those brains of yours. In the 1960s there was an analysis of King George’s hair and it was found that the arsenic concentration was seventeen times the lethal limit.
“The physicians’ notes described both forcing the king and deceiving the king to take this poisonous medication. Wickedly fascinating, isn’t it? Now, his medical condition at the time disrupted heme synthesis. And what does arsenic do?” She rolls up on her toes and back down again. “It also disrupts heme synthesis, making his condition worse and ultimately making the king more dependent on the royal physicians who were poisoning him.” She looks at all of us to make sure she has our attention. “Now, this is a curious situation because what outwardly appeared to be a caregiving tactic was slowly killing the king. And with the effects of the poison mimicking his preexisting condition, some might say it was a perfect crime.”
Hisakawa smiles. “This is an example of a larger idea I want you all to mull over. But let’s talk about arsenic for a moment. It was wildly popular in the Middle Ages; everyone fell in love with the agony and romance of it all. Who knows why?”
I’ve never seen anyone so delighted by poison before and I really don’t know what to make of it. She’s like a Tim Burton version of my kindergarten teacher.
“The Borgias were the stars of arsenic poisoning,” Aarya says from her seat next to Felix. “It’s said that arsenic improves the taste of wine, and the Borgias hosted a great number of dinner parties. Lucrezia Borgia carried the poison around in a secret compartment in her ring.”
“Oh yes, the wine bit is one of my favorites,” says Hisakawa. “And I’ve always liked that Lucrezia. What a name. Anyone else?”
“Arsenic was widely available in the Victorian era and was even sold in grocery stores. Women used to eat it or mix it with vinegar or chalk and rub it on their faces because they thought it would improve their complexions and reduce wrinkles,” Felix says, and I notice he has a cut on his hand that wasn’t there yesterday in fencing when Nyx attacked me.
“Absolutely. Arsenic has been used for any number of things—in cosmetics, to preserve food, as a pesticide, to dye fabrics. Still, there’s something specific I’m thinking of,” Hisakawa says.
“Arsenic poisoning resembles cholera,” Layla says. “Oftentimes people would be pronounced dead of natural causes.”
“Ding ding ding!” Hisakawa says, and Aarya rolls her eyes, clearly annoyed that Layla got the right answer. “A poison is truly great when it leaves no evidence behind, when its effects pass for an illness or when it’s already present in someone’s life and you only need encourage the interaction with it.” She looks around the room. “The sixteenth-century philosopher and toxicologist Paracelsus famously said: ‘All things are poison, and nothing is without poison. Only the dose permits something not to be poisonous.’ What we learn from that profound statement is that there’s poison in every environment. While something can be helpful in a small dose, it can be lethal in a large one. I’m not only talking about substances here—medications someone might be taking or cleaning products they use. I’m asking you to look beyond what is obvious to the more subtle and, if you can master them, the best of the poisons: emotional and psychological. If you can dose someone strongly enough with either one, death is likely to follow with no physical evidence left behind. The tactics with these are hard to detect, and it’s only in the subtle changes that any real pattern can be discerned.”
I’m not sure if that’s the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard or if she’s merely shining a light on something important. People can drown in sorrow, kill a friend in mistaken rage, and isolate themselves out of paranoia. But if someone is purposefully pulling those strings, would you detect it if you were on the receiving end? Again I have this nagging feeling that I’m hearing more than just lessons. Not to mention that my dad used to say something similar about detecting patterns. It feels like every time I turn around I’m realizing how little I understood about my life in Pembrook.
The smell of French toast and warm blueberries wafts into my room and I practically fall out of bed as I run for the kitchen. I wrap my arms around Dad’s back as he mans the frying pan.
“Happy seventeenth, Nova,” he says, and turns around to give me a big hug and a kiss on the forehead. “Aunt Jo’s already called…twice. Even though I told her you were sleeping.” He smiles and shakes his head. “She’ll be here by the time you get home from school—with some ridiculous present, no doubt.”
“Speaking of ridiculous presents,” I say, and swipe my finger through the freshly whipped cream on the counter. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?” he says, but by his tone I can tell he knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“The surprise you’ve been promising!”
“Oh, right,” he says. “I decided against it. I thought maybe you’ve gotten too old for presents.”
I give him a hard look and he laughs. “No dad jokes right now. This is my birthday we’re talking about.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” he says with a mischievous grin.
I groan. “You hid it, didn’t you?”
He shrugs.
“Okay, give me a hint,” I say.
“Look for the subtle things that are different, a pattern. They’ll point you in the right direction.”
“Oh man. What if I don’t find it before I have to go to school? This is child abuse, you know,” I say.
He grins and flips the French toast. “Well, I suggest you do find it, otherwise you won’t have the keys to drive your new truck to school,” he says, and my mouth drops open.
“My new what? My…No! Seriously? No!” I scream and jump up and down. “I have a truck? Is it green? Tell me it’s green.” I run to the window, and sure enough there’s an old green Bronco in the driveway with a cage in the back that tells me it probably belonged to a forest ranger. “I will love you forever for this!”
How many of these moments were there, where Dad was teaching me something Strategia-esque and I thought nothing of it? What I really can’t understand, though, is why he didn’t tell me who I was
all these years. And what the hell is going on with him and Aunt Jo right now that would have him suddenly catapult me into this school?
He was right when he said I know things that will keep me safe, but if I can’t identify them, they don’t do me any good. If only I could talk to him, I think, and the thought makes my heart ache. I’ve never missed him and Pembrook so much in my life.
THE DINING HALL is buzzing with conversation by the time Layla and I arrive, and even though the other students’ body language is subtle, it’s obvious they keep looking in our direction.
The teachers are paying more attention to us than they normally do, and Blackwood and Conner are sitting with them, which is unusual. The air feels electrically charged, like one misstep and the whole place could spontaneously combust.
Ash sits down across from us and immediately starts piling fettuccini Alfredo onto his plate, like everything is perfectly normal and he’s starving.
“Any word on the guard?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
He shakes his head. “From what I’ve heard, no one has even been questioned yet. It’s not like Blackwood. She usually goes right at an issue without hesitation.”
“Like I keep saying,” Layla adds, “something is off with this whole situation.”
A girl and a guy sit down next to us and we all fall silent. Layla scans the room in a way that tells me she’s lost in thought, and Ash looks up periodically to where Brendan and the other Lions sit.
I dip some crusty bread in the cream sauce on my plate, flipping through my memories to find anything that might explain who I am and help me understand the missing pieces. I actually felt safer when I thought I might be accused of Stefano’s murder than I do now. At least then I didn’t think people were actively trying to kill me.
Killing November Page 25
