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"I didn't know what to think." We were all quiet for a moment.

"Okay," Ice said. "I'm missing something, too, a sweater. I wasn't sure if I had brought it or not, though. so I didn't mention it."

"Well, we have no maids cleaning our rooms. Who are we going to accuse? Laura Fairchild?" Cinnamon asked.

"Maybe one of them." Ice said, nodding toward Steven and Howard. "Steven's too weird for me."

"I can't believe that," I said. "Why would he want our things?"

"It's called fetishism." Cinnamon said. "We mentals know that lingo. Someone puts lust or love into an inanimate object related to someone he wants. I hate to tell you what he might do with your sweater. Ice, or your skirt and blouse. Rose."

We all stared at the empty hallway before us.

"But we shouldn't accuse anyone or think anything like that until or unless we know it's true," I said.

"You're right, of course," Cinnamon quickly agreed. "Who wants it to be true anyway?"

She started away.

"Boy. I hope I can get some rest tonight," Rose declared when we paused by our rooms.

"You will," Cinnamon said.

We hugged each other and went to our respective bedrooms.

Thankfully, there were no more incidents at Rose's window that night, or for the remainder of the week for that matter. And no one lost any other articles of clothing. We all became too involved with our classes and teachers to think about anything else anyway.

On Wednesday. I received a delivery of flowers from Uncle Simon, a beautiful mix of his favorites. The girls were all jealous. I immediately sat at my desk and wrote him a long thank-you letter, feeling guilty for being so busy I had written only one letter up until now. I told him how much the girls loved his flowers and told him I would call home to speak with him soon. too.

Meanwhile. Rose's brother Evan sent her another E-mail, claiming he was running into what he called "an unusual number of dead ends" regarding information about the Senetskys' tragedy.

"My brother believes there is something very strange here." she told us Thursday afternoon,

"Why?" I asked.

"He's very good at what he does on the computer. He's able to break into highly sensitive areas. He told me he once even broke into the Pentagon!"

"What does he suspect, that it wasn't a suicide?" Cinnamon asked.

"I don't know, but he promised me he would keep looking. Should I tell him to stop?"

Cinnamon thought a moment and then shook her head.

"No. Just don't print anything out and leave it anywhere. I'd like to know more. Everyone okay with that?" she asked.

I was nervous, but I didn't say anything. Ice just shrugged and looked as stoic as usual.

"Whatever pushes your buttons," she muttered.

"It's not much different from what pushes yours," Cinnamon said. "Only yours have to be pushed a lot harder. I guess."

Ice stared at her a moment. I held my breath. It was like waiting for a second shoe to drop.

And then Ice laughed, and we all did the same.

The weekend was as full and exhausting as it had promised to be. Laura Fairchild was our chaperone and guide. We were driven about in a van, which made us feel like younger, high school students, but it was a very convenient way to get around the city. It was nice having our van outside the theater waiting for us while the mobs of people fought for taxicabs. We were able to keep to the ambitious schedule.

I did enjoy all the performances, the lunches, and even the Saturday night dinner at the ChampsElysees. I had to admit to myself that it made me feel important to be at a big table with all the waiters, the maitre d', and Monsieur Rambaud himself fawning over us. I could see from the way people were staring at us that they thought we were some very important group, and of course, a number of people came over to say hello to Madame Senetsky, some to get her autograph. A well-known Broadway star and his wife stopped by as well, and we were all introduced to him as prospective stars ourselves. Howard beamed and looked most determined.