Lies Twist The Way We Think

Chapter 17 - Letters, Riddles, Grayson Hawthorne, More Riddles

I'm done with this shit. How often have I thought this thought the past week? Maybe too often to take myself seriously anymore. The last girl who spent hour after hour in that house? She died.

Somehow, I make my way to the library. A stone plate marks the entrance, with the words 'The Archive' etched into it.

The Archive, as it's apparently called, looks more like a university library than one that belongs in a high school. The room is full of archways stained glass. Countless shelves are brimming with books of every kind, and at the center of the room, there are a dozen rectangular tables—state of the art, with lights build into them and enormous magnifying glasses attached to the sides.

All the tables are empty except for one. A girl sits with her back to me. She has blonde hair, but without seeing her face I can't tell who she is. I sit down several tables away from her, facing the door. The room is silent except for the sound of the other girl turning the pages of the book she is reading.

I hide my face in my hands. There are so many thoughts and so little time to think about any of them properly.

My phone rings with a notification. I pick it up, expecting it to be Aisha, hoping for it to be Aisha.

I've solved it, Trouble. Have you?

I need three seconds to realise that the text came from Grayson, and another three seconds to think of an answer. I know this must sound terribly primitive to you, but I actually need to concentrate in class in order to pass it. And what's it with the nickname?

The reply doesn't even take seconds. You don't like it?

No. I shoot back.

Perfect. Let me know when you figure it out.

The riddle. I forgot about that, but now I have to prove myself better. Not for Grayson, obviously. For myself. I recall the letter, its words engraved in my memory.

Trust only few; there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. There is nothing— or no one. No one is either good or bad. That would make sense. But what is it for?

I hurry to take a piece of paper out of my bag, but it doesn't take long for me to notice I've lost my pen. I turn to the blonde girl. "Excuse me, could I borrow your pen for a second?"

She looks up. "Yeah, sure. You're Camille, right? I'm Anna, from Classics." I recognise her and I wonder why it took me so long. She offers me a pen and smiles.

"Yeah," I say, suddenly losing any confidence I had. She is almost glowing, the way she moves and speaks remind me of sunlight, for whatever reason. "Thank you."

I start to write down the letter from memory. She glances over curiously, and I can't blame her. But this is personal. I pretend to scratch out the lines and start new at the bottom of the page. "I'm trying to remember the homework Miss Leda gave us, but I think I'm missing something."

Anna catches on and recites it from memory. When I finish 'writing' the assignment down, she keeps talking. She's the daughter of a diplomat and apparently will only stay for a year. I listen to her talk, answer little and nod at times while thinking about a riddle. Then, after a while, she starts doing her homework, this time sitting closer to me. We both write peacefully, and I feel slightly better.

When I reread the letter, it doesn't strike me as anything special. A few Shakespeare quotes listed to...what? Give him life advice? Very grandfatherly of him, but it doesn't seem like a riddle to me.

The only thing that could indicate a riddle is the first sentence. Forgive an old man his plays. But it's so simple. Too simple.

"You're making this way too complicated," I hear Harry's voice in my head. "Sometimes the answer lies in the obvious."