“Return our phones,” I said. She placed them on the table; I caught them both up in a hand. “Thanks. You’ve been a great help.”

“Don’t you want to know what’s happened to your uncle?” she said to me. “Don’t you care at all?”

I knew what had happened to Leander. I hadn’t wanted to believe it. I had insisted to myself that I needed to find firm evidence. But the truth of it was I had known, bodily known—not known with my brain, and so perhaps not legitimately—but my heart had been saying it since the day we’d left Sussex. My heart! The absurdity of it.

I knew, too, that there was nothing I could do to rescue him until I could tie Lucien Moriarty to the crime. Whether or not he was guilty was beside the point.

The alternative was unthinkable.

“Tell anyone I know about this auction, tell anyone I’m coming, and I’ll have you killed. No,” I said, as Watson coughed, “I’ll do it myself.”

The door flung open behind me.

“Charlotte,” August said cautiously, as the men behind him raised their guns. They both had Greystone haircuts—military, with better sideburns. Milo appreciated aesthetics.

I relaxed marginally.

“August,” I said, as it’s polite to greet one’s friends.

“Charlotte. There’s a girl on the roof. She says her name is Lena.” He cleared his throat. “She says she brought the helicopter you wanted?”

eleven

IN THE BACK OF HADRIAN MORIARTY’S CAR, I HAD TEXTED Watson some suggestions about fleeing. In the process, I’d also discovered a number of texts from my Sherringford roommate, Lena, informing me that she had decided to do some last-minute Christmas shopping in “a European city” and had chosen Berlin (“Though, ew, Char, do they even have a Barneys?”) because she was tired of “you and Jamie dodging me. Is it because he’s still mad at Tom?”

Tom and Lena, our Sherringford roommates, were dating. And no, Watson was not still angry at Tom, even though the little charmless frog had spied on him throughout last semester in exchange for cash. Tom had believed—erroneously—that his girlfriend, the daughter of an oil tycoon, would dump him if he didn’t have the means to impress her with presents and trips and the like.

Things Lena Gupta was impressed by, in my experience with her: high-fashion jackets covered in snaps, spikes, and other metal hardware; unstudied eccentricity; things that exploded; boys who were willing to hold her bag. Things Lena had zero interest in: other people’s financial backgrounds. Lena was the kind of girl that let me draw her blood for an experiment without asking a single question. Lena never asked very many questions at all. This quality, among others, made her an excellent friend.

When, outside the Moriartys’ warehouse, I sent both her and my brother messages saying I might need medical assistance, Milo didn’t immediately respond. Lena did. She wrote back “ok!” and a number of those smiling faces with hearts for eyes. As Watson was being pummeled, I took the few seconds needed to send her our location before I joined into the fray myself.

Lena arrived with a medevac helicopter, two nurses, a pilot, and a bug-eyed Tom with headphones on. Around her shoulders was a faux fur stole. It was beautiful. I was very happy to see her.

“We should live together again next year,” I told her as we helped Watson into the cabin. August climbed in next to the pilot.

“Totally,” she yelled back over the noise. “Do you think we could get a room in Carter Hall? They have private bathrooms!”

Watson was laid out on a stretcher, and though he was clearly conscious, he didn’t try to speak. His jaw was swollen to the size of a grapefruit. Instead, he motioned for me to give him his phone.

Emails, he wrote, with difficulty.

“From Leander to your father? Are they on your phone?”

Yes. Read them.

I took his phone. The two nurses shooed me away. They put in IVs, shone penlights into his eyes. Tom looked over at Watson’s battered face, and then buried his own face in his hands. Empathy? Delayed guilt? I raised him a quarter of a notch in my estimation.

I directed the copter to return to Greystone. There was a helipad on the roof and doctors inside the building. I wanted to avoid police involvement as much as possible, and taking Watson to a hospital in this state would certainly raise some red flags.

They would take him down to the medical bay. August would run alongside to help them through the security checkpoints. Before they left, I told the nurses to check for internal bleeding, a reminder I’m sure they appreciated.

“You’re not coming?” August asked.

“No,” I said. “I need three cigarettes and fifty minutes in silence. I can’t have a cigarette in a hospital room, and anyway I can’t think when he looks like that.”

“It might be a comfort to him,” he said. They were loading Watson onto a gurney.

“His comfort isn’t my priority.” It was number five on the list, after all. “Give him my love, if he asks.”

August blinked at me, as though I’d said something strange. I wasn’t unused to that look from him. In our time together in Sussex, when he was still my tutor, he’d often do this—blink at me slowly, almost languidly, when I gave an unexpected answer to his questions. Some might have taken it as a sign of judgment. I took it to be fascination.

It never evolved past that place for him. Never into attraction, as it did for me. Still, he acted as though he had a claim on me. I wonder if he understood the nature of that claim. I was the instrument of his downfall. If he wanted to be near me, it was to ensure I didn’t ruin anyone else.