Dead Beautiful

I hesitated. I had lied to everyone in order to hide the fact that I’d spent the night at Dante’s. But someone had to know the truth. I needed Nathaniel’s help. “No. It was actually the morning of Grub Day.”

Nathaniel looked confused. “What? But why did you tell everyone that—”

I cut him off. “I spent the night with Dante,” I said quickly. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Nathaniel went silent. “So you don’t know when she disappeared?”

I shook my head.

“This is bad, Renée. Really bad.”

I swallowed. “I know.”

“Well, if we assume that whatever happened to her happened on Grub Day, then it couldn’t have been Professor Bliss. I even saw him later that night patrolling the boys’ dorms, so either way, he’s safe.”

“Why do you think it happened on Grub Day?”

“I mean, think about it. It’s perfect. Everyone is in town, including most of the professors and the Board of Monitors. So the real question is, who wasn’t in Attica Falls that day?” But the question was impossible to answer. There were far too many people, and besides, we hadn’t been keeping track.

“Do you think it could be...” My voice trailed off.

“The Gottfried Curse?” Nathaniel said, finishing my sentence. “Maybe.”

When we walked into class, Annette LaBarge was sitting on her desk, her legs dangling freely like a child on a swing. A glass of water sat by her side. Unlike my other professors, she taught everything as if it were a story.

“A long time ago, we used to believe that people were made of two things—the body and the soul. When the body died, the soul lived on and was cleansed and reborn into someone new. The idea was explored by many, though namely in Western culture by Plato, and then René Descartes.

“Descartes was a famous philosopher in his time. He was obsessed with death—he wrote about it incessantly. He even claimed to have discovered the path to immortality. He was going to reveal his secret in an essay he claimed would be his lifetime achievement, and which he worked on up until his death. He called it his Seventh Meditation. When he died, people believed that his death was a hoax, an experiment. They thought he had found a way to cheat death and become reborn.

“That, of course, was never proven, and Descartes was never heard from again. All that remained were his papers. People combed through them, searching for the Seventh Meditation, but they only found six, none of which contained anything about the key to immortality.

“After everyone had given up hope, rumors began to surface that they had found something buried beneath the foundation of his house. Descartes’ Seventh Meditation. But the book was banned just before it was released. According to rumor, all copies were immediately burned, as were the men who had printed it. And before it could even be read, the book was gone, along with all of its secrets.”

While she spoke, I looked out the window, and watched the branches of the trees sway in the wind. A boy ran into Horace Hall holding a messy stack of papers, clearly late for class. A maintenance worker shoveled snow along the edge of the green. The flood, followed by Eleanor’s disappearance, seemed to fit with all of the other “accidents” that had been reported on in the article from The Portland Herald. And if Eleanor’s disappearance was related to Benjamin’s, then there was a good chance she would soon be found dead of a heart attack.

“We do, however, have glimpses into what his final work contained, facts that scholars have gleaned from other books published back then. In the Seventh Meditation, Descartes stated that children couldn’t die. He said that, unlike adults, the bodies of children only appear to be dead. After ten days, they wake up and live again, soulless. According to Descartes, children stop rising from the dead at the age of twenty-one. Some philosophers speculate that this is why the age of twenty-one now embodies the idea of adulthood.”

If I had only found a way to get to those files in the headmistress’s office, I might have found some piece of information that would have helped prevent whatever had happened to Eleanor. Quietly, I tore out a piece of paper from my notebook.

We have to find a way into the headmistress’s office

I folded the note, and when Miss LaBarge wasn’t watching, I passed it to Nathaniel. He gave me a cautionary look, as if he knew what I was planning to do and didn’t approve. Nonetheless, he scribbled down a response and passed it back to me.

I don’t think you need my help doing that.

I immediately felt stupid. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I didn’t have to break into the headmistress’s office; I just had to get into trouble and be sent there. I had no idea how I would get to the files once I was inside, but I would deal with that later. Satisfied, I crumpled up the note and slipped it into my pocket.

After classes, the investigation for Eleanor began. One by one, we were called in for questioning. Solemnly, we watched each girl walk downstairs to Mrs. Lynch’s quarters. A door slammed. After fifteen minutes it reopened. And then the next name was called. No one spoke after their interview. With Eleanor missing and Mrs. Lynch arousing suspicions among the student body, the atmosphere in the dorm was grim.

Finally it was my turn.

“Winters!” Mrs. Lynch’s voice echoed from downstairs. On the way down I passed Minnie Roberts, who had gone in before me. I tried to say hello, but she kept her head bowed.

Mrs. Lynch’s quarters were strategically positioned right next to the entrance so she could hear anyone sneaking in or out. When I got there, the door was slightly ajar. I knocked. When no one answered, I pushed it open.

Mrs. Lynch was sitting in an overstuffed plaid armchair, her stubby feet resting on a matching ottoman. She was scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad.

“Shut the door,” she said without looking up.

The room looked like something a grandmother might live in. It had a low ceiling, dingy floral curtains, and a shag carpet. It smelled like potpourri and mothballs. The walls were decorated with pictures of lighthouses, which, upon closer examination, were not paintings, but needlepoint.

Finally Mrs. Lynch stopped writing and looked at me. “Miss Winters.”

There was nowhere to sit, so I stood in the middle of the room.

“Eleanor Bell has been missing for what seems to be two days now. You are her roommate, correct?”