She was imagining Niall Lynch going through closets and collections and basements, carefully curating the objects he found. Declan imagined something closer to the truth: his father dreaming at the Barns, in hotel rooms, on couches, in the backseat of the BMW that was now Ronan’s.
“Yeah,” Declan said. “Yeah, I think so, too.”
Sleep, snatched. Breakfast, skipped. School, attended.
Gansey could not tell how close it had to be to the end of the world – his world – before he could justify taking school off to chase Glendower, and so he kept going. Adam went, because Adam would cling to his Ivy League dreams even if they were being borne skyward in Godzilla’s jaws. And, to Gansey’s amazement, Ronan went as well, nearly making them both late as he scrounged for a complete uniform in the mess of his room. He suspected that Ronan was only attending to make up for the fight in the urgent care the night before, but Gansey didn’t care. He just wanted Ronan to log some time in a classroom.
Henry caught up to Gansey in the hallway of Borden House as he left class (French, to replace his defunct Latin studies – Gansey preferred Latin, but he was not terrible at French, so n’y a pas de quoi fouetter un chat). Henry skipped until he was in step with Gansey. “Hey, Junior. Is everything joy in your world after last night?”
“Two steps down from joy. We had a very good time last night, at Litchfield. It was rude of us to run out when we did.”
“We only watched music videos on our phones after you left. The mood sagged. I tucked in the children and read them stories but they kept asking after you.”
This made Gansey laugh. “We were having adventures.”
“I thought so. That’s what I told them.”
Carefully, Gansey added, “An old friend wasn’t feeling well.” It was not a lie. Just not an entire truth. It was the edge of a truth.
Henry raised an eyebrow to demonstrate that he clearly spotted this edge, but he didn’t tug at it. “They’ll be all right?”
Noah’s face went to inky black. Noah’s sister stood on the auditorium stage. Bones yellowed beneath an Aglionby sweater.
Gansey said, “We remain optimistic.”
He did not think there was anything off about the tone of his voice when he said it, but Henry’s gaze darted over to him, quickly. That eyebrow quirked again. “Optimistic. Yes, you are an optimistic person, Gansey Boy. Would you like to see something interesting before lunch?”
A glance at his watch told Gansey that Adam, at least, would be looking for him at the dining hall soon.
Henry swiftly interpreted this look. “It’s right here. In Borden. It’s cool. It’s Ganseylike.”
This struck Gansey as patently absurd. No one knew what Ganseylike was, even Gansey. Teachers and family friends were always collecting articles and stories that they thought might capture his attention, things they thought were Ganseylike. The well-meaning items always addressed the most obvious parts of him. Welsh kings or old Camaros or other young people who had travelled the world for bizarre reasons no one else understood. No one dug down past that, and he supposed he didn’t much encourage it. There was a lot of night in those days behind him, and he preferred to turn his face into the sun. Ganseylike. What was Ganseylike?
“Does that smile mean yes? Yes, good, follow me,” Henry said. He immediately pitched left through a narrow door labelled STAFF USE ONLY. Borden House had originally been a house, not an academic building, and the door opened into a narrow staircase. One fussy sconce lit the way; the light was swallowed by hideously busy wallpaper. They started down the stairs. “This is a very old building, Dick Three. Seventeen fifty-one. Imagine the things it has seen. Or heard, since houses don’t have eyes.”
“Currency Act,” Gansey said.
“What?”
“Was passed in 1751,” Gansey said. “Banning the issue of currency by New England. And George the Third became Prince of Wales in 1751, if I remember right.”
“Also” – Henry reached for a light switch. It barely illuminated a low-ceilinged basement with a dirt floor. A glorified crawl space, with nothing but a few cardboard boxes shoved against one of the foundation walls – “the first performing monkey act in the United States.” He had to duck his head to keep from tangling his hair in the exposed wooden beams supporting the floor above them. The air smelled like a concentrated version of Borden House’s aboveground floors – which was to say, like mould and navy blue carpet – but with the additional damp, living scent peculiar to caves and very old basements.
“Really?” Gansey asked.
“Maybe,” Henry said. “I tried to find primary sources, but you know the Internet, man. Here we are.”
They had come to the far corner of the basement, and the single lightbulb by the base of the stairs did not quite illuminate what Henry was pointing at. It took Gansey a moment to realize what the blacker square in the already dark dirt floor was.
“Is it a tunnel?” he asked.