Mustard had come in first, of course. His father wouldn’t have had it any other way.
By contrast, a soft, warm bedroll on the carpeted floor of one side of a fancy billiards room was a perfectly acceptable place to spend a few nights. By the grumbling of his new roommate, however, you’d think they’d been thrown into a gulag.
“How long do you think the hot water will last?” Plum asked. “If everyone is taking showers?”
Mustard shrugged. He’d been trained to keep his showers to under two minutes. “Is there hot water at all? The power is out.”
Plum, who was on the pasty side on a good day and quite blue with cold now, went almost translucent at the idea of no hot showers. He wouldn’t have lasted a day at Farthing.
“There’s a fire going in the lounge if you want to warm up,” Mustard said. “But you’d better get in dry clothes first.”
Plum’s fingers were long and pale, and they fumbled helplessly with the buttons on his shirt. Probably numb. He needed that fire. Or even more radical treatments for possible hypothermia, like skin-to-skin contact.
Mustard averted his eyes.
The door burst open and in walked Scarlett Mistry, who had been in charge of his new student orientation last month. She’d seemed friendly enough, and had made quite a bit of noise about “students of color” like Mustard and herself needing to stick together on campus.
He hadn’t seen her since.
She looked right at home among the polished floors and velvet curtains of this mansion. Her hair was as black and shiny as a raven’s wing, and she was dressed in a pair of fleece-lined silk pajamas the color of her name. Everything shimmered in the light of the candelabra Plum had foolishly balanced on the surface of the pool table.
“Just look at you,” Scarlett chided Plum, and rushed to his side, brushing off his hands and undoing the buttons of his shirt herself. “What were you even doing all the way down at Dockery? You could have been washed out to sea!” She cast a perfunctory look at Mustard. “Oh, hi, Samuel.”
Plum stood there and let her undress him.
“You can call me Mustard,” Mustard said, still trying his best not to watch whatever was going down on the other side of the pool table.
“Yeah, I already told you I wasn’t doing that.” She pushed the shirt off Plum’s slim frame.
“Um, do you want me to leave you alone with your girlfriend?” Mustard asked Plum.
They both let out bursts of laughter.
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Scarlett exclaimed. “We’re a platonic power couple.”
“A what?” Things certainly worked differently at civilian schools.
Scarlett had finished with Plum and leaned both hands on the table to talk to Mustard. “You’re new here . . . Mustard . . . so allow me to explain. It’s wall-to-wall romantic drama at Blackbrook. I don’t have time for it. Neither does Finn.” She jerked a thumb in his direction, but Plum was engaged in pulling off his pants, so Mustard kept his eyes on the girl.
“Oh.”
“Not a lot of hookups at your backwards military academy?”
Not a lot, no. Just enough to cause problems. “Well, it was all boys, so . . . ”
“So what?” Finn asked. He was down to his underwear.
Thankfully, Scarlett spared him from responding. “We’re here to work hard and run this school. Our particular areas of interest are complementary, so there’s no rivalry, and the lack of drama means there’s little chance to get distracted from our ultimate goals. Similar goals, similar methodology. We’re the perfect team.”
Mustard blinked at her. Scarlett Mistry, despite being a girl, would have done fine at Farthing Military Institute. Just fine.
She clapped her hands, businesslike. “Okay, after you boys are all warmed up, we’re making a vegetable-chopping assembly line in the kitchen. Mrs. White made a huge batch of soup last night, but Vaughn Green already ate half of it.”
KP duty. Almost like old times. And, after a month of the kind of luxurious living Blackbrook provided, it would feel almost refreshing for Mustard to have to peel a few potatoes. It wasn’t like he could give the pile of fuzzy pink blankets he was sleeping on tonight hospital corners.
He changed into a pair of dry socks and some house shoes and looked over at his new roommate, who appeared to be weighing his cold, damp options for a new outfit.
“Do you need to borrow some clothes?” he asked.
Plum frowned. “If you have anything, that would be great, thanks.”
Mustard tossed him a new set of slacks and a waffle shirt. They’d be big on Plum, but not by much. He was tall, if slim. Plum examined the outfit carefully, swiping the damp curls out of his eyes and fingering the frayed cuffs of Mustard’s shirt.
What? Weren’t they preppy enough for him?
“You go on ahead,” Plum said at last. “I’ll catch up in a few minutes.”
“Suit yourself,” Mustard said, and departed.
The hall beside the grand central staircase was dark by now, the single candle burning in the front hall casting long shadows across the wallpaper. Mustard had never been in Tudor House before today. He’d never needed to be—it was mostly a dorm for a few lucky girls, though he’d learned in his new student orientation that there were study rooms and even a ballroom on the ground floor, used sometimes for school functions and other times for band rehearsal.
“Hey . . . Mustard?” He looked up the stairs to where two of the girls he’d met earlier were barreling toward him in unison.
“Hey.”
“We wanted to thank you again for carrying us up here,” gushed one.
“Those floodwaters are scary,” said the other. The floodwaters hadn’t been anywhere near where he’d carried them. There had been icy puddles, though.
“No problem . . .” He looked from one to the other.
“Karlee,” said the first, pointing at herself. “Karlee Silverman.”
“Kayla,” said the other. “Kayla Gould.”
“Gotcha,” said Mustard. He definitely didn’t. So they weren’t twins, or even related. The matching glitter eyeshadow had thrown him off.
“So,” said one of them. He can’t believe he’d already forgotten. “You’re new here.”
“Yeah. Just started last month.”
“Where are you from?” asked the other.
“I transferred in from a military academy in—”
“No!” she giggled and put her hand on his arm. “I mean, where’s your family from?”
Oh. He wasn’t yet used to the New England manner of getting to know someone. “Texas.”
The one not touching him frowned. “Originally?”
He hated those kinds of questions. Did three hundred years count?
“Ah, Mr. Maestor,” said another voice, keeping him from saying anything sarcastic. He turned to find the headmaster emerging from the lounge in sweatpants and a plaid bathrobe that he somehow still managed to make look like a three-piece suit.
“Sir.” Mustard jerked to attention, then remembered it wasn’t expected here.
The girls giggled. “So weird to see him in PJs,” said Kayla—or was it Karlee?
“Like catching your gynecologist at the beach,” whispered Karlee. Or maybe it was Kayla. Either way, the two of them vanished into the darkness, as if they’d been nothing more than creepy twin ghosts after all.
“At ease, soldier,” Boddy joked. “I’m just glad to see you arrived. I gather you were bringing up the rear.”
“There’s no one else on campus?”
“We’re the last stand,” the headmaster said. “We’re lucky it’s so few, considering the severity of the storm damage. I wouldn’t want to be finding beds for anyone else tonight. I’m trying not to think of all the calls I’ll have to make to the insurance adjusters once the power is back on.” He shook his head ruefully.
“How many of us are there here?”
“Ten. There’s the three women already living in Tudor, a l
ocal student who got caught on the wrong side of the ravine when the bridge washed out, a member of our janitorial staff, three more female students from the flooded Dockery dorms, and you and another young man from Baylor.”
“Eleven, sir,” Mustard corrected. “Don’t forget yourself.”
Headmaster Boddy smiled. “And your father wouldn’t let you go into advanced math.”
Mustard didn’t even blink. Reacting was the enemy. He may not have taken advanced math, but he’d had plenty of lessons in not letting instructors see you squirm. “Simple addition, sir.”
The headmaster wasn’t a military guy, but Mustard could tell that he was every bit as good at getting what he wanted out of the grunts. “Come now, Mr. Maestor, you’ve been here for over a month. More than enough time to settle in and see that the workload you arrived with is not suited to your talents.”
“My father likes my curriculum the way it is.” Research didn’t have advancement potential. He could sense his father’s sneer from here. He didn’t raise a son to get stuck in a lab or be a pencil pusher. “And he’s the one paying the bills.”
Headmaster Boddy seemed to think for a moment. “What if I called your father? Perhaps he doesn’t know all the opportunities our school offers.”
Mustard didn’t know how to tell the headmaster that the thing his father admired most about Blackbrook is that they’d taken Mustard mid-semester without asking too many questions.
“Think it over,” the headmaster said to him. “I see potential in you. Your test scores are off the charts, but your old school never let you explore your own dreams.”
Mustard grimaced. Exploring his own dreams is what landed him here to start.
They’d arrived at the kitchen, where there were a fair number of lanterns burning, and several other students already hard at work making soup under the supervision of the Tudor House proctor, Mrs. White. Mustard recognized one of them from his early-morning runs through campus. Vaughn Green was one of the only kids who ever seemed to get up earlier than Mustard did.
At Vaughn’s side, mangling a carrot as if she’d never peeled one before, was a skinny girl with a mousy-brown bob and long bangs that kept falling over square-rimmed glasses. Beside her, making quick, neat dices out of a pile of potatoes, was the tall blond girl he’d met when she was walking up to Tudor House with Plum. She’d been every bit as soaked from the storm surge, but had already changed into a dry outfit, scraped her long blond hair into a high, tight ponytail, and was hard at work. Mustard appreciated that. He understood she was some kind of big tennis star, and mostly went by her nickname, Peacock.
Mustard appreciated that, too.
Headmaster Boddy turned toward the proctor, an elderly woman in a colorful crocheted shawl with wild, graying hair. “I brought you a new volunteer, Mrs. White. He’s eager for a little exercise in school spirit.” He gestured to the table, and his gaze fell on Peacock.
“Miss Picach, how lovely to see you here. Perhaps we can finish our little chat this evening.”
Peacock clenched her jaw and started obliterating the potatoes.
When Boddy was gone, Mustard took up a position at the end of the table, but didn’t see any more knives or peelers. “Hey, do you have another knife?” he asked Peacock.
No answer.
He tapped her on the shoulder. “Do you have another—”
“What!” She whirled on him, blade out.
Mustard jumped back, and they both stared at each other, breathing hard. Peacock seemed to catch herself and considered the knife in her hand for a long moment.
“Take mine,” she said at last. “I’ve had enough of Boddy’s school spirit.”
Then, Blackbrook’s best athlete plunged the knife into the heart of the nearest butternut squash.
6
Peacock
— EP WORKOUT LOG—
DATE: December 5
TIME WOKE: 7:19 a.m. (see notes)
MORNING WEIGH-IN: 146 lbs
BREAKFAST: 2 vanilla-shortbread-flavored nutrition bars (420 calories, 12g protein), cold water
LUNCH: Blueberry-date nutrition bar (210 calories, 12g protein), 4 dried figs (84 calories), 1 bag salted popcorn (100 calories), cold water
AFTERNOON SNACK: Hot tea with lemon, one chocolate bar (360 calories, 6g protein, see notes)
DINNER: Vegetable soup (nutritional info unknown), 4 slices of bread with butter (400 calories)
ADDITIONAL: Hot cocoa? (???)
MORNING WORKOUT: N/A (see notes)
AFTERNOON WORKOUT: Waded uphill .5 mile carrying 50 pounds of weight. More after the wave hit me.
EVENING WORKOUT: N/A (see notes)
NOTES: There’s a blizzard AND a flood. We were supposed to evacuate for the mainland today, but missed our chance or something. All I know is the power is still out, so I slept late, and no machines today, which doesn’t even matter because apparently the gym is underwater, just like my dorm room. This is so stupid. They moved us all to high ground, but there’s no gym in Tudor. There’s not even a set of free weights here, and my new roommate looked appalled when I asked, like how dare they move their stupid old pool table and put in a treadmill.
I took all my awards when I left my dorm, but a wave hit me on the way and now the box they’re in is disintegrating. Do trophies rust?
And of course, HE’S here.
We’re all having cocoa around the fire tonight, which is fine, but hardly enough food, and I’m going to run out of protein bars soon. DON’T FORGET TO LOOK UP HOT COCOA NUTRITIONAL INFO WHEN POWER COMES BACK ON.
I’ll make up for it tomorrow, if any of us get out of this storm alive.
7
Green
Vaughn wondered if this was what it was like all the time for the live-in students on campus. Like the stories he used to hear from Gemma when he was growing up. Kids curled up before massive roaring fireplaces, chatting about books and science with their professors and each other.
Everything was so cozy, with the stacks of old blankets and the flickering firelight. One could almost ignore the howling wind beyond the walls, and the horrible cracks and booms that kept echoing up the hill from the campus. Every crash brought winces from the assembled group, and worried glances between Headmaster Boddy and Rusty. The two men were in hushed conversation about the conditions outside. Mustard was sitting nearby, nodding sagely at descriptions of downed trees and floating debris, but Vaughn felt no temptation to join in. He and the rest of the custodial staff would have enough to do once the storm passed.
“Can you actually die of boredom?” asked Scarlett to no one in particular.
Well, maybe they usually all spent their evenings with their faces buried in their phones.
“This cocoa is amazing, Mrs. White,” said Finn Plum as he polished off his mug. “How do you do it?”
“It’s an old Tudor special,” she replied, her tone brusque but proud. Vaughn knew this cocoa well. Mrs. White might have claimed it for Tudor House, but Gemma had been the original inventor.
“Dash of vanilla extract,” broke in Scarlett, to Mrs. White’s obvious dismay. She didn’t want to share her secrets.
“That makes sense,” Finn said. “The alcohol in the extract might have an effect in the way the lipids interact on the palate—”
“There’s no alcohol in my cocoa!” Mrs. White cried indignantly. She cast a worried glance at Headmaster Boddy, as if he might get the impression she was helping her charges catch a buzz on.
Vaughn got the impression the folks here thought Mrs. White was an aging hippie, which was pretty accurate. Oh, and that she had once been married, which was decidedly less so. He wasn’t sure where the “Mrs.” part of her name had come from, but it certainly wasn’t a husband. Men had never been part of the picture, with Linda White or with his grandmother. But at Tudor House she was Mrs. White, so Vaughn just went with the flow.
“No, Mrs. White,” Scarlett said quickly. “He just means the extract. It’s made with alcohol. Not
the drinking kind.”
The furrow that had sprouted on Mrs. White’s wrinkled brow wilted and she sat back in the chair, smoothing her long broomstick skirt over her legs. “Oh, yes. I knew that.”
Vaughn watched Finn make a face he thought only Scarlett could see, and caught sight of Scarlett, in response, giggling and kicking Finn under the blanket they shared on the couch. Fortunately, Mrs. White didn’t seem to notice any of it.
Those two were a real piece of work. If someone told him that they knew where all the bodies were hidden, Vaughn would believe it in a heartbeat. Sucking up to all the teachers’ faces, then rolling their eyes and ridiculing the adults behind their backs. Two-faced jerks. He hated people who pretended to be who they weren’t.
And what about hypocrites, Vaughn? he couldn’t help but think. You hate hypocrites, too?
That snide little inner voice was Oliver’s, as usual. But it wasn’t correct. He’d never pretended to be anyone he wasn’t. Not really.
“Well,” said Orchid charitably, “the cocoa’s amazing, no matter what’s in it.” She looked at Vaughn. “Didn’t you have some?”
“No,” said Vaughn. “But I’m okay.” He’d never been into sweets. Not like his brother. Also, he’d been gorging himself on soup all afternoon. At home, he mostly subsisted on frozen burritos and ramen noodles. Mrs. White’s fresh vegetable soup had been a real treat. Or, he supposed, it had been all of their vegetable soup, since the chopping had been a group effort. Maybe the other students got together and cooked every night, too.
He wondered how things were going back in the village. The storm surge would have overflowed the ravine by now, leaving most houses waist-deep in water.
On the rug, Karlee had finished twisting Kayla’s hair into some kind of elaborate braid-knot thing, and was now casting around for someone else to bug.
In the Hall with the Knife Page 4
