me this—any idea what ‘Persephone’ means? Like in ancient Greek and shit?”
“None,” Mr. Sheryl said drily.
Persey froze, her brain fixated on the question. Mr. Sheryl may not have known the answer, but she did.
“Bringer of death,” she said, turning to face them.
Mr. Sheryl’s brows shot up. “Pardon?”
“Persephone means ‘a bringer of death.’” A slow smile spread across her lips as her eyes drifted to Pretty Pedicure’s face: he’d just given her the key to this puzzle. “And I know how to solve this.”
“Seriously?” he said.
“We don’t have time.” Sheryl grabbed her husband’s arm. “THIRTY SECONDS!”
Persey spun back to the screen, flanked by the research volumes on the plague in fourteenth-century Europe. A bringer of death. A bringer of Black Death. How could she have been so blind? She swept her fingers across the screen, swapping and rotating the image tiles as she went.
“A mirror to see the image in reverse, and saucer because it rhymes with ‘Chaucer’!” One more tile swap, then with a single pass of her palm across the screen, all the tiles flipped to their mirror images.
A photograph appeared. It was an old leather-bound tome, medieval in appearance, open to a weathered page with an elegant scroll of handwritten words beside an illustration of a red-robed man on horseback holding a cross. Embellishments of leaves and vines peppered the margins and the first letter of text had been given an elaborate treatment of interlocking scrolls and ribbons. The instant the image came together, the countdown froze and a bookcase on the far wall swung open, revealing the secret exit from the room.
With just three seconds to spare.
MR. SHERYL, THE ENGLISH LIT PROFESSOR, LEANED OVER Persey’s arm for a better view of the screen. “‘The Pardoner’s Tale.’ From The Canterbury Tales.” His voice was breathless, disbelieving. “You’ve read Chaucer?”
Persey wasn’t about to admit that reading was not her strong point, or that audiobooks were the only reason she hadn’t failed out of high school yet. Mr. English Lit Professor would 100 percent turn up his nose at her for having listened to The Canterbury Tales instead of reading the words on the page. And she wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction.
“Yes.”
“‘If that ye be so leef to fynde Deeth, turne up this croked wey,’” he quoted in a strange accent. “I should have known.”
You really should have.
“You really should have,” Pretty Pedicure said. His voice was a smirk.
Sheryl embraced her husband. “We did it! We just beat the unbeatable challenge. And not like that Internet debacle last year with the Prison Break escape room. We did this on our own.”
Our own?
“Our names will go down in history!”
Our names?
Pretty Pedicure smiled. “My name does have an historic ring to it.”
“Which is?” Persey realized he’d never said it.
“Kevin Lima.”
“What an incredibly uncommon surname,” the professor said. “Are you of Portuguese decent?”
Kevin opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say a word, applause rang through the room. Persey turned to find a tall young woman with a severe black bob and red-lacquered lips entering the Hidden Library through the secret exit, clapping her elegant, well-manicured hands. She was professionally dressed in a cream pantsuit, which seemed out of place for a Saturday morning, and she was followed by a dozen people, all clad in matching lime-green polo shirts. The entourage beamed from ear to ear, twittering about like a flock of ravenous twentysomething geese, fresh out of college if not still students, and though they didn’t look much younger than their leader, she exuded maturity and authority.
“Congratulations!” the woman cried. Her impossibly high, pointy-toed stilettos clicked in discordant syncopation with her slow clapping as she crossed the library. “You’ve beaten the Hidden Library escape room!”
“Thank you so much!” Sheryl squealed, rushing forward. “Are you from the Five O’Clock News? Do you want to interview us? No one’s ever escaped the Hidden Library before, you know.”
No mention of the prize money, which she’d seemed so intent upon just moments ago—Sheryl was only focused on claiming her fifteen minutes of fame.
“My name is Leah,” the newcomer said, extending her hand to Persey. An intricately carved gold-and-diamond ring glittered in the overhead lights. “And I represent the parent company of the Hidden Library—Escape-Capades.”
The lime-green-polo brigade behind her cheered dutifully at the mention of their employer as one of them scooted out from the pack, holding a large camera. Its shutter snapped rapidly, mimicking the escalating excitement from the Escape-Capades employees, but while Sheryl turned toward the camera and smiled, hand planted