Thirty-One

We talk for a long, long time. We read every word in every journal. Finally, near the end of the last journal, we find a heavily crossed-out ritual titled "Words of Breaking." It's in Latin—because of course it is. Jordan reads it aloud, and even without knowing the words, I can catch the ritual's rhythm. It feels like a poem or a song.

Jordan quickly translates it for us: it's all about letting go of the past, old wounds, and vain ambition and seeking rest from long labor.

Neil groans. "Oh, God, does this one need to be sung too, like the initiation song?"

"It certainly seems like it was meant to be," Wren says, peering at the words. "If music opens the veil, maybe it helps keep it open too?"

"Well, it certainly can't hurt," Penny says.

Wren pulls a pencil stub from their breast pocket with a tired smile. "Let's get composing, then."

Jordan helps Wren pair the Latin words with a simplified version of the composition that Wren has been writing with WWG, the same one Wren played for me on my first day in Denfeld Hall. Even without the piano, the song is eerie and emotional, making me feel like I've been stripped to the bone. I can't help but wonder if WWG has been thinking of ending Magni Viri for a while now, if his longing to reunite with Bauer has grown greater than his desire to make music.

We practice chanting the song together until we're all sure we know the words—or at least the sound and shape of them. After that, the only thing left to do is wait for night to fall, which doesn't take long after all our preparation. I pull Wren a little aside to talk through the more personal aspects of the ritual, to get their consent and input since they'll once more be playing host to WWG. Once it's dark, Neil sneaks back up to Denfeld to pilfer the few supplies we need. By the time he makes it back to the graveyard, the sky is black, with dense dark clouds scudding across it.

We're quiet as we leave the mausoleum, tired and achy from hours of being crammed inside, each of us lost in our own thoughts and fears. What we're about to do is incredibly dangerous, and the slightest error could unravel the whole plan. The consequences if we fail loom over us; with the threats we face from O'Connor and our ghosts, our futures depend on this working. That's not reassuring considering our plan is made up partly from rituals crafted by a lovesick priest, partly from guesswork, and partly from our own desperation. We have to summon the embodied ghosts—all of them, which means summoning every member of Magni Viri. We have to protect ourselves from them completely, not allowing them into our circle. And given the horrifying tricks they pulled during the séance, that likely won't be easy, though at least now we know we need to use candles. We have to loosen the ghosts' hold on their hosts, to whom they cling like parasites. And most important, we have to release Walter Weymouth George. If that step fails, nothing else we do matters.

But now it's time. There's no light from the moon or stars, so we have to go carefully, using our flashlights when we lose our way. Mine falls across a stone angel's face, half-covered in ivy, a snail crawling up its cheek. It reminds me once more of what happened at the end of the séance, with the worms and insects and mold creeping up our skin.

"Are you all absolutely sure you want to do this?" I ask the others.

"Too late for take-backs, isn't it?" Neil asks. "O'Connor's onto us, and I don't think he's going to take a full-scale mutiny as well as he did your little rebellion."

"He didn't take that well either!"

"Exactly," Neil says darkly.

"Shut up, Neil. It's going to be okay," Jordan says. "It's going to work. And, yes, this is what we want to do, Tara. After everything we've learned in the last two days... I seriously don't want to turn into the next Bernard Cottingham."

Penny puts her hand in mine and squeezes, and a little fire kindles in my chest. "We're all together in this," she says. "Don't worry. This is the right thing to do. For all of us."

"Okay, let's start here," Wren says once we reach the edge of the cemetery. They throw their bag of tea light candles to the ground and flick their cigarette lighter, illuminating our faces in the dark. "Remember, the circle needs to go around every grave."

"We'd better move fast," Neil says. "If someone spots the candles before we're ready, we might not be able to finish the spell."

Jordan and I lock eyes, and he nods.

"Let's do it, then," I say, reassured by his determined gaze.

"Okay, Tara, you can light the candles, and I'll place them," Wren tells me, handing me the lighter. They turn to the boys. "Jordan and Neil, you do the same going the other direction. You can space them about a foot apart, I think. And Penny, you should keep watch and let us know if anyone's coming."

It's strange to see dreamy Wren taking charge like this, but Bauer and WWG's love story seems to have lit something inside them. They are filled to the brim with it. And maybe I am too. It feels like we're doing more than destroying Magni Viri. We're giving WWG and Bauer back to themselves.

I rip open the pack of tea lights and get my lighter ready. I light one and hand it to Wren, who places it on the ground. Wren moves a foot away, and I follow, handing them another light. We go on like this for what feels like forever, and I watch the circle form on the other side of the cemetery too. It's taking ages, and there are faster ways to do this, but this is how Bauer's journal said the circle was to be made.

The wind blows in the highest treetops, but otherwise the cemetery is still. Nothing moves or breathes here except us. In all this eerie silence, I almost miss the scream of the cicadas.

My body falls into a steady, thoughtless rhythm: pull a candle from the box, light it, hand it to Wren. My tired mind drifts.

Memories that aren't mine play like a movie reel.

A gray-haired man yelling from behind a desk, shaking his head. Denying me, saying a bastard like me is unworthy of Magni Viri, unworthy of Denfeld Hall. A surge of feeling rushes through my belly: shame and hurt and rage. And I begin to understand this. It's Isabella's memory, of her grandfather. A nameplate on his desk says Ezra Denfeld Snow. Another piece of the puzzle slots into place. Isabella's family members were Magni Viri benefactors, probably descendants of the ones Bauer complained about so bitterly in his journals. Denfeld Hall is named after them.

Then the same man years later, in bed, sickly, dying. I smile down at him, knowing he is the last obstacle in my path. I feel no grief at his loss, only relief and vindication.

He's the reason Isabella joined the faculty at Corbin, I realize. The reason she got herself appointed to Magni Viri leadership. She wanted what the Snows thought she wasn't good enough to have. She wanted what was theirs. And she got it too.

I don't make it far with my reasoning before another memory, stronger than the first two, overtakes me: Darkness and the smell of soil, the Denfeld graveyard, candles in a circle. I stagger into the middle of it, my body suffused with pain, but my head already swimming from the herbs the botanist gave me. It's summer, the height of summer, cicadas screaming in the trees. I lie down on the earth that's still warm from a day of hot sun. I lie still, listening to the cicadas, and I wait to die, knowing that when I rise again, I will take a new form. My mind will go on, but I'll be free of this weak and sickly body. I'll be able to write again. I'll be able to prove myself. I'll get the honor my grandfather thought he could refuse me: to become one of the immortal minds of Magni Viri.

The screams of the cicadas seem to vibrate in my body, their electric pitch a roar in my ears. I will rise like them, I think. I will go into the cool dark belly of the earth, but I will come out again. This body will rot in the earth, but my mind, as part of the cohort of Magni Viri, will live forever.

I squeeze the grass beneath me in my fists, gaze up at the starless sky, into the dark shapes of the trees, and I wait for my next vessel. I wait to be reborn.

"Tara!" someone yells. "What are you—" Their voice breaks off in a terrified cry. I come to, Wren's hair gripped tight in my fist, the flame of my lighter nearly touching their cheek.

"Oh my God," I say, dropping the lighter, backing away from Wren as the others thunder toward us. Wren stares at me, their expression of fear distorted strangely in the light from the candles.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "It was Isabella. She's—she's trying to stop us. I let my mind wander, just for a second, and she took over. Fuck, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Wren says. "Just—just—" They take in a rattling breath. "Just stay focused. We're almost done."

The guys reach us, Penny hurrying behind them. "What happened?" Jordan asks, his eyes wide. "Are y'all okay?"

"Isabella," I say. "But it's okay now. Keep going. We need to hurry in case someone heard Wren scream."

"Jesus, I hate that bitch," Neil says with venom. I know he means Isabella, but I can't help but shrink away from him.

We return to our steady rhythm of lighting and placing candles, moving as fast as we can. This time, I don't let my mind wander. I stay focused, counting the candles as we go. But I can't help but think about Isabella, about what I saw, what I felt. How she lay in this cemetery dying as the poisons took hold. Unafraid, triumphant.

I finally understand why she titled her novella Cicada. It had nothing to do with the characters. It was her own rebirth. She is the cicada, emerging from the earth after years of waiting. It's her story, a reclaiming of her history and her life. She gave herself the origin story that she thought she deserved.

It"s a nasty, bloody one, but it's her own. And then she chose her own death and afterlife too. She never tasted death, not properly. Her body probably wasn't even cold before she took a new one.

"Done!" Wren cheers as we meet Jordan and Neil in the middle of the circle. I look up and see a wide circle of lights wrapping the gravestones in an uneven, wavering embrace of flame.

"Now we call the ghosts?" Penny asks, appearing out of the darkness.

"Now we call the ghosts," Wren and I both answer.

The five of us stand in the middle of the circle of lights, and I wish Azar were here. It feels incomplete without her. But if this works, she'll be drawn here too, even if it's not to help us.

Wren lifts their voice, a soaring alto, and the same music from my initiation night fills the air. It vibrates against my skin, and I feel Isabella respond to it, trying to rise to the surface. But I beat her back, struggling to stay in control. Isabella is stronger than any person I've ever encountered, but right now I have to be stronger.

I lift my voice and weave it with Wren's, and so do Penny and Jordan. Neil joins last, and his voice is surprisingly beautiful, cool and silver as moonlight. Penny puts her hand in mine, and I squeeze it tight, which helps me stay rooted here, keeping Isabella at bay. I put my hand in Neil's too, in case he needs the help. Soon, the five of us are connected, and we feel almost like one organism, with one purpose, with one voice.

I put all my heart into singing, and even though I don't know the meaning of each word, I know the meaning of the song. It is an invocation, an invitation, an awakening.

After a few minutes, the first Magni Viri student, Gabriel, steps up to the circle of lights, his glasses a reflected flicker of flames. Then come Trey and Jessica, and then Dennis. The students come fast after that, crunching through the dead leaves, pouring through the gate and taking their places outside the circle of lights. Some of them are in pajamas, roused from their beds. Others are still in day clothes. Their ghosts must have taken over and made them stop whatever they were doing to come here.

I spot Azar, but if she recognizes us, there is no acknowledgment in her eyes. She stares flatly at the flames at her feet. Quigg stands next to her, his usually animated features strangely vacant.

Soon, every single student is present, surrounding us. They are eerily silent, not joining in our song. It's as if they are entranced by it.

"Okay, everyone is here," Wren whispers to me. "Are you ready?"

Because WWG is housed inside Wren, they can't be the one to perform the ritual. It's up to the rest of us, and I've agreed to take the lead. I nod, though I don't feel ready. My stomach feels like worms and centipedes are crawling around inside.

I feel Isabella's energy humming in my skin. She can sense what's about to happen, like an animal that knows an earthquake is coming—restless, agitated, afraid. But she's trapped, and there's nothing she can do.

"It's time for you to rest," I whisper to her. "Time for you to lie down and sleep for good." But that only makes her pulse all the more furiously. She doesn't want to let go. She wants to fight for life and the chance to write. She won't go willingly into the dark.

And as much as I hate her, as much as she has hurt me, a part of me can't help but admire her for it. It makes me want to cling more tenaciously to my own life.

That is what I'm doing out here in the Magni Viri graveyard. That's what we're all doing. Taking back the lives stolen from us.

I step close to Wren, gripping the silver knife in my right hand. "Are you sure you're comfortable with me doing what we talked about? In case it comes to that, I mean."

"Definitely," they say. "Do whatever it takes."

I nod. "It's time then."

Wren starts a new song, built from John Bauer's words and Walter Weymouth George's music. We're moving on from the invocation, the gathering. We're starting the breaking. I feel it as it starts to happen; the ghosts must too, because the candle flames go tall as pillars, flickering wildly as wind stirs around us, blowing through the leaves and smoke.

But then I hear a commotion in the dark, past the circle of light. Heavy steps run through the leaves, and then Quigg and Azar are shoved aside, knocking over a few candles and extinguishing their flames.

Dr. O'Connor breaks into the circle as the flames go out. "Stop this! Stop it now!" he bellows. "You have no right!"

To my horror, the students follow him, stepping over the candles and entering the circle.

The ghosts are apparently still in charge of their vessels because no one speaks. They move closer and closer to us, drawn in but without any clear purpose.

But O'Connor is nearly upon us, and my attention snaps back to him. "This is unlawful! I'll have you all out on your asses!" he roars. "How dare you!"

We back away, but then I bump into a student—Bernard Cottingham himself, his ragged dressing gown flapping in the wind. He towers over me, his eyes flat and blank. Others stand beside him. We're surrounded.

Wren starts singing again, trying desperately to keep order. O'Connor stalks straight for them, his eyes promising murder. He raises his hand to slap Wren, but then someone barrels into him from the side with a cry. "No, you don't, you bastard!"

Azar looks up from the ground, where she's straddling O'Connor, her bony elbow across his throat. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to tell him. It was Edgar." Her voice shakes with anger. "I've been trying to get free of his hold since the séance last night. As soon as he got the upper hand, he ran straight to O'Connor, the little snitch!"

I glance around hurriedly, expecting the other students to have woken up too, the way Azar has. But they are as blank and eerie as before. "He pretended to be you when Neil called," I guessed.

"Yep!" Azar growls. "That was the last fucking straw. He thought he had me for good, but his egghead ass was wrong!" She punches a struggling O'Connor in the face and climbs over him to get to us. "Come on," she yells, stepping on O'Connor and grabbing as many of us as she can reach. She sprints away, dragging me with her.

"Penny!" I yell behind me, worried she won't be able to keep up. But Neil puts an arm around her and waves me on.

O'Connor bellows behind us, back on his feet and moving, and then the students—or rather, their ghosts—finally break out of their stupor and move, starting to chase us too.

"Back to the mausoleum," Jordan yells, running straight for the building. He yanks one of the double doors open. The six of us rush inside, and Jordan picks up the abandoned pickax from earlier and uses it to jam the doors closed. It won't hold forever, but it should be enough to buy us some time.

For a moment, we are entombed in darkness and silence, our panicked breaths the only sounds. But then the ghosts come, banging their students' fists on the doors, yanking the handles. They are enraged, like animals in a feeding frenzy.

I turn on my flashlight, angling its light up so I can see everyone. "What the hell happened?"

"O'Connor—broke—the protective circle," Penny says, panting hard.

"Obviously, the ghosts know what we're doing now, and they're trying to stop us," Wren adds.

"Shit," Neil hisses, starting to pace.

"Understatement of the year," Jordan says, one hand closed tight around the pickax's handle, the other braced against the wall. "Neil, stop pacing and help me."

"Let me in there!" O'Connor bellows.

"We can still do the ritual," I say desperately. We have to finish it—there's no way we escape from this otherwise. "We're in here and they're surrounding us. It's not ideal, but we can do it. Can't we?"

"I think we'd better," Penny says. "It's our only way out of this."

"And now we have Azar," I add. "We can do this." I look into my friends' tired, worried, frightened faces, and feel my own determination bolstered. "We can do this. I know we can."

"Okay," Wren says. "Let's go. Everybody, kneel."

Our knees hit the hard floor of the mausoleum. We circle Wren, who sits cross-legged in the center.

Outside, the ghosts have begun to yell. I make out Quigg's voice, screaming obscenities in a way that doesn't sound like him at all. Someone throws themself at the doors, which rattle and groan.

"We gotta hurry," Penny says. "Before they tear the doors down. Do it now, Tara!"

"Let's hold hands," I say. It's not specifically in Bauer's notes, but it makes me feel more grounded and connected to them. And I need that more than ever because what we're doing now won't just separate us from our ghosts. It won't just release Walter Weymouth George. It will sever the ties that hold us all together—Magni Viri, our present and our past, our living and our dead.

We aren't putting an end to our ghosts. We're saying goodbye to Magni Viri itself.

Forever.