Stealing Infinity, page 20
“Missing?” My voice rises with alarm, as the horrifying thought spins through my head: Is that what would’ve happened to me if I’d chosen to leave?
67
“The lighthouse keepers disappeared without a trace,” Braxton says. “And they were eventually ruled as a series of suicides. The local jurisdiction claimed they must’ve jumped from the windows and let the sea take them. Truth is, they were lost in the time storm.”
I stare speechless. I have no idea what to say.
“That was all long ago. But it’s one of the reasons Arthur was able to purchase the rock for so cheap. Between the disappearances and the wind, no one wanted anything to do with it, so they were happy to let Arthur take ownership. Since the lighthouse was the only existing structure at the time, he used it for his earliest experiments. But after building the gilded cage, as you call it, he deactivated the whole thing and moved on.”
“But they were pushing buttons, lights were flashing, and the roof slid open—” I remember the feel of rain on my head, but when I touch my hair now, I discover it’s dried into a halo of frizz.
“All special effects,” Braxton assures me. “The lighthouse was unused until Elodie discovered it and decided to use it for her hazing headquarters…among other things.”
I remember the piles of cushions, candles, blankets, and quickly avert my gaze.
“Just to be clear, you didn’t go anywhere. Elodie just hypnotized you.”
“But she said I had a choice.”
“It’s her way of testing your loyalty to the academy and what we do here. Technically, you couldn’t undo the choice since you weren’t Tripping. Also, you can’t return to an earlier version of yourself. It’s called crossing your own timeline, and trust me, it leads nowhere good.”
“But what if I chose not to stay—what would’ve happened to me?”
I remember the ruthless way Elodie shoved the bag over my head. How much more is she capable of?
Braxton shrugs. “No one’s ever made that choice. Probably because you end up here only if there’s nothing worth going back to.”
I think about missing Mason, my mom. And yet, it wasn’t enough.
“I saw stuff. Stuff I missed the first time.”
Braxton inhales a sharp breath, and in that instant, I know that he knows I’m referring to what happened between Elodie and him.
“Hypnosis often reveals that which is kept hidden,” he says. “The first time you experienced it, you were in a trance state under Elodie’s direction. But just because you lacked immediate recall doesn’t mean your mind failed to record it.”
A few silent beats pass between us. I break it when I say, “They said something about a talisman.” My gaze finds his. “Also, something about lions fawning over lambs and the lambs following.”
Braxton sighs and shakes his head. “The quote is Shakespeare, from Henry VI.”
“So, Elodie thinks she’s the lion and I’m the lamb?” I flinch at the sting of truth. I certainly fell for her fawning back at our old school.
“She thinks that about everyone,” Braxton says, drawing me away from my thoughts. “As for a talisman, it’s a sort of good luck charm you bring along when you Trip. It helps you remember who you really are, and where and when you belong. It’s personal to everyone. But it must be either really small and not easily detected, something that would be suitable to the time, or both.”
“You mean, without the talisman there’s a chance I might not have woken up from the dream?”
“No.” He slides a hand up my calf, unaware of the trail of shivers he’s left in his wake as his thumb comes to rest on my knee. “If she’d given you a talisman, it would’ve been nothing more than a show of meaningless pageantry. As for not waking up, I never would’ve let that happen. I would’ve found you. I would’ve figured it out. But Natasha, this is exactly why you need to keep your tablet with you at all times.”
My tablet. In the distance, I hear it buzzing again. When I get up to retrieve it, I find a block of messages from Braxton, each one expressing increasing degrees of worry. Once those are cleared, the message of the day pops onto the screen:
We know what we are,
but know not what we may be.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Braxton comes up behind me, the hard angles of his body seamlessly conforming to the soft curves of mine. Then he tucks his arms around my waist and buries his face at the back of my neck. The nearness of him, the scorching warmth of his touch, the cool wisp of his breath on my nape, sparks an ache so deep, it takes all my resolve to suppress it.
“Don’t let on that you know.” I whisper the words into his shoulder, then reluctantly untangle myself from his embrace and turn to face him. “I don’t want them thinking I’m tattling. I may have passed their messed-up trust exercise, but that doesn’t mean they actually trust me.”
Braxton nods, then pulls me back to him, his fingers tracing a gentle curving line along the hollow of my cheek. Just the sight of his lids falling, his lips angling toward me, has me longing to silence my sensible side and listen to the more decadent needs of my body.
Unlike my brain, it always knows what it wants, and right now, it wants Braxton. And going by the glazed look in his eyes, he’s meeting me match for match.
Still, as reckless and self-indulgent as I can sometimes be, my pragmatic side insists on being heard. Which explains why I find myself placing a hand on Braxton’s chest to keep him from coming any closer.
“Everything okay?” he asks, confused by the mixed signals I’m giving—the needy heat of the hand that keeps him at bay, and the determined look on my face.
“I’ve been thinking…” I say, watching as the flame in Braxton’s gaze is instantly doused by a torrent of dread. “Maybe…we should just…” I bite down on my lip, hardly able to believe what I’m about to do next. “Maybe we should just sort of…cool it down…way down. At least for a while…”
In an instant, Braxton’s fingers fall from my waist, and I’m reminded of the way he and Elodie bickered back at the club while I lay in a trance on the couch, and how angry she was when he pushed her away. He’s over her. That much is clear. But Elodie is not over him. And if I have any hope of becoming a Blue and cementing my place here, then I can’t risk alienating her any more than I already have.
Also, if I’m being honest, I’m confused by my feelings for Braxton. I mean, my entire world was just flipped upside down. Everyone I knew, and most of what I believed, has been ripped right out from under me, only to be replaced with a slew of new faces and a shocking list of possibilities that I’ve barely had a chance to process, much less adapt to.
And while I really like kissing him, and while there’s an undeniable twinge in my belly and skip of my heartbeat whenever he’s near, I’m not sure if that means I have feelings for him; if I’ve fooled myself into thinking I like him to get back at Elodie; or if he’s just a beautiful, sexy boy I kiss in an effort to not feel so lonely.
And until I can manage to sort that all out, I think it’s better for both of us to just leave last night in the past.
To Braxton, I say, “For now, I think it’s better if I limit my focus to finding my way here at Gray Wolf and learning everything I can, as quickly as I can, so I can make Blue. I can’t afford to be distracted by anything else. So…I’m hoping we can be…friends?”
Braxton’s eyes graze over me, and while he looks a bit crestfallen, he soon nods in agreement. “Just know, I’m always here for you, Tasha,” he says. “Oh, and I left you a tray.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder to where a silver tray with coffee and pastries sits on the table before the velvet settee.
The gesture is so kind, so caring, I have to fight the urge to take back everything I just said, grab hold of his arm, and drag him over to my bed so he can make my body shatter in all the ways I’ve imagined.
But of course I don’t do any of that. I need to stay focused, cement my place here. Once that’s done, then maybe I’ll have a better grip on exactly what it is that I’m feeling.
As soon as he’s gone, I pour some coffee into a pretty porcelain mug, pop a piece of almond croissant into my mouth, and head into the bathroom.
When I emerge, I find a stack of yellow sweatshirts neatly stacked on the shelf where the green ones once were.
Defer no time,
delays have dangerous ends.
—William Shakespeare
68
The first thing I notice about life as a Yellow is it’s not all that different from life as a Green.
And, since there are no other Yellows, and since Braxton and I have been on pause for the last four weeks, mealtimes are especially lonely. Watching the Blues with their heads bent together, laughing and talking, makes me feel like I’m back at my old school—stuck on the periphery, invisible and unseen.
Though time spent after dinner in the Autumn Room gives me a much-needed break. And because of it, for the first time since I arrived, I’ve made friends. Four to be exact—Song, Jago, Oliver, and Finn. Or maybe five, if you count Elodie which, while we’ve technically called a truce and agreed to get along, I’m not sure I’m ready to label us that.
Still, if someone told me four weeks ago when I first got here that I’d end up hanging out with a group of kids who shoved a bag over my head, tossed me into the back seat of a car, and basically kidnapped me, hypnotized me, then dumped me back in my room to sleep it off, I would’ve laughed. But, here at Gray Wolf, we’re pretty much forced to make the most of what we have.
Which is why I find myself standing outside Elodie’s pink door, about to knock, when she beats me to it and ushers me inside.
My first impression: It’s like stepping inside a genie’s bottle. Or, at least what I imagine the inside of a genie’s bottle would look like.
I guess because we spend so much time in classrooms and designated dining halls, I’ve never really visited anyone else’s room, so I assumed they were all like my own. But Elodie’s room is a whole other level.
Not only is it twice the square footage of mine, but the walls are covered in magnificent works of art—old masters hanging alongside spare modern pieces—and yet somehow, she’s made it all work.
“Wow,” I say as I move about the space, seeing no point in feigning nonchalance. Elodie knows how much I appreciate a good display of exceptional taste.
I move past a velvet settee much like my own, except hers is upholstered in a rich blue velvet. There’s an extravagant handblown Venetian glass chandelier hanging overhead, and her collection of side tables are gilded in gold leaf.
Like mine, her bed is also a canopy. But the carvings are more elaborate, and it has intricately embroidered fabrics gathered along the top and draped down the sides. A riot of multi-patterned pillows—florals, zebras, and leopard prints—lay in artfully arranged piles along the silk chaise longue at the foot of the bed. And nearly everywhere I look are displays of crystals, precious trinkets, stacks of rare first edition books, along with large, overstuffed pillows, plush throws, flickering candles, and smoldering incense sticks, lending the space a sort of posh, bohemian royal look.
A fire roars in the hearth, and I move to stand near it, pausing long enough to feel its warmth on my hands before I wander toward the window to gaze out at a spectacular view of the ocean beyond. And there, down in the far left corner, I can just make out the stark white warning of the lighthouse.
I turn to face her. “Nice digs, El.”
She pauses, bends a brow, and my belly instantly clenches. Here at Gray Wolf, the use of slang is frowned upon. But when she bursts into laughter, I breathe a sigh of relief and join in.
Like walking arm in arm, dressing for dinner, selecting the correct stemware for the multiple course meals they serve at lunchtime and dinner, and swearing off all forms of modern music, the more you grow accustomed to the old ways, the more you’ll be able to blend when you Trip. And if the last four weeks of culture, history, diction, dance, comportment, languages, social customs, swordcraft, equestrian lessons, and etiquette training (which included the proper use of a chamber pot that nearly had me calling it quits) has taught me anything, it’s that the ability to blend is everything.
There’s so much to remember, and none of it comes naturally. Or at least not for me. It’s been a long time since succeeding ranked high on my list of priorities, and, if nothing else, I have Elodie to thank. Because if I continued the way I was going back home, who knows where I might’ve ended up.
“I’m curious,” she says. “Exactly how long have you known? About Tripping, I mean.”
My gaze meets hers. And though I know she’ll know if I lie, I still take a few beats to come up with the best way to answer without betraying my promise to Braxton.
But I guess I must pause for too long, because Elodie says, “You don’t seriously expect me to believe you needed Keane to tell you?” She tilts her head in a way that causes her hair to fall in a cascade of long, silky waves.
I sigh, remembering the day Keane summoned me to his office, and how he leaned across his desk, his face arranged into an almost comically earnest expression, as he proceeded to reveal the truth of what really goes on here at Gray Wolf, while I did my best to act surprised by the news.
“It was a lot like when my mom told me the truth about Santa.” I shrug. “My dad was long gone, and I figured she was just trying to prepare me for the lack of presents left under the tree. So I acted surprised, like I had no idea it’d been them all along, though of course I’d been clued in for years.”
Elodie’s gaze narrows on mine. “Very poignant,” she says. “But you still haven’t answered my question. How long before you figured it out?”
“Why does it matter?” I ask, genuinely confused as to why she would care.
“Because I want to know how long you’ve been faking it,” she says.
The moment stretches between us, and I watch as her fingers play at the glimmering golden disk at her neck. It’s a charm, with a snake engraved on the front, and though I’ve never noticed her wearing it before, the way she handles it makes me wonder if it holds some sort of significance.
At the sound of Elodie clearing her throat, I meet her gaze and say, “I figured it out the first day.”
She studies me intently, searching for the lie I’m determined to hide. I mean, maybe it’s not the full truth, but I did gather all the clues, and I used them to draw my own conclusion. Braxton only confirmed my suspicion.
After what feels like forever, Elodie finally cracks a small smile. “Just so you know—I saw straight through your act. Still, the way you committed to the pretense fills me with hope.”
“Hope?” I squint, unsure what she means.
“Considering what we do here, perfecting the art of deception is probably the most important skill you can have.”
My head grows woozy, like all the oxygen’s been sucked right out of the room.
Well, that explains just about everything I know about her.
My gaze returns to the slithering serpent on the medallion she wears. Snakes are known for shedding their skin, emerging unscathed and brand new. But then I also remember what Song said about venomous snakes—how she used them as a sort of metaphor for dealing with Elodie.
While I’m pretty sure I haven’t done much to heed Song’s advice, the fact is, I’m still here, in Elodie’s room, on a night that’s considered kind of a big deal. So, I must’ve done something right.
After a prolonged beat of silence, my gaze lights on Elodie’s, and I say, “And yet, while I managed to fool everyone else, I didn’t fool you.”
Elodie’s eyes flash on mine. “Not to worry.” She shrugs. “Few people do.” Then swinging her hair over her shoulder, she says, “Now, how about a toast before the others arrive?”
I watch as she crosses the room, plucks an expensive-looking bottle of champagne from a silver ice bucket, and expertly pops the cork.
“This is nothing like the house parties back home,” I say, as Elodie pours us each a glass. “The fanciest we ever got was a case of black cherry White Claw.”
Elodie scrunches her nose. “You have no idea what that was like for me. Having to slam shots and pretend that I liked it.” She shudders and hands me a glass. “Growing up at Gray Wolf, I was raised on the good stuff. You should’ve seen the way I gagged when Arthur gave me my first sip of beer.” When she sees my startled look, she says, “It took a lot of training to learn how to fit in at a modern-day high school.”
“I never even thought of that,” I say, unable to hide my surprise. “And you made it look so easy. Everyone pretty much worshipped you from the moment you arrived.”
All except Mason, of course.
When Elodie turns to me in shock, I realize it’s the first truly nice thing I’ve said to her in the month since I’ve been here. Still, there’s no point in withholding the compliment when we both know it’s true.
“Well, after hours of watching TikTok, scrolling through Instagram, and bingeing some really bad reality TV shows, I guess all that research started to kick in.” Elodie laughs and raises her flute.
Careful to pinch the stem and keep my pinkie slightly crooked, just like the etiquette instructor taught me, I raise mine as well. This is the first time we’ve been alone since I arrived on the island, and there’s no telling what she might say.
“To your first Trip!” she says.
I start to lift my glass, then pause when I sense she’s not done.
“You’ve come a long way, Natasha Antoinette Clarke, and you’re about to go so much further. Way beyond your wildest dreams.”
Her lips curl into a wide, knowing grin.
