“That’s so scary,” Harper said.

  “It’s for sure losing us time,” Bo said. “They were already supposed to have the garden finished and now they can’t work in there until they get the nest cleared out.” He looked at his phone. “Brookhants keeps on giving,” he said, scrolling. “Whose idea was it to shoot here?”

  “I should probably go over that way and see if they need me,” Kae said.

  “We’ll be in here for the next hour or so,” Bo said, not looking up from his phone. “Everyone should already know that, but maybe you can be the one to do any necessary reminding.”

  “No problem.” Kae made a kind of good luck with this guy face at Harper and Audrey and left.

  “These are beautiful,” Audrey said. She’d wandered over to the papier-mâché sculptures and picked up the blue flower. “What are they?” She turned it over in her hand.

  “No idea,” Harper said. “We just found them.”

  “They’re props?” Audrey asked.

  “No,” Harper said. “Like in the dirt. They came out of a bag of soil.” Harper laughed, both at hearing how dumb it sounded and also at Audrey’s reaction face.

  “Let’s get to this,” Bo said, looking up from his phone and spinning around, considering the space. “So if we orient ourselves from here,” he said, gesturing to the zinc planter, “Eleanor’s hidey-hole.” He backed up to reconsider, and as he did, knocked his heel into a container holding one of the citrus trees Harper and Kae had just hauled in.

  Bo turned to see what he’d run into and took in the cluster of them, flicking one of the skeletal trunks with his fingers. “What’s up with these?” he asked like he didn’t expect an answer.

  “They’re dead,” Harper said. “They came off the truck like that.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. “We get twenty sticks in pots when it’s supposed to be the Amazon in here.”

  “Layla’s on it,” Harper said.

  “I don’t even know who the fuck Layla is,” Bo said, texting something to someone in a rather furious way. “Oh, yes I do,” he added absentmindedly, before slipping his phone into his back pocket. “OK,” he said, clapping his hands together hard and again looking up at Harper and Audrey. “The Faderman discovery scene. Flo’s got the—”

  “I think we should maybe wait a minute,” Audrey interrupted. “Sorry,” she added quickly.

  “What?” Bo was clearly near to reaching his limit of tolerable interruptions.

  Audrey pointed behind him. He turned, and they all looked together through the glass at the vintage green Jaguar convertible that had pulled up alongside the building, Merritt Emmons at the wheel and Elaine Brookhants as her passenger. Elaine was now waving in at all of them.

  “Well, shit,” Bo said, but he sounded happier than he had all morning. And he was smiling.

  An Undesirable Morbidness

  After another hour spent working in the humid cloister of The Orangerie, Alex was now shivering as she waited outside Main Hall for Libbie to come down from her office, or for Caspar to arrive with the carriage, whoever came first. She had the stereoscope and cards hidden in her bag, along with the other items she now kept away from Libbie: a small, corked jar of dead yellow jackets scooped from the bathroom floor; two dried and flattened angel’s trumpet blooms clearly marked by Eleanor’s teeth; a handwritten version of the student song she’d heard Adelaide so wrongly sing a verse of; and, the real prize, Clara Broward’s personal copy of The Story of Mary MacLane. The copy curiously missing a page.

  Cold wind cut through her coat and dress. Alex felt the sweat that had pooled in her chemise while she worked in The Orangerie chill against her skin. That chill ran the length of her and she looked again for the carriage but did not see it. Caspar hadn’t quite gotten the run of this new routine, either. She and Libbie used to nearly always stay on campus through supper; now, it was so empty and quiet, so morose, that they’d stumbled into the habit of taking their evening meal at Spite Manor. Which meant additional work for Hanna.

  Alex glanced back at the entrance to Main Hall, its wide double doors, to see if Libbie had emerged from one of them. She had not. As Alex again turned around, she took note of the fountain. It was drained for the season, a layer of unmarred snow inside, though that had melted some in the dull sun, pulling it away from the rim and exposing a black ring.

  Alex stepped closer, put one hand against the fountain’s stone and felt the cold seep through her gloves.

  They’d had to drain and refill it after Flo and Clara had died—something foul had been growing in the water. It had seemed unimportant to Alex at the time. There was so much going on and all so dismal, the scummy fountain had seemed the least of it. But now, as she ran her (thankfully gloved) fingers along the thin ring of black growth, it returned to her—the flaming wasps that had drowned in it. The black water that had followed. What remained was something almost like pasted ash. Whatever it was, this black ring, it appeared to run the entire inner top edge of the fountain’s basin. Some of it flaked off as she pressed her fingers against it.

  She’d seen this before, or something similar, rimming their tub at Spite Manor the night Adelaide had come, sick and wearing those snowshoes, while Libbie was taking her bath. What was left in that bathtub hadn’t been dried and frozen like this, but it was otherwise the same. Alex knew this because she’d been the one to scrub it off the next morning.

  There were things about that night that Alex felt sure Libbie had not told her. Things said between Libbie and Adelaide, dark things that had happened in that bathroom—before Alex had arrived, and again after Libbie had sent her away to find Hanna.

  But this was how she and Libbie were: they stepped around their secrets in silence, afraid to disturb them. Perhaps they should be afraid.

  Alex looked at her hands, the fingertips of her tan gloves now black.

  She turned again to search for Libbie at the doors. She was not there. Alex considered going back up the stairs to wait inside the entrance, but then she heard the horses and soon after saw Caspar and the carriage coming on the Spite Manor road.

  At the same time, across the snow-packed lawn, at the rim of the dark woods, there was movement and color.

  She squinted to better see. Her eyes were tired from their exercise with the stereoscope, so maybe this was only a trick of the trees. But—no, she was correct. The colors were brighter, the picture clearer: two girls had come from the orchard path and were now slowly crossing the lawn in her direction. At this distance, she couldn’t yet make out who they were.

  There were now so few students remaining at Brookhants that Alex had made a point to study up on each girl who was left. She hoped to never again be caught unawares about their interests and activities, how they were spending their time.

  As Caspar slowed the carriage before her, giving a nod, Alex ignored him and stepped around it so that she could keep watch on the students moving toward her across the lawn.

  In the immediate aftermath of Eleanor’s death, it seemed like they might have done enough to calm the parents and the trustees: Libbie’s many letters and telegrams, the meetings she’d held with prominent families in Boston and Baltimore, Philadelphia and Hartford. Oh sure, they’d lost maybe a dozen students at once, as soon as the snow was cleared enough for their parents to send drivers to fetch them. And a few of the faculty, Leanna Hamm included, had resigned, leaving behind scathing letters of condemnation as they did. (None more scathing than Leanna’s.)

  Even still, as they sent the students off for their winter holidays, Alex had told herself that they’d made it through the worst. That since they’d located the book (and Alex had corralled it to her own keeping) and had somehow reached the end of such an unimaginably wretched year, the dawn of 1903 could only be an improvement.

  But oh, my sage Readers: not so.

  Most of the student body simply did not return to Brookhants. Arrivals day came, as always, in mid-January. The rooms and halls were cleaned and waiting, smelling of citrus polish and wax. To start them off on the goodly path, one family, the Bentons (their daughter Aimee was in year ten) had shipped copies of the newest edition of Ruth Ashmore’s Side Talks with Girls—one for each of the students. Mrs. Benton had even bookmarked what she believed to be the most relevant chapter: “Your Own Familiar Friend.”*

  Libbie thought the book full of facile advice for girls who were meant to look pretty and say little, but to appease the Bentons and their wide circle of influence, she’d agreed to have one placed on each student’s nightstand, and there they awaited readers in those lemon-scented rooms. Only readers did not come for them.

  Some of the parents didn’t even feel the need to account for their daughter’s removal from the school—they simply sent for her belongings.*

  And then, even worse: upon recognizing the bleak state of things, a number of the girls who had returned in January promptly contacted their bewildered parents, explained their unease at the situation, and turned around and left again. Left for good, this time. Which in turn left Brookhants at somewhere around 35 percent capacity for the spring semester of 1903.* This was even lower than in the school’s first years of operation, when Libbie and Alex were still trying to establish Brookhants’s reputation as a place for the modern girl to become thoroughly prepared and mentally mature—enough so that she might succeed at any women’s college.*

  Alex did not spare worry for the students who had left. She did not plot and plan ways to convince them to return. That could come later, once Brookhants was again safe. For now, she believed those students were better off wherever else they’d landed.

  Her focus was to keep steady watch over each of the girls who remained.

  Such as the girls who had just emerged from the woods, who were now clutching at each other so that they moved as one. The combination of their hats and flapping coats, with the wind billowing and sucking at their long, black skirts, made them appear, from this distance, as a grotesque, two-headed bird.

  They seemed to notice Alex standing there with the express purpose of watching them approach. One of them, sophomore Camille Andrews, Alex could now see, held her hand in front of her mouth and leaned in to whisper something that the other, Josephine Narse, found amusing. She doubled over in a perfect fit of laugher.

  As far away as they were, and with the wind, whispering was most unnecessary. Alex clearly could not hear them. It was a performance meant to annoy her.

  And then, as the girls continued to clutch and giggle, and seemed to additionally slow their steps, Alex thought she saw Camille slip a book, a red book, into the opening at the front of her coat, which she then bundled around herself to conceal.

  “Josephine Narse and Camille Andrews,” Alex shouted into the wind, “who gave you permission to be in the woods?”

  Camille called back, or pretended to, but Alex couldn’t hear what she’d said. She felt the girl was making her voice purposefully thin.

  “Students are no longer allowed in the woods without permission,” Alex shouted. “You girls know this! You’ve been told time and again!”

  Camille again pretended to answer with something Alex could not make out. She’d had enough. She started toward them, her boots crunching the snow. Its top layer was a crust of ice that held each step until it didn’t and she sank into the dry snow below, which forced her to pull up and out so that she might step again. And promptly sink again. Snow and ice fell inside her boots. Her hands were in fists as they swung at her sides. She was suddenly furious with these girls and their galling impudence. She stepped again, sank again. Stepped again, sank again. Camille and Josephine whispered and laughed before her. She hated these girls, she really hated them, she would—

  “Alex?”

  Alex stopped, then turned. Libbie stood beside the carriage, her face puzzled, though even as Alex watched, Libbie took in her stance, the girls coming behind, and her features shifted into disappointment.

  “Where are you going?” Libbie asked.

  Alex could hear the girls behind her now, no doubt hoping this interruption would spare them their punishment.

  “I saw them come out of the woods,” Alex called. She knew she sounded like she was tattling, but she was tattling. “And I believe Camille Andrews is hiding something in her coat.”

  The girls took another tentative step or two. They were slight enough to walk atop the snow crust, not to sink down through it. Now they were nearly in line with Alex, who flicked them a scowl, something she immediately regretted for its lack of composure.

  “Girls,” Libbie called to them. “Are you both alright?”

  “Yes, of course, Principal Brookhants,” Camille said. “We were just on a walk. It’s so awfully dull here with everyone gone. We only wanted to take the air before supper.”

  Take the air. Now that was Camille putting it on thick, Alex thought, the same way Camille’s older sister had behaved when she’d been at Brookhants. And she, the older sister, had once been friends with Clara Broward.

  “And have you something in your coat?” Libbie asked. “Something you’re hiding from Miss Trills?”

  “It’s only a novel,” Camille said. “I’ve lost my gloves and my hands were cold, so I tucked them up into my sleeves and couldn’t carry it.” She reached in and pulled out the book. It was bound in red, was the correct size and shape. Camille started toward Libbie but Alex grabbed for the book instead.

  For one wonderful moment, Alex was dead sure that here was the proof that Mary MacLane’s book still held sway at Brookhants, even after all their troubles with it. And now, Libbie would be unable to refute it, herself having just witnessed two of their so few remaining students walk a copy out of the woods.

  But alas, as she looked down Alex saw that she held Richard Marsh’s novel The Beetle, a vivid, color illustration of that ugly insect crawling across its front. It was a lurid tale of horror. But it was not The Story of Mary MacLane.

  “It’s The Beetle,” Camille said, speaking not to Alex, but to Libbie. “I’ve read it so many times.”

  “It’s very scary,” Josephine added stupidly.

  Alex turned the book over in her hands. It did look like it had been read many times, its binding stained and marred. There was also a slip of paper wedged between its pages, a few inches sticking out the top. Perhaps it was only a bookmark but it flicked at some vague core of dread inside her.

  “I’m not sure it’s wise to work so diligently to frighten yourselves, girls,” Libbie said. “But I have heard that if that’s the result you’re after, then you’ve landed upon the novel to do it.”

  “Oh, it’s deliciously awful,” Camille said. “It’s one of my favorites because it’s so gruesome.”

  Alex had been about to look at that sandwiched piece of paper, to make certain it wasn’t something it should not be, but Camille’s comment rekindled her anger and she thrust the novel back at the girl, asking, “Why would you choose to fill your minds with fresh horrors? Haven’t we had quite enough of those here, without also seeking them out in books?”

  “They’ve already set the tables, girls,” Libbie said, interrupting with false cheer, “so you’d best hurry.”

  Camille and Josephine did not wait for additional instruction. They scooted around Alex like she was a panting tiger on a short leash.

  “I’m told there’s gingerbread for dessert,” Libbie added. “Will one of you see about saving me a piece for tomorrow?”

  “I will, Principal Brookhants,” Josephine said as both girls reattached themselves to each other. They even waved at Caspar and fawned over the horses as they went.

  But once they reached the Main Hall steps, Alex, who was still stopped in the snow, watched as Camille turned and looked right at her in order to grin like a devil—the girl’s mouth mirroring nothing so much as the mirthless stretch of lips Alex had seen earlier in the stereoscope image, as if Camille now had fish bones jammed between her cheeks. It was the same awful smile. Camille turned to follow Josephine inside and Alex shuddered.

  Libbie had been waiting to mount the carriage, unhappily watching Alex watch the girls. “Was any of that necessary?” she now asked her. “Did you get what you were after?”

  Alex, still stunned by Camille’s smile, took a few moments to process Libbie’s displeasure. Then she said, “They were coming from the woods on the orchard path.” She felt that should be more than enough to explain.

  “Well if that isn’t cause for a scene.”

  “It’s very suitable cause for a scene,” Alex said, feeling, as was often the case now, that she needed to defend herself. “They’ve been told not to go into the woods. More than once, they’ve been told. And those two are no good for each other, anyway. Not so long ago you would have agreed with me about that.”

  “It feels long ago,” Libbie said, taking Caspar’s hand as she mounted the carriage.

  “Yes, it does,” Alex said. “That we agree on.” Her stockings were now sopping and there was so much snow in her boots she could curl her toes around it. She felt additionally displeased when Caspar did not hold out his hand to assist her into the carriage and instead moved himself back into the driver’s seat. This was almost certainly because Alex had refused his assistance so many times before, but no matter: today his lack of deference rankled her. It was her right to refuse but he should nonetheless offer.

  As Alex heaved herself into the carriage, Libbie said, sounding very defeated, “This really can’t go on.”

  “It won’t,” Alex said simply. She meant it.

  Road Apples

  Audrey did not want to be in an SUV on the way to a strip mall in Tiverton. They were now six days into filming—six messy, not particularly successful days, if you asked her—and tomorrow both she and Harper had five A.M. call times.

  And yet here she was: in an SUV on the way to a strip mall in Tiverton. With Merritt along, too.