“What are you talking about, Papa?” Marcel asked, clearly confused.
“Your father is a very lazy man. But now that it won’t require much work, it seems he plans to arrest all the Darkness Dwellers,” Fitzroy explained.
“For what?” Marcel asked.
“Endangering the city,” his father replied. “Such a shadowy group can only be up to no good. I’m sure we’ll be able to uncover ample evidence of their plots against Paris. Come along, Louis. It’s time for you to escort me to the nearest exit.”
“You’re leaving?” Marcel cried. “What about the girl? I’m sure I saw her head toward the ossuary. Who knows what could happen if we don’t find her soon!”
The older man checked his watch. “It is just past one, Marcel. There is plenty of time for me to arrest Monsieur Fitzroy for trespassing and return to the tunnels with reinforcements. See if you can locate more of these announcements while I’m gone. They will help us prove to the press that the Darkness Dwellers are organized and dangerous.”
“What about the girl?” Marcel demanded again.
“We’ll send out a search party as soon as the arrests have been made. Good work, my son,” said Philip Roche. “Don’t do anything to screw it up.”
Betty waited until Philip Roche and his prisoner had disappeared into the tunnels. Marcel remained behind, scowling to himself. He was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear Betty sneaking up behind him. The handle of her flashlight found the perfect spot on his neck, and he crumpled to the floor without so much as a whimper.
Chapter 26
The Revolt on Tenth Street
NEW YORK CITY: FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 20
I noticed two things the moment I walked through the door of the Atalanta School for Girls. The zombies were chattering away at an unladylike volume. And Rebecca Gruber was wearing sweatpants. Filthy, hole-ridden, hair-covered sweatpants.
“Oh my God! I was there.” I heard a girl named Bea Elliot regaling a group of freshmen. “Molly Donovan showed up in my flower-arranging class dressed like Che Guevara. You know—olive-green army pants tucked into combat boots and a red beret on her head.”
“A red beret? With her hair?” a girl scoffed.
“Actually it looked kinda cute. So, Molly marched up to the instructor and asked if she could say a few words to the class. Ms. Sherman told her to keep quiet and take a seat, but that didn’t stop Molly for a second. She stood right there and announced that the institute was turning New York’s girls into zombies. She said there was nothing wrong with learning how to use a fish fork, but that you didn’t need a lobotomy in order to have good table manners. She asked if anyone in the class had been sent to the institute because their parents wanted them to be someone else. A couple of girls raised their hands, and Molly told them to get up and walk out. It was pretty inspirational. Molly should run for president of something.”
“Did anyone actually leave?”
“Yeah! Rebecca Gruber was the first one out the door. Then a girl named Ivy stood up, gave Ms. Sherman a curtsy and the finger—and then she hit the road too.”
“Then what happened?”
“Molly sat down and stayed for the rest of the class. I gotta say, that girl’s got some mad flower-arranging skills.”
“The teacher didn’t kick her out?”
“No! I heard Molly’s got some sort of special scholarship, and the instructors can’t do anything until Madame Beauregard gets back from Paris. I can’t wait to see what happens when she does!”
“Miss Fishbein!” Principal Wickham’s voice broke through the din. She’d been observing the action from the other side of the hall. “Will you please join me in my office?”
“Did you hear the good news?” I asked once I was inside. The door slammed behind me, rattling the photos on the office’s walls.
“You have misjudged this situation, Ananka,” the principal informed me, making it perfectly clear that she was far from pleased. In fact, it had been months since I’d seen her so angry.
“How?” I croaked.
“Sit,” she demanded, pointing to a chair. “What exactly went wrong yesterday afternoon? I was under the impression that you could convince Molly to stay away from Amelia’s institute. I thought I could depend on you. Now I hear that Molly has dropped out of the Boreland Academy so she can lead a revolt on Tenth Street.”
“I couldn’t talk her out of it,” I tried to explain. “Molly saw Rebecca Gruber wearing pearls and heels, and it sent her over the edge. But I still don’t understand why you’re upset, Principal Wickham. I thought you despised L’Institut Beauregard. Why not let Molly have a go at destroying it?”
“Molly doesn’t stand a chance. Amelia Beauregard chose her for a reason. She’s determined to tame the girl, and there’s no doubt in my mind that Amelia will succeed if Molly attends the institute.”
“What difference does it make to you if Molly gets tamed? She’s not even one of your students anymore! You expelled her!”
It was the wrong thing to say. Principal Wickham looked furious.
“Molly was expelled because she wanted to go to another school. She may no longer be a student of mine, but I will not abandon a remarkable young girl to a terrible fate. I know what Amelia Beauregard is capable of doing. I’ve watched bigger spirits be broken by the Beauregard method. You need to speak to Molly Donovan at once and convince her to forget her silly plans before Amelia returns from Paris. Do I make myself clear, Ananka?”
I couldn’t seem to find my tongue.
“Do I?” she demanded.
“Yes, Principal Wickham,” I mumbled at last.
“Don’t disappoint me again,” she warned.
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Good. Then you’re excused. I suggest you get started immediately.”
When it comes to crying in public, I’ve always believed that there’s one simple rule to be observed: don’t. Bawl your eyes out in the privacy of your bedroom. Lock yourself in the bathroom and fill the whole tub with tears. I’d rather be seen picking my nose and eating the evidence than be caught crying at school. Still, that morning, I fled the principal’s office with tears in my eyes. Somehow I had managed to disappoint the one adult who had always believed in me. My meddling had put Molly Donovan in danger. And if Amelia Beauregard was half as bad as Principal Wickham believed, who knew what she was planning to do to poor Betty Bent. My phone began to vibrate inside my coat pocket. I ducked into the girls’ room to wipe my eyes and take the call.
“Have you heard from Oona?”
“Hi, Luz,” I said. “Hold on a second.” I unrolled some toilet paper and blew my nose.
“That was really gross,” Luz said. “You should put the phone down when you do that.”
“Sorry. What was that about Oona?”
“Have you heard from her? I’ve been trying to call her for the last three hours. She isn’t picking up her phone.”
“I was with her last night. … Oh no.” I moaned. “Where are you right now?”
“Where do you think I am?” Luz asked. “I’m at school!”
“Can you meet me at First Street and Bowery?”
“Is Oona in trouble? Does this have something to do with Lili?”
“Yeah,” I told her. “I’m pretty sure that it does.”
Fans of monster movies know that every beast is born with a flaw. The dragon has a scale-free patch somewhere on its belly. The witch can be dissolved with a bucket of water. The gorgon will be turned to stone by the sight of her own face in the mirror. No matter how powerful or invincible the movie monster might seem, there’s always a way to bring the beast to its knees. Unfortunately, the same also holds true for everyone in the audience. We all have a weakness—a soft spot we hope will never be hit. If a blow were to find that chink in our armor, even the toughest of characters could crack, crumble, and fall. No one is invincible—not even a tough-talking former delinquent like Oona Wong. Which means I should have been better prepared to p
ick up the pieces when my friend finally cracked. I’d known for months that Oona’s weakness was her family.
I hopped out of a cab on the corner of First Street and Bowery. Luz was waiting, and I brought her up to date as we hurried toward Lili Liu’s alley. When the maintenance shed came into view, Luz skidded to a sudden halt.
“You left Oona in there last night?” she shouted. “Alone? What were you thinking, Ananka?”
“She said she wanted to deal with Lili by herself!”
“And you just let her? You remember what happened the last time Oona refused our help! She ended up wrapped like a mummy and left for dead! You should have made Iris stay with her last night.”
“Iris is twelve. She had to get home.”
“Then Kaspar could have kept her company. He didn’t even have school today!”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve had too many things on my mind.”
Luz shook her head in disgust. “This is the last straw, Fishbein. You need to stop mooning over Betty’s boyfriend and start acting like you’re in charge, or I’m going to stage a mutiny.”
“You know about Kaspar?”
“Everyone knows, Ananka.”
“I’m going to kill Iris McLeod,” I muttered.
“What does Iris have to do with it?” Luz demanded before rushing off toward the shed.
The tiny room was dark and cold. The oil in the camping lantern had burned out. A figure wrapped in a sleeping bag sat in the corner, as still as an Incan mummy. But this wasn’t a sacrifice left on a mountain peak to appease an ancient god. The still, silent girl was a victim of my own selfishness and stupidity.
“Oona?” Luz called out, but there wasn’t an answer. When she bent down and shook the girl, Oona’s head flopped to one side. Her lips were blue.
“Lili?” she mumbled without opening her eyes.
“Hypothermia,” Luz diagnosed. “We should call an ambulance.”
“No!” Oona groaned. “I’m fine!”
“She’s not fine,” Luz argued.
“Then let’s get her back to my house,” I said. “It’s only a couple of blocks away.”
Luz and I each grabbed one of Oona’s arms and dragged her out of the shed. When we reached the avenue, she started to struggle. “Let me go, I can walk by myself!” she insisted through chattering teeth.
“Sure you can,” Luz said, clutching her arm even tighter.
Thankfully, my parents had classes that afternoon, and unlike me, they never skipped school. The apartment was empty. I wrapped Oona in our warmest comforter and made her sit on the side of the tub while a scalding-hot shower filled the bathroom with steam. A few minutes later, Luz arrived with a cup of hot chamomile tea, and we all waited silently in the thickening fog until Oona finally stopped shivering.
“Thanks,” Oona told us. “I tried my best to stay awake last night, but I must have fallen asleep around dawn.”
“It’s fifteen degrees outside,” Luz lectured, furious in the way people get at those they love. “People die all the time in this kind of weather.”
“I know,” Oona said. “That’s why I was waiting for Lili. But she never showed up.”
“Maybe there’s somewhere else she goes when the weather is bad,” I offered hopefully.
“Or maybe she fell asleep outside and froze to death.” Oona’s lips were quivering again, though they’d already returned to a healthy shade of pink. “I’m such a jerk. This whole time I thought Lili was out to destroy me. If I had seen her on the street, I would have hauled her butt straight to the police. I should have guessed that my father had abandoned her, too. My twin sister has been homeless for months, and I haven’t lifted a finger to help her.”
“If you made a mistake, we have time to fix it. We’ll find Lili,” I promised, humbled by Oona’s unexpected transformation. “And if you want us to, the Irregulars will give your sister all the help she needs.”
“Thanks,” Oona said. “I’ll ask my grandmother to get one of our extra rooms ready for Lili. And she can put a few of my clothes in the closet for her.”
“Wow. That’s really nice of you, Oona.” I never would have dreamed she’d go that far.
“Speaking of Mrs. Fei, you should call her as soon as possible,” Luz told Oona. “She must be worried to death. You know, the next time you decide to spend the night in an alley, the least you could do is take your phone. I was trying to reach you all morning.”
“I did take it,” Oona said. “I just used up the battery surfing the Internet.”
“Surfing the Internet?” I asked.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have anything else to do while I was in that shed, so I cracked your dumb code.”
“What code?” Luz asked.
“Amelia Beauregard’s old boyfriend wrote a message in code right before he disappeared in 1944. It was kept top secret for years, but no one’s ever figured out what it said.”
Oona fished a small notebook out of the back pocket of her jeans. Its pages warped as soon as they were exposed to the steam.
“Well, the mystery’s over. This is what Gordon Grant wrote.” She tapped one perfectly manicured nail on a short, handwritten paragraph.
I never believed I could love anyone but you. Thyrza has proven me wrong. I’m surrounded by darkness, but the world seems brighter than ever before. I know you have the strength to survive without me.
“It must have been a letter to Amelia Beauregard.” As much as I despised the woman, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for her.
“Looks like he was giving her the boot for someone else,” Luz remarked with no show of compassion.
“But she never got the letter,” I added. “The military kept it secret for sixty years. Now Madame Beauregard’s got Betty in the catacombs searching for a man who’s not even down there. He’s probably in Bavaria sharing a schnitzel with his girlfriend the German spy.”
“I’m not so sure about the German spy part,” Oona said. “Thyrza is a Hebrew name. It means, ‘she’s my delight.’ I doubt there were too many Nazis with names like that.”
“But still, Gordon deserted Amelia, and she doesn’t even know it.”
“She knows it,” Oona said. “I’d bet you anything.”
“How would she know?” Luz and I asked simultaneously.
“You said some book published the code last year?” Oona asked me.
“Yeah. So?”
“So you think lovesick old Amelia Beauregard wasn’t the first person to read it?”
“But she couldn’t have cracked the code by herself,” Luz argued.
“Of course she cracked the code. It may have taken me all night to figure out what the key was, but she knew it all along. Remember the notes on the lilies she leaves at the marble cemetery? Remember what she signs them?”
“ILEMA.”
“Exactly. I always thought it was a weird name. It’s actually an anagram of the five letters used in the name Amelia. They didn’t need two As, so they dropped one.”
“Okay, you’re losing me,” I said.
“ILEMA is a key. Gordon and Amelia must have arranged to use a poem code to communicate. Poem codes were used a lot during World War II. They weren’t very sophisticated, but they were really hard to crack if you didn’t have the key—or if the same poem wasn’t used more than a couple of times.”
“So, how did you crack it?” I asked.
“I knew which poem Gordon Grant used! The same one Beauregard leaves at the cemetery! You know—I will not ask where thou liest low…” Oona rolled her eyes when she saw I still didn’t understand. “A poem code works like this, Fishbein … You memorize part of a poem. You choose five words from that poem at random and string them together, and you use those five words to develop a cipher. Then you encrypt your message. To decipher the message, you need to know which words were chosen from the poem. The key tells you which ones they were. ‘I’ is the ninth letter of the alphabet, so the ninth word of th
e poem was first. ‘L is the twelfth letter of the alphabet, so the twelfth word of the poem was next. ‘E’ is the fifth letter of the alphabet, and so forth.”
“Okay, okay, okay!” Luz sighed, fed up with the explanation. “So, if Amelia knows that Gordon broke up with her in 1944, why is she still searching for his body?”
“That’s a very good question,” I said.
“Should we be worried about Betty?” Oona asked.
“I already am,” I told her. “Even my principal thinks Amelia Beauregard is dangerous. Someone call Betty and share the news about Gordon. If nothing else, maybe she’ll find a way to use it to her advantage. Then get on my computer and see if you can dig up any information about a spy named Thyrza.”
“Are you going somewhere?” Luz asked.
“Do you have plans with Kaspar again?” Oona said, glaring at me.
“You’re hilarious,” I said. “I happen to have a date with a movie star.”
THE FISHBEIN GUIDE TO … THE WRITTEN WORD
If you really mean it, write it. Let’s say your favorite aunt just sold her Picasso to send you to spy school. Don’t send her a text or an e-mail. For heaven’s sake, write the woman a thank-you note! Like love letters, bank-robbery notes, and anonymous crime tips, thank-you cards are always best when handwritten. But there are a few things you should consider before putting pen to paper …
Be Sure to Practice Your Handwriting
There are many people who believe that a person’s handwriting contains hidden clues about her personality. I’m inclined to agree. A quick course in graphology will help you figure out what it really means when someone dots the letter i with a heart. (My guess? She’s probably dangerously unhinged.)
If You Must Remain Anonymous