“What else do we need, besides meals?” asks Salma.
“Help,” says Tiffany, consulting the list. “We need the newspaper staff to create a newsletter from that time—Zach and I can handle that. We need the drama club to put on a performance from that era. We have to come up with a list of games and activities that were popular then—”
“I’ll talk to the drama club, and I can work on a list of activities,” says Salma.
“I’ll take games,” says Trevor. “Maybe we can play rugby. Did that exist in the 1700s?”
“Crack that book open and find out,” says Zach, and Tiffany smirks. I’m glad she got over herself and forgave him for daring to excel in her field.
“I’ll research foods and talk to the dining hall staff about what to serve,” I say.
All this talk of the eighteenth century makes William feel so present that instead of going back to the room with Salma and Tiffany after our meeting, I head in a different direction.
“Where’s Lore going?” I hear Tiffany ask, and I don’t linger to learn Salma’s answer.
I shiver the moment I enter William’s room.
Using my phone for light, I can see the puffs of my breaths in the frigid air. I remove the icy-cold stone from the wall to check that all his things are still here. After the effort of putting it back in place, I rest on the floor next to the box with his clothes.
I bring his uniform shirt to my nose, but I can’t smell anything.
William has no scent.
I reach beneath the cotton fabrics, and I touch the smooth embroidery of his waistcoat. I pull it out, remembering how he offered it to me when I was cold, and something topples to the floor.
The green book.
“COMING TObreakfast, Lore?”
It’s Tiffany, not Salma asking. She’s started treating me like I’m some pitiable character. I think I liked it more when she was insulting me.
“No,” I say, and Salma doesn’t even spare me a glance as she takes off with her new best friend.
Once I’m alone, I open the green book and flip through it until I get to the Legion of Fire logo. It’s the only ink in the whole text. What if there’s more, but it’s just like the ceiling of the LUB—hidden ink?
I spend all morning testing the book’s blank pages. I try writing in it, holding it up to the sun, wetting it with water—I even borrow Salma’s skull-shaped silver candle lighter to see if fire will do the trick. But all I manage to do is destroy a handful of pages.
At one point, I think horrible thoughts to make myself cry, then I collect a tear and smear it across the paper.
But that doesn’t work, either.
So, after tossing the book to the floor and stomping on it, I stuff it in my bag and slam the door behind me.
I make it to breakfast right at the bell, but only to grab a wedge of lemon from the beverage table and smear it across a blank page.
Nothing happens.
As I’m putting the text back in my bag, I hear, “You missed breakfast.”
I zip it shut quickly before looking at Trevor. “Stayed up late, researching foods.”
“Was that green book from the LUB?” he asks, frowning.
“No, it’s my diary,” I say, quick with the lie.
“Oh.” His forehead is still creased, like he’s not convinced.
“Gotta get to history,” I say, rushing out of the dining hall.
