The Sheridan Institute Files

Chapter 3: Lizzie

Lizzie Brown was furious with herself.

So furious that she wished she used swear words, for now would have been the perfect time for a whole slew of them.

Lizzie tromped down the driveway toward the distant wrought-iron gate that welcomed people into the Institute. It was framed by two decidedly disproportionate stone stags, whose antlers were biologically impossible—not to mention gravitationally inconvenient. (Good thing they were stone.) Her fingers, now free of Joseph’s graded papers, relaxed…and tightened…relaxed…and tightened around a new pencil in one hand and her toolbox (which was actually a lunch pail filled with clanking tools) in the other.

No one—no one—should have been able to walk onto the school grounds.

The instant Mr. McIntosh had stepped through the Sheridan Institute’s front gate, the bell in the gatehouse should have clanged. Then, lazy old Herman, the school guard, should have charged out for interception.

That was how things were supposed to have played out…

Except that they hadn’t because, as usual, Lizzie’s invention had failed.

Failed.

She might as well replace “Marie” as her middle name with that awful, inescapable word.

With her breath sawing and her body overheating beneath her navy wool (oh, how Lizzie hated the premade gowns her grandmother always sent), she stomped faster. Louder. She was near enough to the entrance to spot the gatehouse nestled beside it. The gray stone hut slouched against the brick wall surrounding the Institute grounds, and although most of it was hidden beneath a yellowing, autumn oak, Lizzie could just see its leaning chimney poking up—and no smoke chugging out.

Hope lifted in her chest. Perhaps her modifications to Mr. Sheridan’s Dead Alarm hadn’t failed! Perhaps it was simply that lazy old Herman was being lazy and old! In fact, perhaps he was away jabbering with the lazy old gardener in the greenhouse instead of monitoring the series of bells that represented to all the various areas at the Institute.

“Hey, Liz!”

No. Lizzie’s heart shot into her throat, and her feet almost tripped over her skirts. Not him.

It was bad enough that she’d run into Tristan in Professor Fitt’s class—there’d really been no avoiding him—but now this? He was following her?

“Wait up!”

Lizzie absolutely did not wait up. Or look behind her or do anything at all that might convince Tristan she was interested in pausing for him. Instead, she lunged for the gatehouse, thinking that maybe if she ran fast enough, she could duck behind the oak tree before he ever caught up—

No such luck. There was no escaping his long legs—he was more persistent than a Hungry Dead—and gravel crunched at a speed that Lizzie could not outrun.

It would be one thing if she hated him. Hate, she’d found, was one of the greatest balms against hurt feelings, aching hearts, and scraped knees. (All right, not that last one perhaps, but it was amazing how far a big dose of red-hot hatred could get a person.)

But Lizzie didn’t hate Tristan. Quite the opposite in fact.

She was madly in love with him.

Ever since the first day he’d arrived at the Sheridan Institute a year ago, having been kicked out of seven schools prior, she had been utterly smitten. And for some inexplicable reason, he’d become her friend in turn.