I'm done with this shit. How often have I thought this thought the past week? Maybe too often to take myself seriously anymore. The last girl who spent hour after hour in that house? She died.
Somehow, I make my way to the library. A stone plate marks the entrance, with the words 'The Archive' etched into it.
The Archive, as it's apparently called, looks more like a university library than one that belongs in a high school. The room is full of archways stained glass. Countless shelves are brimming with books of every kind, and at the center of the room, there are a dozen rectangular tables—state of the art, with lights build into them and enormous magnifying glasses attached to the sides.
All the tables are empty except for one. A girl sits with her back to me. She has blonde hair, but without seeing her face I can't tell who she is. I sit down several tables away from her, facing the door. The room is silent except for the sound of the other girl turning the pages of the book she is reading.
I hide my face in my hands. There are so many thoughts and so little time to think about any of them properly.
My phone rings with a notification. I pick it up, expecting it to be Aisha, hoping for it to be Aisha.
I've solved it, Trouble. Have you?
I need three seconds to realise that the text came from Grayson, and another three seconds to think of an answer. I know this must sound terribly primitive to you, but I actually need to concentrate in class in order to pass it. And what's it with the nickname?
The reply doesn't even take seconds. You don't like it?
No. I shoot back.
Perfect. Let me know when you figure it out.
The riddle. I forgot about that, but now I have to prove myself better. Not for Grayson, obviously. For myself. I recall the letter, its words engraved in my memory.
Trust only few; there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. There is nothing— or no one. No one is either good or bad. That would make sense. But what is it for?
I hurry to take a piece of paper out of my bag, but it doesn't take long for me to notice I've lost my pen. I turn to the blonde girl. "Excuse me, could I borrow your pen for a second?"
She looks up. "Yeah, sure. You're Camille, right? I'm Anna, from Classics." I recognise her and I wonder why it took me so long. She offers me a pen and smiles.
"Yeah," I say, suddenly losing any confidence I had. She is almost glowing, the way she moves and speaks remind me of sunlight, for whatever reason. "Thank you."
I start to write down the letter from memory. She glances over curiously, and I can't blame her. But this is personal. I pretend to scratch out the lines and start new at the bottom of the page. "I'm trying to remember the homework Miss Leda gave us, but I think I'm missing something."
Anna catches on and recites it from memory. When I finish 'writing' the assignment down, she keeps talking. She's the daughter of a diplomat and apparently will only stay for a year. I listen to her talk, answer little and nod at times while thinking about a riddle. Then, after a while, she starts doing her homework, this time sitting closer to me. We both write peacefully, and I feel slightly better.
When I reread the letter, it doesn't strike me as anything special. A few Shakespeare quotes listed to...what? Give him life advice? Very grandfatherly of him, but it doesn't seem like a riddle to me.
The only thing that could indicate a riddle is the first sentence. Forgive an old man his plays. But it's so simple. Too simple.
"You're making this way too complicated," I hear Harry's voice in my head. "Sometimes the answer lies in the obvious."
Fine, Harry. I start to work my way through the letter once again.
After five minutes, I have figured out this: There is no pattern. Tobias Hawthorne knew he was going to die. And...
There is nothing to solve. I text Grayson bitterly. Words are easy, like the wind. Does Hawthorne House have a library?
Tobias Hawthorne didn't leave a riddle in Grayson's letter. But there might be something else.
My phone rings. Five libraries.
I should've known.
C. R. D. - M. L. T.
The rest of the day feels dizzy, like I'm watching myself through an old television screen. When we get back to Hawthorne House, Avery excuses herself quickly. I want to lie down on my bed and just stare at the ceiling until the numbness goes away. But someone ruins my plans. Not that I didn't expect it.
"We could be making something out of nothing," I say. "Not that I want to ruin your enthusiasm. Go on, Grayson."
He looks at me and scoffs. "We aren't. You saw the hint in the letter too, and you didn't even know the old man. Or did you?" He starts walking between the shelves, not bothering to wait for my answer.
"You know damn well that I didn't." I walk after him, the rage rising in my chest again. Rage is good. Rage is old. A lover welcoming me home. We don't get along, but it's familiar, and I escape into that feeling. "And we have no idea what we're looking for."
Grayson gives me a strange look. "Yes, we do. Jameson showed me his letter." He takes it out of his pocket and gives it to me.
"Couldn't have told me about that earlier?" He is right, though. If I'm not crazy, Jameson's letter confirms the clue in Grayson's letter. My eyes flicker over the page. Proverbs. Every line in this letter, barring the proper names, is a proverb or a slight variation thereon. Every line except one. Don't judge. There is only one I can think of that started with those two words.
Oren shifts in the background. I remember his presence, and it is incredibly concerning that I forgot about it.
"So a book with a wrong cover?" I conclude.
"Maybe. But it seems like unnecessary work, given the amount of books there are in Hawthorne House." He leans against a shelf and crosses his arms.
I move towards the shelves, my hand reaching out for the books. "There could be another clue."
A sudden sound interrupts my movement. I turn to see Grayson coming closer, his expression clouded. "You should be careful."
"I'm not going to break anything." But his face doesn't change. "Am I correct when I assume," I say slowly, "that you hate me?"
He laughs, his voice rough. "I don't hate people, Camille." Standing this close to Grayson, I don't feel nearly tall enough. "My mother hasn't left her room in days." Grayson stares at me. "Xander nearly blew himself up today. Jameson is one bad idea away from ruining his life, and none of us can leave the estate without being hounded by the press. The property damage they've caused alone..."
I lift my chin. "Do you think this is easy for me? My closest friends are being stalked and harassed. I can't go anywhere because I too am being stalked by paparazzi constantly. Do you think I want this?"
"You want the money." Grayson Hawthorne looks down at me from on high and it feels like any feeling of comfort is gone— again. "How could you not, growing up the way you did?"
My head is blank for a second, because there is no way he said that. "Like you don't want the money?" I retort. "Growing up the way you did? Maybe I haven't had everything handed to me my entire life, but—"
"You have no idea," Grayson says lowly, "how ill prepared you are. A girl like you?"
"You have no idea who I am." A rush of fury surges through my veins as I cut him off.
"I will," Grayson promises. "I'll know everything about you soon enough." Something tells me that he is a person who keeps his promises. "My access to funds might be somewhat limited currently, but the Hawthorne name still means something. There will always be people tripping over themselves to do favors for any one of us. Whatever you're hiding, I'll find it. Every last secret. Within days, I'll have a detailed dossier on every person in your life. Your sisters. Your father. Your mother—"
A sharp pain hits my chest and I feel like I'm dying. Breathing is suddenly a challenge and I take a shuddering breath. "Don't talk about my mother. Don't you dare."
He takes a step closer, something in his facial expression shifting, but I push past him and stumble towards the door before I can see what it is. Oren follows me, I think. Probably.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. The childish chanting in my head doesn't stop.
Inside me, there is a child screaming for her mother, and a woman who tells her that she doesn't need anyone. I am both. I am neither.