William knew Foley, which meant that if I wanted more facts, she was the next person on my list. And although she’d cautioned me about digging too deeply, it could hardly hurt to talk to her about things, could it? After all, she was in the middle of the mystery just like I was. Realizing my next step, I walked out of the bus stop and back toward the convent. The school bells began to ring just as I reached the front door of the convent, but I ignored them.

I wasn’t going to class.

I walked through the main building and into the administrative wing. Her office was at the end of the hall, MARCELINE D. FOLEY Stenciled across the open door in gold letters. A sturdy-looking woman stood inside, dressed in black, clipboard in hand. One of the dragon ladies.

I made eye contact with Foley, who sat behind her desk, and stood a few feet away while she and the woman finished their discussion—something about tuition billing issues. When they were done, the woman walked past me. She looked at me as she passed, but didn’t offer a smile, just a tiny nod of acknowledgment.

My stomach knotted, but I made myself walk to the threshold of the door. I stayed there until Foley looked up at me.

“Ms. Parker. Shouldn’t you be in class right now?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About?”

“My parents.”

Alarm passed across her face, but only for a second. And then she looked like the headmistress once again. “Come in, and close the door behind you.”

I walked inside and shut the door, then sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk, my bag across my lap.

“I know you told me to think hard before I asked too many questions about my parents. But like we talked about, I know they’re connected to the Sterling Research Foundation.” I paused, gathering my courage to make my confession. “I went there a few minutes ago. I’m going to draw the building for my studio class. I went inside to ask permission, and kind of got a glance at a computer.”

“Kind of?” she repeated, suspicion in her voice.

I ignored the question. “I found an e-mail about my parents. It was to William, the head of the SRF, and it was all about their research. Something about DNA results and trials and what they were going to do in the future.”

Foley waited for a moment. “I see,” she said. “Anything else?”

“Anything else? Isn’t that enough? I mean, I’ve confirmed they’re not doing philosophical research. Or not just doing philosophical research. They talked about DNA, so I guess that means genetic research.”I stopped. “They’ve been lying to me.”

“They’ve been protecting you.”

I shook my head. “They’re in Germany, but even if they were here right now, I’d feel so far away from them.”

“Lily.” Her voice was kind, but stern. “I am not privy to the details of your parents’ work. But I know that they’re doing important work.”

“What kind of important work?”

She looked away. A dark knot of fear began to curl in my belly, but I pushed it down. “They work for the SRF?”

“The SRF funds their research.”

“Why did the SRF give them advice about sending me here?”

“It suggests the SRF rendered advice about protecting you from the nature of their work or the circle of those who also engage in it.”

That knot tightened, and I had to force out the words. “Why would they do that?”

She gave me a flat look.

“Because it has something to do with the Dark Elite.”

Her lips pursed tight.

My legs shook so badly I had to lock my knees to stay upright. The Dark Elite were doing some kind of medical procedures. My parents were doing some kind of DNA experiments. Were they part of the Dark Elite?

“Do they know I have firespell?” I asked, and I could hear the panic in my voice. “Do they know I’m involved now?”

She sighed. “They receive regular updates about you and your safety.”

“And that’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“That’s all I can tell you. That’s all I’m allowed to tell you,” she added, as I started to protest. “Just as there are rules of engagement for you as an Adept, there are rules of engagement for me as—”

“As what?”

“As the headmistress of this school,” she primly said.

I shook my head and glanced over at one of the walls of books as tears began to slide down my cheeks. “This really sucks.”

“Ms. Parker—”

“No, I’m sorry, but it sucks. They’re my parents. I know less about them than half the people on this block in fricking Chicago, and the stuff I do know is all lies and secrets and half-truths.”

Her jaw clenched. “I believe it’s time for you to return to class, Ms. Parker, before you say things that you’ll regret and that will result in demerits and punishment.”

I opened my mouth, but she was up and out of her chair before I could say anything.

She tapped a finger onto the desktop. “Regardless of your concerns about your parents, you are at my institution. You will treat this institution and this office with respect, regardless of the circumstances that brought you here. Is that understood?”

I didn’t answer.

“Is. That. Understood?”

I nodded.

“Life, Ms. Parker, is very often unfair. Tragedies occur every second of every minute of every day. That your parents saw fit to protect you with certain omissions is not, in the big scheme of things, a substantial tragedy.” She looked away. “Return to class.”

I went back to the classroom building. But I walked slowly. And before I even made it out of the admin wing I ducked into one of the alcoves and pulled out my phone. Sure, I was equal parts mad at my parents, worried for their safety, and sad about whatever it was they were doing—and that they’d lied to me about it—but mostly I felt very, very far away from them.

“ARE YOU OKAY?” I texted my dad.

I sat with the phone in my hands, staring at the screen, wondering why they weren’t answering. Were they hurt? In the middle of doing evil things . . . or debating whether to tell me the truth about those evil things?

Finally, I got a message back. “WE’RE GREAT. HOW ARE CLASSES?”

I gazed down at the screen, trying to figure out what to ask him, what to say, how to form the right question . . . but I had no clue what to say.

How do you ask your parents if they’re evil?

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the cool stone behind me. You didn’t ask, I finally realized. You held off until you knew the right thing to say, until the question couldn’t be delayed any longer. You held off so you weren’t creating unnecessary drama that was only going to cause trouble for everyone.

Tears brimming again, I set my thumbs to the keyboard. “BORING. TTYL.”

“LOVE YOU, LILS,” he sent back.

Nobody ever said growing up was easy.

14

Scout could see something was wrong when I walked into class. But it was Brit lit, and Whitfield, our teacher, watched us like a hawk. She took it as a personal insult if we weren’t as enthralled by Mr. Rochester as she was. So she skipped the notes and conversation, and instead pressed a hand to my back. A little reminder that she was there, I guess.

When we were done with class for the day, we headed back to the suite, but I still wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“SRF?” she asked, but I shook my head. I was still processing, and there were things I wasn’t yet ready to say aloud.

We did homework in her room until dinner, and she let me pretend that nothing had happened, that my afternoon hadn’t been filled with questions I wasn’t sure I wanted the answers to.

I took what Foley said about real tragedy to heart. I knew what she meant, totally got her point. But if my parents were members of the Dark Elite, how could things get worse than that? If they were helping some kind of medical work or research for the DE—if they were trying to help people who were hurting kids—how was I ever supposed to be okay with that?

I had no idea. So I kept it bottled up until I could figure out a plan, until I could figure out the questions to ask, or the emotions I was supposed to feel.

Eventually, we went to dinner. Like I predicted, you know what was worse than Thursday lunch at the St. Sophia’s cafeteria?

Friday dinner in the St. Sophia’s cafeteria.

We stood in line, trays in hand, for a good minute, just staring at the silver dish of purple and brown and white and orange mess, grimaces on our faces.

Without a word, Scout finally grabbed my tray, stacked hers on top of it, and slid them both back into the stacks at the end of the line. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to be a few inches taller with, like, crazy long legs, but there’s no way I hate myself enough to put that stuff in my body again.”

I didn’t disagree, but my stomach was rumbling. I’d skipped lunch for my SRF visit. “So what now?”

She thought for a second, then bobbed her head. “Mrs. M,” was all she said, and away we went.

I had no clue what that was supposed to mean. I still had no clue when she dragged me into Pastries on Erie, a shop a few blocks down from St. Sophia’s. (Thank God for Friday nights and a respite from the convent . . . at least during the daylight hours.)

One entire wall of the bakery was filled by a long glass case of cakes, desserts, tarts, and cookies of every shape and size. A dozen people stood in front of it, pointing to sweets behind the glass or waiting to make their orders.

“Pastries?” I wondered quietly. “I was hoping for something a little more filling.”

“Trust me on this one, Parker,” she whispered back. “We’re not buying retail today.” She waved at the tall teenager who was dishing up desserts. “Hey, Henry. Is your mom around?”

The boy waved, then gestured toward a back door. “In the back.”

“Is she cooking?” Scout asked hopefully.

“Always,” he called out, then handed a white bakery box over the counter to a middle-aged woman in a herringbone coat.

“Din-ner,” Scout sang out, practically skipping to the beaded curtain that hung over the door in the back of the bakery.

I followed her through it, the smell of chocolate and strawberries and sugar giving way to savory smells. Pungent smells.

Delicious smells.

My stomach rumbled.

“Someone is hungry,” said a lightly accented voice. I looked over. In the middle of an immaculate kitchen stood a tall, slender woman. Her hair was long and dark and pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore a white jacket—the kind chefs wore on television.

“Hi, Mrs. M,” Scout said. “I brought someone to meet you.”

The woman, who was dropping sticks of butter into a giant mixer, smiled kindly. “Hello, someone.”

I waved a little. “Lily Parker.”

“You go to school with our Scout?”

I nodded as Scout pulled out a chair at a small round table that sat along one wall.

“Cop a squat, Parker,” she said, patting the tabletop.

Still a little confused, I took the seat on the other side of the table, then leaned forward. “I thought we were going to dinner?”

“Keep your pants on. Now, Mrs. Mercier is Henry’s mom. She’s also part of the community.”

That meant that while Mrs. Mercier wasn’t an Adept, she knew Adepts and Reapers and the rest of it existed.

“And,” Scout added, “she’s one of the best chefs in Chicago. She was trained at some crazy-fancy school in Paris.”

“Le Cordon Bleu,” Mrs. Mercier said, walking toward us with a tray of flatbread. “And she enjoys feeding Scout when her parents are out of town. Or when St. Sophia’s serves stew.”

“And when you add those together, you get pretty much always,” Scout said matter-of-factly, tearing a chunk from a piece of bread. “Warm, warm,” she said, popping it between both hands to cool it off.

“Which is pretty much always,” Mrs. Mercier agreed, smoothing a hand over Scout’s hair. “I have three boys. Scout did a favor for my youngest, so I do favors for Scout.”

I assumed that favor was why she’d become a member of the community.

Scout handed me a chunk of bread. I took a bite, then closed my eyes as I savored it. I think it was naan—the kind of flatbread you found in Indian restaurants—but this was hot, fresh, right-out-of-the-oven naan. It was delicious.

“Anything particular you’d like to sample tonight?” Mrs. Mercier asked.

Scout did a little bow. “You’re the expert, Mrs. M. Whatever you’ve got, we’d love to sample. Oh, and Lily’s a vegetarian.”

“You’re in luck,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the stoves behind her. There were pots and pans there, which must have been the source of the delicious smells. “We made dal with potatoes. Lentils and potatoes,” she explained. She put a hand on my shoulder and smiled kindly. “Is that okay with you?”

“That sounds really great. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome. Any friend of Scout’s is a friend of mine.”

Mrs. M plated up a heaping mound of rice topped by the saucy lentils and chunky potatoes, and brought us glass cups of dark, rich tea that tasted like cinnamon and cloves. She pulled up a chair as we ate, crossing her long legs and swinging an ankle, arms crossed over her chef jacket, as Scout filled her in on our last few weeks of adventures. The dinner was amazing—even if stew hadn’t been our only other option. And it felt normal. Just the three of us in the kitchen of a busy bakery, eating dinner and catching up.