The snow obliterated the horizon. There was no sense of where the sky ended and the world began. There were hints of trees, but they were shortened in perspective by the depth of the snow, and their spindly, bare branches wore white gloves. Only the dome on the little mound seemed to be in the right place. The sunken garden was being refilled. The world was being erased and reset.

The morning room, where everyone was camped, managed to be both cold and stuffy at the same time. Stevie woke, stiff and still tired, and stared out from her sleeping place. The rubber mat and blankets didn’t do much to keep out the hard chill of the floor. She had a limited view under the sofa and could see Janelle’s extended arm reaching in Vi’s general direction, though Vi was several feet away, sleeping upright, tablet still in hand. Nate was curled into his blankets, which he had pulled over his head. There was a gentle, soft snoring coming from someone.

Stevie wiped away some drool and pushed herself up quietly to a standing position. Even David was asleep, draped over the chair, legs hanging off the side, a tablet next to him. Hunter, the lightly snoring one, was flat on his back on the sofa, his knit hat pulled over his eyes like a sleeping mask. There was something odd and intimate the way the soft light fell on her sleeping friends; it was almost as if the Ellinghams had even planned a room where the light would come down gently on any revelers sleeping off a party.

She tiptoed out into the main hall, where Call Me Charles was by the fire with his computer and a stack of folders. Call Me Charles was a lot to take at what her phone informed her was six in the morning, but there was no avoiding it.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, waving her over, “but I didn’t sleep much. I caught up on some work. Reading applications for next year’s class.”

Applications. More people would be coming, taking the same chance Stevie had—writing to Ellingham about their passions, hoping someone would see a spark and admit them. It was so weird to think of people coming after her.

“I hope we have a school then,” he said.

“You think the school won’t reopen?” Stevie said.

Charles sighed and shut his computer.

“The cat only has so many lives,” he said. “We’ll do our best. We could live to fight another day. We have to be hopeful.”

He sipped his coffee and gazed into the fire for a moment.

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “The Ellingham case. Do you think you understand it any better since being here?”

Stevie could have said, I solved it. So, yeah, kind of better. But it wasn’t time, and Charles was not going to be her official way of getting this out into the world.

“I think so,” she said noncommittally. “Why?”

“Because,” he said. “That’s why you were admitted.”

“Did you really think I could solve it?” she said.

“What I thought and what I still think,” he replied, “is that I saw someone with a passionate interest. In fact, I thought you might be bored here, so I went up to the attic last night and got you something.”

He indicated the small table next to him, where four large green volumes sat. She recognized them at once, with their gold lettering on the side, indicating years and months.

“The house records,” she said.

“I thought you might like to go through them,” he said. “Only if you want.”

Stevie had read through these records before. They had been kept by the butler, Montgomery. They listed the comings and goings in the house—what meals were served, what occasions were held, which guests were in attendance.

“Thanks,” Stevie said, accepting them.

Above, Dr. Quinn came out of one of the offices. She was dressed in a cashmere sweater and a pair of elegant yoga pants with flowers twining up the sides. Ellingham was still ticking away.

“Can I sit in the ballroom and read?” Stevie said.

“I don’t see why not,” Charles said. “It’s cold in there.”

“I don’t care.”

He got up and unlocked the room for her.

The Ellingham ballroom was a magnificent hall of mirrors, and as such, it was very cold and empty. She sat in the middle of the wooden floor, surrounded by a thousand other Stevies. She set down the pile of house records and reached into her bag for the red diary. She felt the pages, which were surprisingly smooth given their age. Expensive paper in a well-made book, the penmanship formal and exquisite, with occasional drips of ink on the page. Francis Josephine Crane, baking flour heiress, had a lot to say about the school and the people who lived there. For starters, she didn’t have a lot of good things to say about the school’s benefactor.

11/13/35

Albert, Lord Albert, the man must think he’s a god. After all, he’s built himself his own little Olympus and furnished it with Greek deities. And he can say all he likes about his great experiment, but what he wants is to make a whole group of little Alberts, or what he believes himself to be. Luckily, he has rich friends who will give him their children (my parents couldn’t say yes fast enough) for the purpose. And poor people? Well, who wouldn’t entrust their son or daughter to the great Albert Ellingham? The talk of games is especially tiring. I think his wife may be all right. I’ve seen her around and about, speeding off in her car. (A very attractive one. Cherry red. I’d like one like that.) I think she skis and drinks, and she’s friends with Leonard Holmes Nair, who comes here to paint and visit.

11/16/35

The great Albert Ellingham took me around the campus today, the sanctimonious prick. I had to pretend to be impressed with everything he’s done in order to get him to show me anything interesting. He laughed at me. Something will have to be done about that.

She also had things to say about Iris that were surprising.

12/1/35

Amazing discovery. Eddie and I slipped into the back garden today, where the Ellinghams have a private lake. Iris and her friend were sitting out there in the cold, wrapped up in furs, giggling about something. We watched as Iris took a small compact from her purse, scooped something out of it with a small silver object, and snorted whatever was in it right up her nose! Her friend then took some. Our dear Madame Ellingham has a taste for cocaine! Eddie was delighted and said we needed to go over and ask for some—he loves the stuff. I’ve never had it, but he said it makes you see galaxies. In any case, we didn’t, but it’s a very good fact to put away. You never know when that one will come in handy.

There were always hints that Iris Ellingham liked a good party, but nothing about cocaine. There were observations about Francis’s housemates and housemistress as well.

12/3/35

Gertie van Coevorden made a cutting remark about the time I spend with Eddie. She said, “Whatever do you spend all that time doing?” I told her we do the same thing her father does with the downstairs maid. She did not understand. She is genuinely that thick.

12/6/35

The only one around here worth a damn aside from me and Eddie is Dottie Epstein, and that is mostly because she is a sneak.

12/8/35

Nelson is a drip. She swans around the house in her one good skirt and sweater, telling us all when we must retire for the evening, when we must study. Eddie tells me the boys’ houses have no such rules. Nelson has a secret. I don’t know what it is, but I will work it out.

1/16/36

Gertie van Coevorden drinks so much gin that if you set her on fire she would burn for a week.

As the entries went on and became more about cars, guns, open safes, and routes to the West, there were a few entries about Eddie that had a different tone than the rapturous ones at the start of the diary.

2/5/36

I wonder if Eddie is strong enough to do what we mean to do. I know I am. He likes to talk about poetry and the dark star and living a perfectly reckless life, outside of morality, but does he know what it means? What if he turns out to be like the others? I can’t bear it.

2/9/36

I have always felt that boys are weak-minded. I don’t think they can help themselves most of the time. I believed Eddie was different. What he is is drunk and debauched. Those are virtues, to some extent, but I thought there was more. What if there isn’t?

2/18/36

He’s such a spoiled boy. I’m spoiled too, but it didn’t rot me in the way it rotted him. The money corroded him. What is it about me that loves the decay?

And there was this entry, which Stevie kept coming back to.

OUR TREASURE

All that I care about starts at nine

Dance twelve hundred steps on the northern line

To the left bank three hundred times

E+A

Line flag

Tiptoe

Stevie set the diary down on her lap.

She was tired of people not saying what they meant. This, of course, was going to be a big part of her job as a detective. People would lie to her or talk around things. It was something she would have to get used to.

But David . . . he couldn’t have meant what he’d said last night, about ignoring each other forever. That was one of his games. A test.

Why had David even come back?