Chapter 10
Sleep at Thorne Hall is a tangled, restless thing.
It takes Mallory ages to fall asleep, dressed in one of Ezra’s black T-shirts. The fabric smells so much like him that it’s distracting—cedarwood, juniper, something smoky—and she’s tempted to hold it to her nose and inhale.
Mostly, though, confusion keeps her awake.
She wasn’t oblivious to the way Ezra’s gaze slid over her when she emerged from the bathroom, lingering on the noticeable outline of her curves through the thin material of his shirt.
Probably identical to the way she stared when he undressed for bed, attention snagging on the hard lines of his bare chest. She half expected his hands to be on her seconds after they climbed beneath the covers, but instead, he put a careful distance between them.
Like he’s wary of what might happen if he gets too close.
When Mallory does drift off, it’s to a new dream. A different bonfire—one that’s raging at the top of a snow-covered hill. She glances down, noticing the pink ribboned nightgown she used to wear as a child in the blue house.
The one that Penelope had to throw away after it became stained with her mother’s blood.
Recognition sets in as Mallory clocks her surroundings. The sloping roof of a modest green cottage. The rock-crusted shoreline. The distant whinny of a horse.
This is the remote beach where she went on vacation the week before her mother died. The last time Mallory saw Kiki.
As if Mallory summoned her, Kiki is suddenly by her side. Her skin is paler than Mallory remembers, and her skinny arm is peppered with bruises, crooked around a stuffed blue bear. The icy wind stirs her golden curls, and her chapped lips chatter in the evening cold.
“What are they doing?” Mallory asks, gesturing to the flurry of women up ahead with flower crowns in their hair, tending to the fire.
“They’re building something special,” Kiki says, voice small. “For you.”
“What is it?”
Kiki smiles. “A surprise.”
Mallory studies her. “Kiki, what happened to you?”
But Kiki doesn’t answer, focusing on something over Mallory’s shoulder. Mallory turns to peer into the pine trees but only sees a stretch of endless midnight.
“What are you looking at?”
“It’s always watching us,” Kiki whispers, words curled in fear.
Mallory squints. “What is?”
“Don’t let it see you.” Kiki winces. “It’s hungry.”
“Hungry? What are you talking ab—?” Mallory falls quiet at the sound of rustling—like the rapid movement of wings. It’s coming from the tops of the trees, like something is flying just above them, out of sight. “Kiki? What is that—?”
A thunderous banging steals Mallory’s next question, hauling her awake. Three crashes in a row, right next to her ear.
Mallory gasps, eyes flying open, and sits straight up.
She whirls to the wall behind her and presses her palm against it, almost expecting to find it cracked. But the surface is smooth, save for the scratches she noticed earlier.
She takes a steadying breath, and her exhale forms a puff of white. The room is freezing cold all of a sudden. Mallory hugs her torso, convinced her lips are turning blue, just as she registers the smell.
It’s almost floral at first, but quickly turns stale, odious, like raw meat left out on a counter in direct sunlight.
Grimacing, Mallory covers her mouth and scans the moonlit room. But nothing seems out of place.
Then, just as she starts to wonder if she’s imagining it, the smell slips away. Replaced by lingering candle smoke and Ezra’s intoxicating cologne. Mallory’s entire body relaxes, and she looks down at Ezra, still asleep, hair tousled.
Without giving herself time to change her mind, she lies against him, fitting herself neatly along his bare chest before tugging the covers over them both.
He doesn’t wake, but his arms fold around her anyway, instinctively adjusting to keep her close.
This time, there’s no burning heat between her thighs from his touch, no desperation to taste his kiss.
Only a hunger for safety, and the hopeful suspicion that her nightmares might be less venomous if he keeps holding her, just like this.
Mallory’s eyes drift closed again—but not before catching the red digits on his clock.
Frozen and unblinking at 3:33.
The campus chapel is bathed in dusty light when Mallory enters the following morning.
It’s a Saturday, so she expects to find it empty. She has an hour until she has to be at the theater for a run of the first and second acts, which is more than enough time to dig through any records that might be in the sacristy.
Funeral records. Like Lily’s.
The chapel is located on the far eastern edge of campus and is one of the university’s oldest buildings, having been around since Shore was a sanitarium.
With a white-painted wooden exterior, it often blends with the Rhode Island sky, spire and cross disappearing into the clouds.
The chapel is etched with history, walls brimming with the echoes of everyone who ever visited.
Mallory’s neck prickles with unease as she walks down the empty aisle.
It’s how she always felt sitting in church with Arden and her parents, silently battling the painful knowledge that she didn’t belong there.
Last Christmas, Arden invited her to midnight mass in Boston, and Mallory spent the entire service wondering if the priest could tell she was linked to something blasphemous.
If the entire congregation could sense she was reciting prayers without an ounce of feeling.
She learned long ago that there was no higher power looking out for her, no guardian angel to swoop in and protect her from pain.
To her, praying will always be an empty act.
Her bag vibrates, disrupting her thoughts. Mallory checks her phone, seeing a text from Arden. Do u want 2 get coffee b4 rehearsal n talk? Truce?
Her fingers fly across the buttons in relief. Y! Cafe in 30?
Arden’s response is immediate. It’s a date.
Mallory tucks her phone away, a new plan forming.
She’ll apologize to Arden for being distant, conjure a small truth about her feelings for Ezra.
She’ll tell Arden the parts she can comfortably say.
Keep the others locked up. Mallory continues toward the sacristy, clinging to a rare drop of hope. Maybe she hasn’t broken them after all.
A shuffling sound halts her. She rapidly scans the chapel, but the building is empty. It’s just her and the wooden confessional box up ahead, altar candles burning, and yet the noise continues.
If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear the footfalls were coming from underneath her. She’s only been in the chapel once, for Shore’s welcome ceremony, but she’s almost certain it’s one level. No basement.
Shaking her head, Mallory hurries up the altar steps, eyeing the reddened stained glass above.
She’s seen the window dozens of times from the outside, knows it contains a mosaic of the Tree of Life, but this time, she notices something new: a small raven in the bottom left corner.
The fifth one she’s noticed on campus so far.
Inside the sacristy, Mallory flicks on the light, illuminating the windowless room in a yolk glow.
She’s greeted by a wooden cabinet with skinny drawers and an antique armoire on the opposite wall.
The long, narrow counter contains a double sink, one side covered with a brass lid brandishing a cross. For holy water, she assumes.
Moving quickly, she flings open cabinets and drawers, clocking silky choir robes and silver chalices, altar candles and matchbooks. But no file folders, no ledgers. Nothing that looks like it holds the history she needs.
Blowing her bangs in frustration, Mallory looks toward the armoire, wooden doors etched with ivy and flowers. She can’t put her finger on it, but something about the wardrobe feels out of place. Like it doesn’t belong.
Crossing the room, she opens the armoire. Her shoulders slump in defeat to find more robes.
But then, her skin tingles as she realizes. These aren’t church robes.
They’re black. And made of velvet. Just like the ones in her dream.
“I didn’t know there was a service this morning.”
Mallory slams the armoire shut and whirls.
A handsome older man stands in the doorway.
He’s tall, dressed in a dark suit and coat that flows behind him like a cape.
An old-fashioned fedora sits atop his nearly black hair, casting a shadow over his pale skin.
His hands, encased in leather gloves, clasp a long cane, the end of which is adorned with a glittering onyx stone.
Mallory swallows. “There’s not. I’m just…waiting for some friends.”
The man studies her in the dim light. “An interesting meeting spot.”
“We have a class project,” she lies. “I needed to research something.”
He peers at her. The brim of his hat darkens his stare.
Mallory fidgets with her sleeves. “Do you work here? At this school?”
The man in black smiles. “I built this school.”
She frowns, not sure what he means. “Shore is almost a hundred years old—”
“Do you know what I like most about this building?” the man interjects, adjusting his cane. “It’s full of secrets.”
She falters. “W-what?”
His shoes make a clacking sound as he draws closer. “Years of confessions, of whispered prayer. Things people only spoke within these walls.” He stops just in front of her. “I like to think that the walls remember. That every time we pray, we breathe in someone else’s sins.”
Mallory’s palms are suddenly clammy, her body frozen.
A foul, decaying smell pervades her nostrils as he leans down to murmur in her ear. “Do you have terrible secrets, too?”
She shakes her head, fast. The walls seem to groan as the man touches her messy hair with a gloved hand, rolling the uneven ends between his fingers.
“What’s your worst one?” he whispers.
She shakes her head again. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Ah,” the man clucks. “That’s because your worst secret is yet to come.”
Mallory’s breath catches as he moves even closer.