Six

Quigg shows up at my door on Monday morning. On Friday he was jolly and radiating energy, but today he's morose and exhausted, maybe a bit hungover. "You ready?" he asks, trying for a bright smile and only half succeeding.

I open the door to let him in. Helena sits hunched over her laptop, hitting the keys so hard and fast I'm fairly certain she's typing gibberish just to seem busy. Quigg gives me a quizzical look, and I barely manage to contain a laugh. I shake my head.

"This is everything," I say, pointing at my suitcase, backpack, and a single box.

"This is everything you own?" he asks skeptically. "A minimalist, huh? Well, you're making my job much easier. We'll only need to make one trip." He throws my backpack on, which looks rattier than ever against the impeccable brown tweed of his vintage blazer. He stoops to pick up the box of my meager possessions before making me a gentlemanly bow and exiting the room.

"Shall we?" he calls when I don't follow.

Quigg's already in the hallway, but I keep looking at Helena, wondering how on earth to end such a relationship. If the tables were turned and it was her leaving to take a spot in Magni Viri, I don't think I could stand it. I almost want to apologize to her, but then I remember how big an asshole she's always been to me.

"Bye," I say. "It's been... Well, bye."

She doesn't respond.

I give my old room one last glance around before shutting the door behind me forever. I only lived here a month and a half, but already it felt like the entirety of my lonely little world.

I feel horribly conspicuous as Quigg and I walk across campus together, as if every person we pass can tell what's happening—that I'm moving into Denfeld Hall, becoming a part of Magni Viri. I'm sure I don't look the part in my secondhand sweater and well-worn boots. I shrink into myself, focusing on the sound of Quigg's oxfords clicking on the sidewalk, the steady dull roll of my suitcase's wheels. As the redbrick buildings fade behind us and Denfeld Hall looms up, dark and Gothic as an English cathedral, nothing but miles of green hills at its back, I feel like I'm transferring out of Corbin College and into the University of Magni Viri.

But there on the lawn is Corbin's emblem in the form of a fountain—a black swan with lifted head, water pouring from its beak into a low, dark pool. The sight of it doesn't reassure me though. It speaks of wealth and grace and sophistication, all qualities I so obviously lack.

"Would you mind switching and taking this box for a bit? My arms are tired," Quigg says, stopping beside the fountain. He looks like a stiff wind would blow him over, and his face is pale beneath all that coifed red hair.

"Of course. Give me the backpack too," I say. "No offense, but you look awful."

He chuckles weakly. "We go a little hard on Sunday nights, just to warn you. But you'll see," he adds hurriedly before I can ask questions.

I peer down at the cemetery on my right, but I can't see much through the gloom of the thick trees that shadow it. Black wrought iron fence, old gravestones, a small building that must be a mausoleum.

I turn my attention back to Denfeld as we approach the house, which is even bigger than I had expected. It's made of dark stone, or perhaps a lighter stone weathered over the years to a grim gray color. There are architectural features I don't have the language to describe—parts that look like they belong on a castle, a tall pointing spire, and over the heavy wooden doors, an enormous stained glass window like you'd see on a church. The entire effect is very grand and cold and foreboding. I feel like Jane Eyre at the door of Thornfield.

Quigg must see the fear in my eyes because he turns me to face him and puts his hands on my shoulders. "Look, whatever you think about yourself, however unworthy you feel, it doesn't matter. The second you go through these doors, you're one of us. It's that simple. We take care of our own."

I nod, too overwhelmed to speak.

Quigg pulls the heavy iron door handle. A cascade of smells rushes across my senses: beeswax candles, wood polish, old books, cold stone, and black tea. The entryway to the house is breathtaking, the stone walls covered in blue-tinged light from the stained glass window far overhead. There is an ancient-looking Persian rug underfoot and a stone staircase leading up toward another, smaller stained glass window, this one in the shape of an arch. Here the stairs split, leading up toward opposite ends of the building.

I expected the inside of the hall to be dark, fussy, morbidly Victorian. But it feels open and airy, the ceiling arching up, up, up and filled with light the same way a cathedral is. Dust motes float in the air, and piano music drifts in from some distant room.

To my surprise, tears stand in my eyes.

Quigg leaves my suitcase beside the stairs and takes the box from my arms and sets it down too. I barely notice, my senses overwhelmed by the eerie, almost holy effect of the foyer.

"You'll get used to it," Quigg says, seeing my awestruck expression. "You'll always love it, but it will get easier to bear."

I nod. Then my eyes catch on a huge, faded oil painting of two young white men, each of them no older than thirty. They stand side by side, shoulders nearly touching, heads lifted, eyes on the viewer. They are dressed in suits, one of them expensive-looking and the other more modest, one bare-faced and the other boasting a dark beard. The bare-faced one has a dreamy, gentle look about him. The bearded one's gaze is more steely and determined. They make an interesting pair.

I squint to read the small lettering engraved on a tarnished brass plate beneath:

Walter Weymouth George and Fr. John Bauer, November 1900

"Who are they?" I ask.

"The founders of Magni Viri," Quigg says. "They were both professors here. WWG was a pianist, and Bauer taught theology and metaphysics."

I start to make a joke about rich white dudes and academic societies, but it dies on my lips under John Bauer's unflinching gaze. I'm still staring at the painting when Quigg nudges my arm. "So do you want a tour, or should I take you to your room?"

"Tour," I say quickly, pulling my eyes away from the painting. "I want to see everything."

"Okay," he says, "pretty much the entire ground floor is shared property: the kitchen, the library, the common rooms, and greenhouse." He proceeds to walk me through the rooms, hardly pausing to let me take each one in before moving on to the next.

The kitchen is enormous, clearly a post-1900s renovation. And it's a mess—dishes piled in the sink, orange peels on the counter, empty liquor bottles sticking out of the trash. A tall, gaunt student in a brocaded dressing gown leans against the counter with his eyes closed, eating a bowl of Froot Loops. I stare at him a moment longer than is polite, shocked by how ill he looks, his sallow skin and sharp cheekbones casting him more wraith than human in the pale light, but he never opens his eyes anyway. Then my attention is caught by a disheveled-looking girl who's rummaging frantically in one of the fridges and inhaling a cup of coffee, clearly running late.

Neither of the students notices Quigg and me walk through, and we continue on to the dining room, which is ornate and formal and totally empty. A faint smell of burning permeates the space, and my eyes catch on the curtains, which are blackened and filled with holes, as if they've recently been set on fire.

"What happened here?"

Quigg sighs. "Bernard Cottingham. That was the fellow in the kitchen who looked like a disgraced nineteenth-century noble. He says he's an experiential artist, but he's honestly just a pyro. Stay away from him if you can. Thankfully he's graduating this year."

"Jesus," I say under my breath, but Quigg has already moved on. I hurry to catch up.

The library immediately banishes Bernard and the burned curtains from my mind. It is rounded in shape, huge and gorgeous with yet more stained glass windows and arched shelves filled with old, leather-bound books. Green velvet furniture and bronze reading lamps dot the space. I stand so long gaping that Quigg has to come back and physically guide me out of the room to continue our tour.

He glances at his watch. "I actually have class soon, so I will let you explore the rest on your own. If our RD is here, she can give you a key to your room and everything." He leads me to a closed door, which he raps on.

"Come in," a distracted-sounding voice says. Quigg opens the door to reveal a messy study, books piled on every surface, loose papers drifting from desk to floor. Most of them are covered in what looks like Greek.

"Hey, Laini," Quigg says. "Tara is here. Can I hand her over to you?"

A head slowly peers out from around the biggest stack of books. I make out a pretty, heart-shaped face, most of which is taken up by enormous glasses, a small rosebud mouth, and a shaggy black bobbed haircut. She blinks at me for a moment, as if coming out of a trance. Her eyes are ringed with an exhausted-looking shade of purple that stands out glaringly against her faded-gold skin tone.

"Hello," I say uncertainly, unnerved by how run-down every member of Magni Viri I've seen today looks. I guess they all partied way too hard last night. I dig in my backpack for my folder of paperwork.

"I gotta go, see you both later," Quigg says, dashing out of the room and leaving me standing amid the books and papers. I glance out the window at the back of the study, which looks out on a maple tree with vibrant orange leaves. There is a row of dusty-looking teacups in the windowsill, some of them ringed with mold.

"Sorry, I, um, where were we?" Laini asks, as if we'd been mid conversation. She scratches her forehead.

"I'm Tara Boone. I'm supposed to move in today," I prompt her. I cross the room and hand her the manila folder.

"Oh!" she says, as if realizing for the first time who I am. "Yes, of course, hello." She stands suddenly from her chair. "I'm Laini Moore. I'm the resident director. I'm, um, a Magni Viri alum. I graduated two years ago, and I stayed on to continue work on my translation." She pushes her glasses up her nose.

"What are you translating?"

She waves her hand lazily over the piles of books and papers. "Oh, um, it's a new translation of Sappho?"

"Oh, wow, that's really cool. I read Anne Carson's over the summer."

She blinks and looks like she's about to launch into a passionate opinion on the matter, but then stops herself. "I'm guessing you have other things to do today besides talk Greek translations, so let's get you moved in, all right?" She rummages in her desk and then hands me a spiral-bound notebook and a key with a tag that reads "#11." "Those are the house rules. Please read them and let me know if you have questions. You're in room eleven with Wren."

"Oh. I have a roommate?" The feeling in my stomach is less like butterflies than a swarm of angry yellow jackets. What if this will be like rooming with Helena all over again?

"Yes, but don't worry—it's not Meredith's room. We thought it would be hard for Azar after losing Meredith. So Wren volunteered to share. They aren't—Oh, and Wren's pronouns are they/them, by the way. Anyway, Wren is hardly ever in the room. They practically sleep at the piano."

"They're a music major?"

Laini nods. "A composer. Really brilliant. You might have heard them playing when you came in, though I think Wren has knocked off now. Do you like classical music?"

I shrug. "I don't not like it. I guess I haven't ever really listened to much."

"Well, you will listen to quite a lot from here on out," Laini says with a laugh. "Let's head up to your room. Wren might be there, and you two can meet."

We grab my stuff and head up the left-hand wing of stairs to the second floor. Laini points at various doors and tells me who resides behind them. I do a double take when she points out Azar's room, since that's where Meredith used to live. But then Laini stops at a door halfway down the hall, overlooking the foyer.

"Here we are." She knocks lightly, and after a moment the door opens and Wren blinks at us sleepily.

They are white and have very pale skin, a mop of wavy brown hair, and dark brown eyes with purple smudges beneath. They look very young, hardly more than fifteen. Is it possible I won't be the youngest one here?

"Welcome, welcome," Wren says. They take the box from my arms and set it on an empty desk. I drop my backpack on the floor, and Laini heaves my suitcase onto the unmade bed.

Wren turns back to me. "So, uh, I'm Wren Norwood. My pronouns are they/them."

"It's nice to meet you," I say, feeling awkwardly formal. "I'm Tara Boone. She/her. Thanks for sharing your room."

"Right—well, I'll let you two get acquainted," Laini says. "I'll be in my office all day if you need me, Tara. Welcome to Denfeld!" With that, she hurries away down the hall, clearly eager to get back to her Greek.

Wren smiles at me, studying me with interest. I busy myself looking around the place that will be my new home for the next four years.

This room is nothing like the cement block I lived in with Helena. The walls are covered in green patterned wallpaper, and a window with heavy drapes pulled back throws light into the room. The floors are bare wood, the boards warped and splintered in places. The beds are old-fashioned, made of worn brass gone shiny on the top of each post. The effect is surprisingly homey.

"I'm a bit of a slob," Wren says genially. "I hope you don't mind. That's why I originally asked for my own room, so I wouldn't be a burden to anyone. But considering the circumstances..." They trail off.

Wren's side of the room is indeed messy, with clothes thrown over furniture and books piled up in corners. Their trash can is overflowing with balled-up paper. Wren themself is messy too—untidy hair, wrinkled polka-dot pajamas, mismatched socks. They fidget uncomfortably, waiting for my judgment. I feel an immediate and intense fondness for them and this room.

"Oh, I don't mind a mess," I say, smiling. "Thank you for letting me stay. It would have been awkward to take Meredith's bed and everything."

"Yeah," Wren says. "Poor Mer." Their face falls.

"Were you friends?" I ask gently.

Wren shrugs. "Yes and no. We weren't close, not like she was with Azar and Neil. But friendship is sort of built in here. We're always together. It's kind of like family, you know? Like, you didn't get to pick them and you don't always necessarily like them, but you all sort of belong to each other?"

"Sure," I say, though Wren's words leave a hollow feeling in my stomach. Mom and I belonged to each other, but I chose to leave her. Just like Dad did. Guilt gnaws at me, even though I know I don't deserve it. I push thoughts of my family away. "Who in the house are you close to?"

Wren wrinkles their nose. "Jordan, I guess. He's one of my favorite people I've ever met."

"High praise," I say with a smile. Mentally, I run through the row of first-year students I saw at the memorial. Jordan must be the serious-looking boy who sat next to Wren. I only got a glimpse of him: very short hair, a deep brown complexion, a crisp dress shirt and blazer.

"You'll see," Wren says. "You'll love him. And Penny, of course. She's a gem."

"She's in our year too? I don't think I know of her."

"Penny Dabrovsky—she's in the room next to ours. Long hair. Very dapper, walks with a cane sometimes."

"So it's Neil, Azar, you, Penny, Jordan, and... me?"

"Yep, and the other years have six each too. And Laini keeps us all in line. So that's twenty-five total in our house."

"How—how old are you?" I finally ask.

Wren laughs. "I just turned seventeen last month. I know I look young. To be fair, I'm the youngest in our year. But I'm used to taking care of myself. The others like to baby me sometimes, and it's honestly pretty annoying. It's not like they're much older than me."

I blush, annoyed at myself for prying. "I'm seventeen too," I say. "I graduated a year early. So is the house pretty divided up by year, or do you hang out with, like, the juniors and seniors too?"

They hesitate. "Sometimes. They tend to be pretty... wrapped up in their research. But Quigg and I are pals. He's a junior. Oh, and he's O'Connor's assistant, but I guess you already know that."

I nod and open the notebook Laini gave me. I turn the pages, but the words run over each other, not forming into any coherent meaning.

"You look overwhelmed," Wren says.

"It's a lot of new people," I admit. "I've been pretty much on my own since I got to Corbin. I think I may have forgotten how to, like, hold a proper conversation." I don't mention that the house's state of exhaustion and disarray has made me nervous for what my future in Magni Viri holds. I don't think I've seen one person without dark circles under their eyes.

"I'm not sure I ever knew how to hold a proper conversation," Wren says with a laugh. "But let's give you some practice, eh? Tell me about yourself. Like, where are you from? What's your major?"

For a moment I'm tempted to lie. To invent a fabulous backstory that's so much better than the reality, like Richard Papen did in The Secret History—a book I read over the summer hoping for clues of what life at a liberal arts college would be like. But Wren looks earnest and interested, and so I tell them the truth. And despite my worries, I don't want to lie. This is supposed to be a fresh start for me—I don"t want to do it as someone else. Maybe that's why I tell them a lot more than I mean to. About leaving rural Florida and my mom, about my horrible roommate, all the jobs I've been working, how hard college is. How badly I want to write and how impossible it seems. The words keep pouring out, as if they've been dammed up inside me for months, waiting for a chance to get out. Waiting for someone who cared enough to listen.

Wren does listen, nodding in all the right places and letting me finish my story before saying anything. To my relief, there's no pity in their response, only a frankness as they reply. "You know, Jordan and Penny are both first-gen students too," they say. "You'd be surprised how many people in Magni Viri are."

"Really? I haven't met anyone else at Corbin who is."

"Well, it doesn't sound like you've met many people at all," Wren says with a teasing laugh, though it's not a mean one.

I laugh too. It's easier now that my old life is behind me. "True. So is your family full of musicians?"

"Oh, God no. My parents have the most boring jobs imaginable. My dad works in tech security, and my mom is an attorney. They hardly knew what to do with me."

I ignore the pang of jealousy I always feel when people at Corbin talk about their parents. I don't want to think about my mom, don't want to wonder if she's going to work, paying her bills, staying away from that scary ex like she promised she would. She's not my job anymore. I keep telling myself this.

"Do you have any performances coming up?" I ask after we've both been silent for too long. "I'd love to hear you play."

Wren's eyes light up. "Come on. I'll play for you now." They leap off their bed, pulling me with them from the room. I have to jog to keep up with them as they hurtle down the stairs and into the music room, which Quigg didn't show me earlier. There's an enormous grand piano in front of a huge window.

"I'll play you the new piece I'm working on," Wren says. They sit at the piano and launch right into a very complicated-sounding song full of minor chords. It reminds me of watching a thunderstorm roll in from miles away, the way you can in Florida. After a while, the tempo gets fast and then even faster, until Wren's fingers are flying over the keys. I find a chair against the wall and settle in, mesmerized.

I don't know anything about classical music, but I can tell that Wren is brilliant, that they are making something profound and important. Wren plays for five minutes and then ten and then fifteen.

The music moves through me like a river, wrenching loose anything that isn't tied down. Memories, emotions, fears, secret dreams. I feel like the blood is humming in my veins, like every particle of me vibrates with the notes that pour from Wren's fingers, pushing me to my feet with the indiscernible need to do something.

I'm at the base of the stairs before I realize what I'm doing, where I'm going. But I don't stop. I drift up the stairs and down the hall, Wren's music loosening its hold on me as it softens into the background. When I reach the door to the room I know was Meredith's, I pause, trying to fight down the urge.

But the door is ajar, and when I rap on it, it pushes open still farther, releasing a whiff of lily of the valley perfume. The smell unaccountably makes all the hairs on my arms stand on end, brings me out of the dreamy state of mind that Wren's music had evoked, like a splash of cold water in my face.

"Hello?" I call, sticking my head inside. But the room is empty, and I can only hear the faint notes of Wren's music, still playing, in the distance. I realize how weird it would be if Azar found me here. I'm about to turn away when I catch sight of Meredith Brown's pale face staring at me. I startle, nearly bolting from the room before I realize it's a blown-up canvas print of her and the other Magni Viri freshmen.

Without thinking, I step deeper into the room, drawn irresistibly to the photograph. The six of them are bunched close together, Meredith at the center, staring down the camera with a defiant, smoky gaze while Neil kisses her cheek. The others seem to radiate out from her, as if she's the sun and they're planets rotating around her powerful gravitational pull.

With effort, I pull my eyes away from her and look around the room. All of Meredith's belongings are still here, as if she's expected back at any moment. The walls are hung with modern art, mostly abstract blocks of color. Her bed is made with a black-and-gold duvet. A green cardigan hangs on the back of her chair. A neat stack of notebooks rests next to her laptop. I pick up a heavy black pen from the desktop, rolling it between my fingers. I wonder if her hands were the last to touch it; if something of her essence remains on everything she owned, the way her perfume lingers in the room. That's what made my skin break out in goose bumps when I entered the room, I realize—lily of the valley was the same fragrance that surrounded Meredith's dead body when I bent to listen for her breath in the library. Didn't I smell it in the chapel too?

She's still here, I think—wildly, nonsensically. She's watching me.

I spin around, my heart in my throat, my hand over my mouth, fully expecting to see Meredith at the door, demanding to know why I'm touching her things.

But there's no one there.

My hair stirs at the back of my neck, as if someone has blown on my skin. I whip back around, my heart racing, and meet Meredith's eyes in the photograph again.

I can feel her here. I can feel her beside me. The same way I felt her the night she died, keeping pace with me behind the stretcher that carried her body away.

My breaths come fast and shallow. Hysteria rises up in my chest, threatening to choke me. "Meredith?" I whisper.

My phone rings, and I scream, barely managing to muffle the sound with my hands. I yank it from my pocket and answer the call, bringing the phone up to my ear. I fully expect to hear Meredith's voice on the other end, that same soft, liquid voice that entranced the entire room at the lit club reading. Instead, cicadas scream in my ear. Wind moans through naked treetops. Fingernails scrape on wood. Beneath it all, a strange, garbled music plays—the kind you hear late at night when you've woken from a deep sleep and the house is full of faraway noises.

I squeeze my eyes shut, terror filling every particle of me.

"Tara?" a girl's voice says, distant, almost inaudible, as if heard from underwater.

A hand squeezes my forearm, the fingers soft and warm. If I had any breath to spare, I would scream. Instead, I stagger back, opening my eyes.

There's a girl beside me, nearly six feet tall. I have to tilt my head back to meet her eyes.

"It is Tara, isn't it?" She looks as startled as I am. "I didn't mean to scare you. I called your name. Are you okay? Did you get a bad phone call?"

For a moment, all I can do is stare at her. She's white and has long honey-brown hair braided along one side and pulled up into a loose bun at the back of her head. She's dressed in gray wool slacks, a striped button-down, and a corduroy vest. She has a beautiful cane that looks like an antique. The cane is what finally clears my confusion.

"You must be Penny," I finally say.

"Yeah, and you're Tara, right?"

I nod.

Penny, not Meredith. Meredith isn't here. Meredith is dead. I'm just freaking myself out.

Wordlessly, I sink to Meredith's bed, struggling to get a breath into my burning lungs. My phone's screen has gone blank and dead.

"Wow, did I scare you that badly?" Penny says, sitting beside me. She sets an APA guide with Azar's name on the cover down on the bed. She must have borrowed it and come in here to return it. She's probably wondering what I'm doing in here.

As my panic fades, embarrassment takes its place. My face flushes hot and is most likely bright red. "Sorry," I whisper, rubbing my cheek. My lips feel numb. I really let my imagination get to me this time.

"Strong startle response, huh?" Penny asks, forehead creased with concern.

I shake my head. "It's nothing. I got distracted thinking about Meredith, I guess. You surprised me."

Penny looks away from me and around the room. "It's so strange that she's gone. Every time I pop in to see Azar, I expect to see Meredith at the desk, typing away at one of her stories." She laughs, a bit sadly. "The girl never stopped writing."

"Why is all her stuff still here?" I ask carefully. "Didn't her parents want it?"

Penny meets my eyes again. "Mer's parents aren't really the sentimental kind."

"Oh," I say, unsure how to respond. My mom always held on to my childhood things, squirreling away old report cards, honors day awards, science fair trophies. She even kept my newborn blanket and baby teeth. If I died, I think she'd want everything that was mine—at least, before I left home she would have. I'm not sure how she'd feel now. Maybe I'm already dead to her.

Penny sighs. "We're going to box it all up eventually, but... we all kind of agreed to let it stay for a while. Like, we want Meredith to know that she's still ours, I guess. We didn't know her that long, but she was ours. She always will be."

I nod, averting my face so Penny doesn't see how her words have affected me. Even dead, Meredith is more a member of Magni Viri than I am. Even if her ghost isn't here, her memory is.

"Hey," Penny says, tugging my sleeve to make me look at her. "Don't worry. We've got space here for you too." She smiles, and I realize she's got beautiful lips, slightly ridged as if they're chapped, and a little dimple on one side when she smiles.

The longer I look at her, the harder it is to stop. She has high cheekbones and lightly tanned skin. Her eyes are hazel, spaced farther apart than most people's and fringed with long lashes.

"So were you looking for Azar?" Penny asks, cocking her head.

I realize she must think I came in here to snoop. Which I guess I did, though I'm still not sure why. It's almost as if the eerie force of Wren's music carried me here. Or maybe just my own morbid curiosity.

I blush again at being caught out. "Wren was showing me their music, but then I think they forgot I was there. I was just coming up here and passed by..." I trail off helplessly. I'm too flustered to think of a lie.

But Penny only smiles. "Wren gets really caught up in their music. They'll play for six, seven hours without stopping, and I'm not exaggerating about that. We literally have to pull them from the bench sometimes to make them eat and go to class," Penny says.

"Are you serious? That sounds..." I trail off again, not wanting to say what I'm thinking.

"Unhealthy and obsessive?" Penny offers.

"Intense," I finally say.

"Everyone here is like that to some degree, but Wren is the worst. Maybe since you're their roommate, you can keep an eye on them?" she asks.

"Yeah, of course. We'll keep an eye on each other," I say, remembering what Wren said about not liking being babied by the others. "Wren seems like they're going to be a good roommate."

"Better than your last?" Penny's lips quirk.

I cock my head. "How did you...?"

"Quigg texted all of us. He's a terrible gossip, just so you know. Don't tell him anything you don't want all of Magni Viri hearing about." She laughs, a husky, throaty sound. "Not that it's really possible to keep secrets around here. The walls have ears," she says, a little bitterly. I can't help but look around the room at her words—as if I'll spot someone hiding in the curtains.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Penny shrugs. "Nothing. It's just a lot people all thrown together in one house, you know?" she says, a little too casually. "Want to get out of here, maybe take a walk?" she adds.

I seize on the idea, suddenly desperate to get as far as possible from Meredith's room, maybe even out of her house. "Sure, I've got a few hours until class. My first of the day was canceled." I grimace as I think of poor Dr. Hendrix, who still hasn't recovered from finding Meredith's body. An involuntary shiver runs through me.

"Let me just grab a jacket," I say, and then stop when I realize I can still hear Wren's music. "Should we tell Wren where we're going?"

Penny shakes her head, half smiling. "Chances are they haven't even noticed you left. They'll be playing for a while yet, don't worry."

It's only when I'm back in my own bedroom that I realize I'm still gripping Meredith's expensive black pen in one hand. I ought to take it back to her room, but I don't. I slide it guiltily into my desk drawer, a little piece of brilliant, beautiful Meredith Brown for my own.