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I ran. Away from Bryony. Away from the pictures of those girls whose names, whose stories, I didn’t want to know.

Within the solid walls of Harrow, my blood dried on my unbroken skin. I washed it off and pretended that I hadn’t heard Bryony calling my name as I fled.

There were wicked things within Harrow’s walls. And I was one of them.

12

IT HAPPENED WHENI was in second grade, just after we left Harrow. I hated school. School meant strict routine. Sitting still. Filling in worksheets with the answers, not scribbles of vines and eyes. Obeying the ringing of the bells that told you when to move, when to sit, when to eat. But kids were supposed to be in school, and I didn’t want my mom to be sad, so I pretended that it didn’t make me want to slither free of my own skin.

Most of the other kids avoided me. Not Kendra Norton. She’d liked me, for whatever reason, even though I was weird and, in retrospect, pretty morbid for a grade schooler.

I would never hurt Kendra. Except everyone agreed I had. I’d been holding the scissors. I’d been covered in blood. And she’d been terrified.

That was the end of school for me. I’d been homeschooled ever since, and theproblemhad never repeated itself. I’d never hurt anyone else again, but I was always on edge, waiting for it to happen again.

I knew I should have gone to talk to Bryony and that I should keep trying to find out about the house, about the Other. But that look in her eye had been so much like Kendra’s—and I couldn’tbear to see it again. So I buried myself in classwork and tried to forget Haley Cotter and those other girls.

The days slid past, routine obscuring them into a haze. Mom called to say that she needed another week or so at the house to finish packing—it was taking them longer than expected since Simon had tweaked his back the first day, and she didn’t want strangers boxing up her things. She’d be back in time for Thanksgiving, along with the rest of the family.

I didn’t go to see Bryony again, and she never came to the house. I told myself it was for the best.

Maybe I did belong among Vaughans. Caleb was kind and Iris—well, she was trying her best to make me feel welcome, even if that did involve way more formal teas than I would have chosen. And Desmond was helping me, though I did wonder if it was more his own curiosity driving him than charity or familial loyalty.

You around?I texted him, lying in my bed one night.

Yep. Actually, I was just working on the journal, he texted back. Most of what we’d deciphered so far was Nicholas talking about various occult writers and theorists, interspersed with mind-numbingly dull accounts of what he’d done every day, including detailed records of the meals he ate. After our initial excitement, the translation had slowed down.

Can I ask you something weird?I texted.

That is the only kind of question you ask me.

Sadly accurate, I replied.

What’s the question?

When you look at me, do you see anything strange?

There was a beat before he replied.Strange? Like what kind of strange?

People react really badly to me, usually. But none of you do.

He didn’t ask who “you” meant.You don’t seem strange to me. How do people usually react?

I considered a moment, and then, before I could think better of it, I explained in brief terms what I’d told Bryony—about how people either loved or hated me, and the love never lasted.

You were so nice to me. But we haven’t seen each other in weeks, and you haven’t flipped out at me yet, I concluded.

Wow. No, I don’t think any of that seems familiar. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t have strong feelings about you one way or the other.

I read the words twice, something loosening up in my chest. Unexpected tears pricked my eyes. Three dots appeared again, and I waited as Desmond typed.

I’ll be there for Thanksgiving. We can watch out for unexpected swings of emotion if it helps.

It was already nearly Thanksgiving. I’d been at Harrow two months. There were only ten months left. I had as much time to uncover the secrets of Harrow, save my own skin, and survive this Investiture as you got to study for an AP test.

That would be good, I wrote back. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

I’d wondered all my life if Harrow was haunting me. But maybe I had been blaming the wrong thing. Not Harrow, but the thing it caged. If the Other had done something to me and that was why Mom had fled, maybe the Vaughans were somehow immune—or protected. Maybe that was why they treated me like a normal person.