being Good was a show. You had to rip away the surface, past the Beautification lessons and noble intentions, to find out who an Ever really was. At least Nic wasn’t like that, he thought, as his girlfriend towed him to the end of the hall. Nic was more like a Never: too much herself to ever be able to hide it.
Turning a corner, they were hit with sunlight from a scummy stained glass window, illuminating another plaque over their heads: “LOYALTY OVER BOLDNESS.”
“No wonder every boy in this town becomes a sidekick,” Hort muttered.
A door slammed somewhere close.
Sharp heels clacked on stone.
Hort’s stomach flipped. He pulled at Nicola’s arm, guiding her towards a staircase ahead, but Nic resisted, her eyes pinned through the stained glass.
A redbrick, two-story cottage lay in the yard outside, apart from the rest of the school, surrounded by clean, neat grass. Hort glimpsed a sign on a stake in front of it:
PERMITTED STUDENTS ONLY
And in the corner of the sign, a signature . . .
Dean Brunhilde
“LET ME DO the talking,” Nicola whispered as Hort followed her into the foyer.
“You’re a Reader. I know how to talk to real people,” Hort rebuffed.
“And I’m the one who knows how to get what we need, so just smile and look pretty like the blond prince you are,” Nicola ordered. “And don’t touch anything.”
Hort was certainly temped to. From the moment they’d come into the cottage, met with a clean breeze through the open windows, it was as if they’d left the school and stepped into Mother Goose’s den. Cozy patterned rugs covered the floor, appointed with rocking chairs and soft couches. Potted lilies and fiddle trees bloomed near a spiral staircase, the bookcases behind it teeming with storybooks. Hort fingered a heavy blanket on the couch, furry and soft. He could feel his eyes closing. All he wanted to do was gorge on cheesy potatoes and hide under the blanket. The lighting wasn’t helping: a sleepy orange glow seeping from dozens of glass-cased candles.
Then Hort noticed the picture frames, peppered across the tables and mantel. In every portrait, there was a stout, dark-skinned woman with beehive hair posed with a group of boys. Hort bent over, peering at more of these portraits. In each one, the boys changed but the woman remained, presiding over a new group.
Dean Brunhilde, Hort thought, moving to the last portrait on the mantel. . . .
His stomach dropped.
He picked up the frame—
Nicola slapped his hand. Then she saw what he was looking at and snatched it from him.
In the picture, Dean Brunhilde stood with a class of eight boys, all teenagers.
Four weren’t familiar. But the other four were, huddled in the corner with mischievous grins, like a band of thieves.
A boy with angled eyes and a square jaw.
Kei.
A boy with violet eyes, spiky black hair, and sculpted muscles.
Aric.
A boy with copper hair, pale skin, and cold blue eyes.
Japeth.
And next to him . . . a boy with the same face.
Rhian.
Slowly Hort and Nicola looked at each other.
Rhian had told the truth.
He’d been here.
They’d all been here.
In this house.
This is where it began.
Chills swept up Hort’s spine—
“You must be lost,” said a voice, and Hort jumped out of his skin.
A boy in a school uniform came out of the next room, fourteen or fifteen with black hair, sunken eyes, and misshapen teeth, wielding a fistful of steak knives.
Nicola recoiled, bumping into Hort, who shoved the portrait behind his back.
“No one comes to Arbed House unless they’re lost,” said a younger boy, emerging next to the first, clutching forks and spoons. “Or if they want to steal our tea. We have the best tea: mint, assam, rose, tulsi, eucalyptus, licorice, cardamom, chamomile. . . .”
“Arjun and I are setting the table for dinner before the rest of the boys get back,” the older one cut in. “I can show you to Mistress Gremlaine’s office—”
“NO,” blurted their two guests.
Nicola cleared her throat. “We have an appointment with Dean Brunhilde.”
“It’s important,” Hort added.
Nicola gave him a look. Let me handle it, it said.
But Hort was on edge. That portrait spooked him. Something happened in this house. Something that made Rhian, Japeth, Kei, and Aric band together and become killers. The answer was here. And they had to find it.
“The Dean isn’t in,” said the older boy.
“Took the others to buy pins from the market,” the younger boy prattled, a ball of baby fat. “She loves those pins. Been giving them to us as a reward. To keep