True to my word, I climbed into bed, pulling the twin-spired symbols of St. Sophia’s over my head as I tried, unsuccessfully, to nap. I’d been supportive of Scout and the Adept story in the hospital. I’d made a commitment to believe them, to believe in them, even when Foley showed up. I’d also made a commitment not to let the basement drama—whatever it was about—affect my friendship with Scout.
And now I was in my room, head buried in cotton and flannel, hiding out.
Some friend I was.
Every five minutes, I’d touch the tips of my fingers gingerly to the bottom of my spine, thinking I’d be able to feel some change when, and if, the mark disappeared. Every fifteen minutes, I’d climb out of bed and twist around in front of the mirror, making sure the mark hadn’t decided to fade.
There was no change.
At least, not physically. Emotionally, I was freaking out. And not the kind of freaking out that lent itself to finding a friend and venting. This was the kind of freaking out that was almost . . . paralyzing. The kind of fear that made you hunker down, avoid others, avoid the issue.
And so I lay in bed, sunlight shifting across the room as the day slipped away. The suite being relatively small, I heard Scout and Lesley return, mill about in the common room, and then head into their respective bedrooms. They eventually left for dinner, after a prospective knock on the door to see if I wanted anything. For the second time, I declined. I could hear Scout’s disappointment—and fear—when she double-checked, but I wasn’t up for company. I wasn’t up for providing consolation.
I needed to be consoled.
Eventually, I fell asleep. Scout didn’t bother knocking for breakfast on Sunday morning. Not that I could blame her, I supposed, since I’d ignored her for the last twenty-four hours, but her absence was still noticeable. She’d become a fixture during my first week at St. Sophia’s.
I snuck down to breakfast in jeans and my Ramones T-shirt, my hair in a messy knot, the ribboned key around my neck. I wasn’t dressed for brunch or socializing, so I grabbed a carrot raisin muffin and a box of orange juice before heading back to my room, bounty in hand.
What a difference a day makes.
It was around noon when they knocked on the door.
When I didn’t answer, Amie’s voice rang out. “Lily? Are you in there? Are you . . . okay?”
I closed the art history book I’d been perusing in bed, went to the door, opened it, and found Amie and Veronica, both in jeans, brown leather boots, snug tops, and dangly earrings, standing there. Not bad outfits, actually, if you ignored the prissiness.
The last time they’d sought me out, they offered a chance to go treasure hunting. The offer this time wasn’t much different.
“We’re really sorry about what happened,” Amie said. “We’re heading to Michigan Avenue for a little shopping. Are you up for a field trip?”
I was an intelligent person, so my first instinct was, of course, to slam the door in their faces. But as they stood there in my doorway, hair perfect, makeup just so, they offered me something else.
Oblivion.
The opportunity to pretend to be an It Girl for a little while, in a world with much simpler rules, where what you wore meant more than how many Reapers you’d thwarted, how much firespell had taken you down.
Call it a weak moment, a moment of denial. Either way, I said yes.
Twenty minutes later, I was in boots and leggings, black skirt, black fitted shirt, jacket and drapey scarf, and I was following Amie and Veronica out the door and toward Michigan Avenue. We strode side by side down the sidewalk—Amie, then me, then Veronica—as though we were acting out the opening credits of a new teen drama.
Even on a Sunday, Michigan Avenue was full of tourists and locals, young and old, shoppers and picture-snappers, all out to enjoy the weather before the cold began to roll in. It was understandable that they were out—the sky was ridiculously blue, the temperature perfect. Windy City or not, there was just enough breeze to keep the sun from being oppressive.
This was my first time on Michigan Avenue, my first opportunity to explore Chicago beyond the walls of St. Sophia’s (apart from my quick jaunt around the block with Scout). I was surprised at how open Chicago felt—less constricting, less overwhelming, than walking through the Village or midtown Manhattan. There was more glass, less concrete; more steel, less brick. With the shine of new condos and the reflection of Lake Michigan off mirrored glass, the Second City looked like Manhattan’s younger, prettier sister.
We passed boutique after boutique, the chichi stores nestled between architectural masterpieces—the ribbon-wrapped Hancock Building, the castlelike form of the Water Tower and, of course, lots of construction.
“So,” Amie said, “are you going to tell us exactly what went on in the basement?”
“What basement?” I asked, my gaze on the high- rises above us.
“Coyness is not becoming,” Veronica said. “You were in the basement, and then you were in the hospital. We know those things happened.” She slid me a sideways glance. “Now we want to know how they connect.”
Sure, I was taking a breather from Scout and the rest of the Adepts, but I wasn’t about to rat them out, especially to brat packers. Trying to be normal for a few minutes was one thing; becoming a fink was something else entirely.
“I fell,” I told her, stating the absolute truth. “I was on my way back upstairs, and I slipped. The edges of those limestone stairs to the first floor, you know how they’re warped?”
“You’d think they could fix those,” Amie said.