Chapter 9 Atticus
Atticus
I am tired of myself tonight. I should like to be somebody else.
—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
At midnight, I arrive at the agreed-upon spot, near the main gates of campus in a walled-off garden darkened by the moonlit shadow of the hulking administration offices.
Stone statues are scattered about the garden, and the fountain is quiet, the paths neatly raked.
At first I think I’ve beaten him to the rendezvous, but then I sense a presence nearby.
One of the statues isn’t a statue at all.
Like a piece of art coming to life, Dorian steps into the slanting light of the streetlamps.
He’s been waiting for me, silent as a cat, wearing all black: a hoodie, sweats, a baseball cap, and as always, his gloves.
The ones Raven bought him. I wish I had thought of them.
I wish I’d been the one to give them to him.
Still, they’re convenient, especially for not leaving fingerprints.
“Hey,” I say, my heart racing as usual. He looks dressed for the lacrosse pitch, and a memory of watching him—years of watching his graceful, athletic body run around the field—floods my vision. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Waiting around in the dark made me feel like a creep,” he says, coming to my side.
“I mean, that is textbook creep behavior,” I tease.
In the warm glow from the gas lamp above, I can just make out the hint of a smile.
Affection radiates off of him. But he only thinks of me as a friend.
I know that, and I’ve accepted it. I’ll pine for him forever.
My heart sinks when I look at his gloves.
The gloves he never takes off, to feel closer to her.
“Did you get the key?” I ask, masking my churning feelings.
Pulling it from his back pocket, Dorian holds it up. “Raven did her job.”
“Then let’s put it to good use.”
Without a minute to waste, we make our way toward the student union, Dorsia Hall.
According to the map, the underground tunnels are all connected, and the entrance in Dorsia Hall is the closest access point outside of the Rosette.
Raven said the library will be locked at this hour, so this is our best bet.
We navigate to the basement of the Palladian-style building, slipping between the white columns of the portico at the side entrance, and enter the mostly empty atrium, where only a handful of students linger in the lounges, their faces illuminated by soft candlelight as they study in silence.
The map says there’s an entrance to the tunnels in a closet behind the boiler, so we make our way as casually as we can toward the rear of the building, where there are fewer people.
No one crosses our path as we descend the stairs to the basement, but my heart feels like it might burst out of my chest. Nervously, I tap out a paradiddle on my thighs as I walk, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.
At the end of the hall, we find the janitorial closet unlocked.
Slowly, I push open the door, careful not to make the hinges creak, and Dorian slips in past me. The room is dark, the air humid and warm, and the boiler hisses. It takes everything I have not to bounce on my toes, giddy with excitement. This is the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done.
“Behind there,” I say, pointing to the boiler.
But when Dorian rounds the corner, he stops short.
“Where is it?” Dorian asks.
All that’s here is a solid brick wall.
“It has to open somehow,” I say.
“I don’t see a mechanism.”
He’s right. No door. “Maybe the map is out of date…” I say. It’s rolled up against my back, tucked safely into a cardboard tube, and I pull it out to check the route again.
But Dorian steps toward the wall. “Let me try,” he says.
He takes off one of his gloves, and my gaze latches on to the smooth milky-white skin of his hand, the tendons moving as his fingers twitch, like they’re eager to touch.
He takes a deep, calming breath before he places his palm on the cold brick.
He closes his eyes and traces his hand over the rough surface, searching.
A line appears between his eyebrows, and his mouth turns down into a small frown.
Watching him use his power is a thing of beauty.
It’s like he’s his most true self, his armor stripped away.
A small intake of breath, and Dorian’s eyes snap open. “Got it.” He keeps his palm pressed to an unassuming brick, one of hundreds. “The last person who used this tunnel. A teacher, I think. I can see them. We just need to say the secret word: pateface.”
Just then, the bricks rumble and grind, moving on their own, forced by an invisible hand. Then they crumble away, and a hole appears, revealing a dark, echoing tunnel.
Dorian slips his glove on, acting as if what he’s done is no big deal, but it is.
“You just used magic,” I say, impressed. “Successfully, I mean.”
Dorian looks at the hole in the wall as if it only occurred to him. “I know.” Then he smiles at me, a big toothy grin, and I can’t help but smile back.
Sibylline was so wrong about him. He and Raven are incredible magicians. They should be students here. We all should.
I step into the tunnel first, and Dorian closely follows.
When we’re inside, there’s a rumbling sound again as the bricks rearrange themselves back into a wall, sealing up the tunnel once more.
We’re plunged into darkness, but I can feel Dorian’s body heat, his breath on my neck, the shape of him beside me.
I wonder what it would feel like to hold his hand.
I have to force the thought from my mind as I reach into my bag and find the lantern I brought, igniting the wick with a lighter. The warm flame illuminates the area around us, throwing Dorian’s face into a ghostly version of itself. But his eyes are bright. He’s excited.
“Shall we?” I ask, and hold out the lantern.
He takes it with an amused smile, and my fingers slide against his gloves briefly. “After you,” he says.
Cobwebs brush against my face as I head down the tunnel.
It’s clear this passage hasn’t been used in a while, but I’m still careful to keep my footsteps light, just in case there is someone up ahead.
Even Dorian’s sneakers barely make a sound as he follows close behind me.
The glow from the light makes the shadows on the walls shift, and for a moment, it’s easy to think we’re disappearing into the belly of the underworld, walking into unknown danger.
“If we’re caught, what do we say?” I whisper.
“You sound like you’ve got an idea.”
“We were kidnapped? Thrown into this dungeon against our will?”
I can hear the amusement in Dorian’s voice. “You really think that’d work?”
I whip around, making him stop in his tracks. “Or we can lie and tell them we were making out.”
“Good lie.” He lets out a laugh and his white, perfectly straight teeth peek out for only a moment. He’s so pretty, it makes my heart ache. “But let’s just plan on no one catching us,” he says, nudging me onward with his gloved hand.
I exhale.
The tunnel opens up into a massive space.
Even the light from the lantern can’t reach the farthest end.
We’re standing on a high platform, and stone stairs in front of us wind downward, disappearing into lower tunnels, spiraling into the blackness below us.
Wooden beams crisscross each other to hold up the structures around us, and ropes dangle from pulleys and wheels.
Faces carved into rock decorate the walls, their stony eyes watching over the cavern like guardians. Ominous.
“Whoa,” says Dorian, too amazed to keep his voice down. It echoes in the cavern, multiplying as it fades. The sound of running water comes from far below us, maybe an underground river of some kind. A person could get lost in here if they didn’t know where to go. Suddenly I’m thankful for the map.
We plunge deeper into the bowels of the labyrinth, the light from the lantern illuminating our path. We follow the map, trudging through more tunnels, more stairs, more ramps. My knees are shaking when we reach the door to the archive.
Dorian takes out the key, but when he puts it in the lock, he pauses.
“It’s already open,” he says.
Something is wrong.
Dorian douses the lamp before he opens the door.
The lights in the room are off, save for a fire roaring in the fireplace.
Raven mentioned it might be magicked, to preserve the books, so I’m not surprised it’s still burning.
In any case, the magical fireplace is not the most impressive element of the room.
There are thousands upon thousands of books packed into towering shelves.
Dorian gazes upward, taking in the scene with a kind of slack-jawed amazement.
I, too, stand in awe. A place like this, hidden underground, only accessible to the elite? What a waste.
Where do we even start? I’m paralyzed with choice.
But before either Dorian or I can start browsing, footsteps echo in the distance.
There’s someone here.
Dorian and I stare at each other, frozen in fear, then he grabs me by the wrist and pulls me around the corner. Desperate, we search for somewhere to hide as the footsteps draw closer.
Hurry, I mouth to him.
He grimaces, but then his eyes go to the fireplace, and he pulls me toward it. There’s a small opening, a gap behind it just barely wide enough for us to slip through. It must be where the attendants go to check the fire. It’s just big enough for the both of us to hide.
A shadow passes in front of the opening, the footsteps growing louder. Dorian and I are pressed up against each other, chest to chest. I don’t breathe. We stand frozen, watching, waiting. Then a person appears. His iconic ruby earring glints in the firelight.
“That’s Warden Stone,” I whisper. “We are so fucked.”
“Shh,” says Dorian. “I don’t think he can hear us. Just stay calm.”
“What’s he doing here this late?”