“Those are Ms. Fournier’s rooms,” Mrs. Clarke says, indicating the right-hand side. “She spends about half the year abroad or in New York and half here. I’m sure you’ll get the chance to meet her soon.”
“Doesn’t she want to talk to me first?” I say, the thought occurring to me belatedly. “Before she agrees to pay my tuition?”
“We made sure that she was on board before we approached you,” Mrs. Clarke assures me. “She’s very clear that she doesn’t want Delphine to be alone, and Aubrey’s departure being so sudden, she understands the constraints.”
“When did it happen? Aubrey’s accident?” I ask.
“Last week.” That means Aubrey must have arrived early for fall term. Another way that Abigail House has its own rules, I suppose. “I’ve been staying here since,” Mrs. Clarke adds.
“What was she doing by the pool?” I ask. The pool is fenced in. It isn’t like it’s a normal place to go for a stroll.
“That I don’t know,” Mrs. Clarke says briskly. There is something she isn’t telling me. An uneasy feeling scuttles over my skin. “In any case, the door at the end of the hall to the left is the utility room. The stairs lead up to Delphine’s rooms. The door at the bottom of the stairs must be closed at all times. Especially at night. And it must be locked.”
She says it as if it makes perfect, rational sense. As if it’s entirely logical that the night would hold hidden threats to a sick girl.
“And these are your rooms,” she finishes.
I make a little sound of half-disbelieving amusement. The suite is huge—at least compared to our usual rooms. Atwood has grown randomly in fits and starts over the decades, with new buildings being added without any real theme or consistency. That means that some buildings have small college dorm–style doubles, while my friends and I claimed the ground floor of Westmore, with four singleton bedrooms sharing a common room, three-quarter bathroom, and kitchenette.
This is more like a one-bedroom apartment, and a spacious one at that. A full galley kitchen sits at one end. A white binder sits on the kitchen table, bristling with tabs.
“Everything you need to know about Abigail House and Delphine’s care is in that binder. Most of it won’t be relevant to you. You’ll want to look at the blue and purple tabs, mostly,” Mrs. Clarke says. “Can I leave you to settle in? Your luggage should be here by the end of dinner.”
I’ve already crossed to the binder and opened it. The laminated sheet at the front reads Rules and Procedures. When I process Mrs. Clarke’s words, I look up in surprise. “Aren’t I going to meet Delphine?”
“There are additional decontamination procedures necessary before going upstairs,” Mrs. Clarke says. “And it’s almost dinner. I’ll be back in the morning to make the introductions, don’t worry.”
“Can I—” I pause. “What’s wrong with her? Delphine. I’ve heard she’s allergic to water?”
Mrs. Clarke makes a little gesture with her hand, almost helpless. “I believe the official description is an idiopathic aquagenic disorder. Which means they have no idea why or exactly how it’s happening, but exposure to water causes a life-threatening physical reaction. It doesn’t happen with distilled, filtered water, but anything with impurities . . . Well. It’s been a long time since she had an episode. But that’s why we have to be so careful with what we bring inside the house. Especially if it’s raining or muddy. That’s what the showers are for. The whole system uses distilled water shipped in, to avoid any chance of contamination.”
“Can I ask . . .” I stop again, realizing my question is probably impossibly rude, but Mrs. Clarke looks at me expectantly. “Wouldn’t it be easier for her to live somewhere else? I mean, she can’t even attend classes here.”
“Ms. Fournier believes that an Atwood education is still the best thing for her,” Mrs. Clarke says.
But when she says it, she doesn’t quite look at me. She looks at my left earlobe. It’s a trick I learned myself, for when it’s hard to look a person in the eye. Most people won’t even notice you aren’t looking at them directly.
It makes it easier to lie.
“You will pick up on the way things are done. It’s a lot of details, but nothing too difficult,” Mrs. Clarke says. “But there are a few unbreakable rules. And the most important is this: the door at the bottom of the stairs must stay locked after dark.”
“You mentioned,” I say.
Her eyes fix on mine. “No matter what you hear or what you see. No matter what happens. You stay in your room and you leave the door locked. Do you understand?”
I stare at her. “Why?”
“Stay in your room and don’t let the water in, and you’ll do fine,” Mrs. Clarke says, and nothing more.
She leaves. I listen as the doors close in sequence: one, two, and then, after a pause long enough for her to get changed again, three. I stand barefoot in the empty suite, unsure of what I’m supposed to do.
Above me, the floor creaks as footsteps pass overhead. Delphine. I stare up at the ceiling. Does she know I’m here?
Does she remember what happened six years ago?
The night that Veronica and I made our first leap and found Atwood’s magic waiting for us.
The night that Delphine Fournier fell into the Narrow and lived.
4
GOING TO ATWOOD was my idea. Luke had always been difficult, but the way he was difficult was changing. Temper tantrums and breaking things and minor acts of theft had turned into running away and drugs and vandalism.
The thing about being the good kid with the troubled sibling is that it’s easy to disappear. My parents didn’t have time for me because all their time was spent trying to keep Luke from destroying his life. There wasn’t a lot left over for the daughter who did her homework and stayed out of the way.
They knew what they were doing, of course, and they felt just guilty enough about it to be pissed off if you pointed it out. So when I showed my parents the online brochure for Atwood and begged them to send me to boarding school, they jumped at the chance, so eager they were to have me gone, to outsource the task of raising me. It sounds like I hate them for it, but I don’t. They had to send one of us away, and if it was Luke, it would mean they were giving up on him. I, on the other hand, could go away and come back whole.
More or less.
I arrived a day too early. The dorms weren’t even open yet. Mom argued with Oster to let me stay the extra night—she had an important meeting in the morning and needed to fly back—but it was an insurance thing. Unbendable. That’s when Veronica’s parents stepped in. They’d come for a tour and to talk to Dean Oster—they were overly protective, still are, and wanted to scout everything out ahead of time. They had a room in town for the night, and they offered to let me stay with them.