It continues to chime. Bong . . . Bong . . . Bong . . .

  The sound consumes us, and suddenly the closet’s air feels stale. My skin is crawling now, itching to move around, move away, get out.

  Rory ignores the noise and turns to leave, rattling the doorknob. “C’mon,” she mumbles, turning the knob in the other direction.

  “Don’t go out there, Rory.” Drew’s words are barely audible over the sound of the alarm, the security message, and the chiming clock.

  She scoffs. “There is no way I am staying in here.” She shoves her shoulder against the walnut finish. “Freakin’ stuck. C’mon you piece of crap!” She kicks the wood with her unscuffed saddle shoes.

  Bing. Bing. B—

  Our phones all sing together. My device buzzes in my hand, pulsing against my skin like a bird beating its wings. Then the screen goes black.

  “My phone just died,” Veró utters.

  “Mine too,” Rory says.

  My thoughts mingle with the sounds from outside the closet. Warning. Warning. You’re in this room. You’re in your body. Secure doors. Lockdown. Warning. Warning.

  It always starts and ends with the sound of the alarm. My memory reanimates, engulfs me, and then sends me reeling. After a while, it deposits me back in the closet. I can find some solace here for a moment before the clock chimes and the cycle repeats.

  I pass the time between by collecting things, like a crow, amassing treasures that feel important: my lipstick, my journal, my letters. I also steal things. My only excuse is knowing these things will never be missed. They’ll be replaced when everything starts over. They always are.

  Sometimes, I find new things in the closet. Things I’ve never seen before. A single earring, a jacket, a doll. Once I found a newspaper. Each one is a clue that time is moving forward somehow, somewhere.

  I reach into the folds of my dress and take out the timepiece I swiped from my father’s desk. I’ve stolen this thing so many times, I probably have eight or nine identical ones. I rest the clock on the shelf with all the others and hold the hands still, stopping time for a moment, but eventually the alarm starts to buzz. The mahogany clock chimes in and the memory starts again.

  For the Lilies, memory is a weapon.

  For me, it is a dead end.

  7

  Rory

  I hate my mother’s closet. It’s filled with clutter and malice. This has been the case ever since I was little. I would never tell her this directly, of course. I would never let on that the closet holds more memories than I care to revisit.

  The first time I was here was in second grade. I remember how the shelves were stuffed with pennants from the 1950s and ’60s, letterman-style jackets from the 1980s, and even some Archwell-branded field hockey masks from the late ’90s. There was also a quiver of white cocktail dresses from past Founder’s Nights. At first, I thought it was a treasure trove. The emerald and gold memorabilia made for the best game of dress-up ever.

  Then I found the Lilies Society stuff. I thought the blindfolds were spooky, but I liked trying on the strange green robes with the gold-ribbon trim. The best was the collection of diamond rings, one from each Lilies cohort, dating back to the society’s founding in 1958. Dozens of sparkling infinities. I remember trying to fit all the rings on all ten of my fingers at once. My hands were small back then. They sparkled in the dim light.

  Then something shifted.

  The clock chimed.

  Terror set in.

  “What’s in that closet is not for public consumption,” my mother told me afterward. “The Lilies are a secret society for a reason. And a real Archwell woman never shares her secrets.” I remember these words and my mouth goes dry.

  I don’t know why I let them in here. Between the blaring alarm, the shouting, and the weird phone notifications, I couldn’t think straight.

  Now, there’s no avoiding it. They’re going to find out about this place. Their eyes run over every inch of shelving. Every heirloom. Every secret. Each one is a memory, threatening to descend upon me . . . threatening to trap me in my own head.

  I wet my lips with my tongue. Try to act normal, I tell myself.

  “Don’t. Touch. Anything. Please,” I say, vocal cords scraping together.

  My head is beginning to pound. When you’re a Lily, only two things are sacred: memories and secrets. This closet has both.

  “I can’t get my phone to come back on. Anyone know what time it is?” Blythe directs her question to the others.

  “Well, we’ve got an abundance of antique timepieces in here,” Drew says, picking up an old-fashioned metal alarm clock with bells on the top. “And yet . . .” They look the grandfather clock up and down. It’s ticking but the hands aren’t moving. “. . . yet, we’re out of time.”

  “All the clocks are stopped,” Veró says. “But they were ticking a second ago. We can’t have been in here that long.”

  “Feels like forever,” Blythe says. I have to agree.

  “You hear that?” Drew stiffens and holds up a finger to signal silence.

  We wait for a beat and listen. “No,” I say. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly,” they answer. “The alarm stopped.”

  “You mean out there?” Veró says.

  “For real?” Blythe stands and leans in close to the slim shadow of the door, listening again. “You’re right. I can’t hear it. The security message is gone too.”

  Instinctively, I reach for my cell phone, but the screen is still blank. I hold the tiny power button down but the thing is completely dead. This isn’t good.

  I stare at the blank screen, willing it to brighten up with a message from my mother. I wish she’d texted me something by now.

  This is just a drill.

  Everything is fine.

  The rehab van is here to get you.

  Any message would be better than no message at all.

  My tongue is rough and heavy in my mouth. I swallow hard, holding back the fear. If I pretend it’s not there, it might go away. Sometimes, I can trick my brain into feeling nothing, into forgetting the difference between what’s real and what’s not.

  “You think we should go out there?” Veró asks. “Or . . . should we wait?”

  I conjure the numbness, trying to focus my mind on anything but the closet door. I feel the rub of my school blazer against the back of my neck. I sense the weight of the diamond Lilies ring on my finger. The memory of my grandmother Adeline returns. She tells me, “Archwell women have to be strong. So you need to be a strong girl, Rory. Just like your mother.”

  I harden my exterior and contort my face into cool, calm confidence. If I pretend to be strong, maybe I’ll banish the feeling that I’m losing my grip.

  “There’s no use in hiding any longer,” I say.

  I try to stand, hobbling a little on my right leg. We’ve been crouched together for so long that my foot has fallen asleep. I join Blythe at the closet door and rest my hand on the knob. “There’s no use feeling stuck in here when we don’t know what’s really going on out there.”

  “Except that, as long as we’re in here, no one is gonna make us dead,” Drew adds.

  “Make us dead?” I ask. What does this kid think this is, a mob movie? “Where did you say you went to school before Archwell?”

  “Aight, Rory. We don’t need this from you right now.” Blythe turns back to the door, shoves me out of the way, and jiggles the handle. “I’m out.”

  “Wait, don’t,” Veró presses, but it’s too late. Blythe shoves the door ajar and evening sun bursts through the opening. I knew we were in the closet for a long time, but it definitely didn’t feel like we were hiding all day. She steps into the light and I follow, squinting.

  The room materializes around me. Carved arches stretch their arms up to meet the cathedral ceiling. A wrought-iron balcony keeps us from toppling down into the rows of bookshelves below. This is not my mother’s office. But this room, wherever it is, is so familiar.

  “Wait.” Blythe is at my side. She grips the balcony’s metalwork, steadying herself as she does a triple take. “Wait. Hold up.”

  “Whoa.” I turn at the sound of Veró’s voice. She is peering out of the closet door behind me, eyes the size of silver dollars. “Where are we?”

  “Dang. It’s . . . I don’t . . .” Gazing out from over Veró’s shoulder, Drew wriggles the words out finally. “It’s . . . the library. We’re on the second floor of McClure Library.”

  They’re right. But my head pounds against the idea that we’ve emerged from the closet somewhere totally different. This can’t be happening. Did I get my morning pills mixed up? Am I seeing things? My eyes scan the room for a sign. I look for crawling walls, angels in the beams of sunlight, beetles marching along the bookshelves. Everything is looking distinctly unpsychedelic. Below, I zero in on the circulation desk. Ms. Katz is sitting there, packing up her belongings for the day. She doesn’t see us. Beside her, I can make out the digital clock: 5:12 P.M. OCT 6.

  Oh god. Now I know for sure what this is.

  I’m not high anymore. Though I wish I were. I wish this weren’t happening. I wish I could go back and change everything.

  “I . . . I don’t get it. This part of the library is not even on the same side of the building as the chancellor’s office. It’s . . . it’s not close at all,” Veró says. “How can we close a door in one place and have it open in another?”

  I brace myself. The truth is hard, but there’s no avoiding this part of it. “Ut sacram memoriam,” I mutter to myself. “Her memory is sacred, beyond the bounds of time.”

  “Huh?” Veró says.

  Drew’s eyes narrow in on me. “Say that again. Ut what?”

  “Ut sacram memoriam,” I repeat. I watch Blythe’s jaw clench. Before she can open her mouth, I give her an icy look that says don’t say anything. We’re in uncharted territory now. We should reveal only what we absolutely have to.

  “What does that mean?” Drew asks.

  “Keep sacred memory.” I try to explain, but Veró and Drew are blank. I don’t know what I expected. They don’t know about our vow. They don’t know what it means to go “beyond the bounds of time.” They don’t keep secrets to survive. They aren’t Lilies. But Blythe’s face falls, so I know she understands what has happened. She knows where we are just as well as I do.

  “Rory.” Veró speaks slowly. “What is going on?”

  “We traveled,” I say. “We traveled through time.”

  “No.” Blythe starts mumbling to herself. “No, no, no.” She balls her right hand into a fist and rubs it against her forehead. Her Lilies ring flashes stars onto the vaulted library ceiling.

  “Look at that clock over there.” I point to the circulation desk so the others can see. “It’s October sixth. Friday evening. We’ve gone back to last Friday. Founder’s Night.”

  “No. No. No. No. No.” Blythe’s pacing now, rubbing the band of her ring against her forehead.

  “Wait. Hold on. You’re telling me that your mom has a time travel closet? In her office?” Veró’s voice is flat. Her tone matches the side-eye she’s giving me.

  “That’s messed-up,” Drew mumbles.

  “It’s not like that. This is . . . the Lilies Society calls it the memory loop. Or just the loop. Memories are sacred. But they can be dangerous. Sometimes you get caught up in them. You can end up reliving the past in an infinite cycle. The same memory again and again. The present turns to past.”

  “No, Rory. No.” Blythe’s voice has tears in it now. “This is not for real. I’m not doing this again. This is not a real thing.”

  “What is the Lilies Society?” Veró asks. “Is that what you call y’all’s secret club?”

  “What’s this gotta do with the closet?” Drew asks.

  “I’m not doing this. No.” Blythe grabs me by the arm and yanks me back toward the closet door. My shoulder nearly dislodges against the door frame as Blythe pushes Veró and Drew back into the dim and pulls me in behind her. The closet slams shut and we’re in total darkness again, bodies piled together on the floor.

  “Ew, get off me, Rory.” Veró’s voice is a dart in the dark.

  “Gah, I’m trying. It’s not like I would try anything gross at a time like this,” I spit back.

  “Ugh . . . help.” Drew’s muffled voice emerges from the bottom of the pile. “Please get off.”

  Someone pulls the light switch and we untangle ourselves. Blythe curls into a ball, blocking the door with her body. Sweat makes the deep brown of her skin glow. The rest of us sit on the floor, resting our backs against the shelves.

  “I’m not going back out there, Rory,” Blythe whispers. “It’s bullshit. I never believed the legend about the loop. If I don’t believe in it, then I shouldn’t have to deal with it. Y’all can do what you want but I’m staying right here.”

  “So . . . hold on,” Drew says. “Do you mind bringing the new kid up to speed?”

  “Yeah, a few of us are lost,” Veró adds.

  I let my eyes drift to the bare bulb on the ceiling. The glow creates a dark halo in my line of vision. I focus on it and try to keep my voice steady. I wish I had absolutely any of the little baggies in my jewelry box. An Anny, or even some sand. It would make it so much easier to explain all of this.

  “Blythe and I are in the Lilies Society,” I breathe. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. But that’s what half of the stuff in this closet is for. These robes, the blindfolds, the rings, the candles, the infinities: it’s all Lilies stuff.”

  “So y’all are like cosplaying as the Illuminati?” Veró interrupts.

  I scrunch my eyes closed. I can still see the halo of light, dancing against the back of my eyelids. “No. And the Illuminati is fake, Verónica.”

  “That’s exactly what someone in the Illuminati would say,” Drew chimes in.

  Veró sighs. “I knew all y’all Archwell legacies were up to some old-school, culty shit.”

  “The Lilies Society is not a cult.” I hear the edge in my tone so I try to soften it a bit. I’m going to need the others on my side if we’re going to make it out of here in one piece. And I’m the only one who can get us out of here because I’m the only one who knows what to do before it’s too late.

  I was raised to do this . . . to be ready for anything. Being a Lily is in my blood.

  I compose myself and try to explain. “Blythe and I have been with the Lilies since tenth grade. My grandmother Adeline and her friends started the society back when she was an Archwell student in the 1950s. Her father founded the academy back in ’52 so his daughters would have somewhere safe to go to school.”

  “Gah. We already know all about your creepy family,” Veró groans. “Before the women’s liberation movement, Archwell Academy was founded for girls to have a place to thrive away from the world of men. We all read the brochure. Can you get to the point?”

  I ignore the tone. What I have to explain next is too important to worry about little slights. “It’s tradition to have Lilies initiates explore their pasts. New pledges have to share their deepest secrets with the bigs. That’s how we can tell if someone is serious about being a Lily: if they’re willing to relive their worst moments and tell us their darkest secrets.”

  “So . . . you all know the worst thing about them. It’s like blackmail.” Veró’s voice is stony.

  “Not exactly,” I answer, opening my eyes and zeroing in my gaze on her. Her brow is knitted, her eyes burning into mine. This girl has never liked me even though I’ve been nothing but sweet to her. She willingly misunderstands me. “Sharing secrets is how we bond with our littles. It’s a supportive sisterhood.”

  Veró lets out a snort. “Sisterhood. Yeah. I’m sure . . . I suppose you have to be a legacy to join?”

  “Not all Lilies are legacies,” I say, eyes flickering to Blythe for a second. “But every descendant of a Lily is guaranteed legacy membership.”

  “Is that right?” Drew’s voice has shifted from playful to poisonous. “Everyone?”

  We lock eyes. I let my gaze glide over their unibrow, their unwaxed upper lip, their oversized oxford shirt. “Yep.” I say, working hard to keep my voice even. “Everyone.”

  Drew looks like they want to say something else but they stay silent.

  “How is all of this connected to this closet and the library?” Veró asks.

  “Some of the Lilies say that the loop isn’t just a symbolic thing where they confess their worst memories during initiation. They relive those moments for real. It’s an actual time loop where girls return to their worst memories again and again.” My eyes slide over to Blythe, still crouched by the door, body rising and falling with every jagged breath. “I’ve only heard stories about it, but the legend has been handed down forev—”

  “This isn’t an initiation,” Drew interrupts. “Veró isn’t a Lily. And neither am I. So why are we in the loop?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I just know there’s only one way out.” I reach over and touch Blythe’s shoulder. She recoils. “The loop will focus on each of us, one at a time. We have to relive whatever memory it chooses for us. There’s no stopping it. The only way to get out of it is to let each memory play out exactly as it happened and not change a single detail. Just like the initiates do at a Lilies initiation when they share their secrets.”

  “How do you know all of this?” Veró asks, her side-eye boring into my forehead.

  “I just do, okay? I was born into all of this.”

  “Ah yes.” Veró nods sarcastically. “Good old institutional prejudice at work. We’ve got a nepo baby on our hands.”

  “A what?” Drew asks.

  “Nepotism baby . . . ?” Veró answers. “It’s a thing, okay?”

  “If you say so.” Drew shrugs.

  I brush past Veró’s dismissiveness and Drew’s ambivalence. “Listen to me! We just have to go out there, let each memory play out, and we’ll all be okay. We do that, one by one, and we’ll close the loop. We’ll be able to get out.”