LUMM 1: Die a Horrid Death, Arlo Crowhaven

4 | lights & shadows

My knuckles rapped against another simple door with no decors. A small peephole stared me in the face, but I had no chance of knowing if someone was behind it. Beside me, Ethan stood on his tiptoes, swaying past my shoulder. "Must you do that?" I asked. "What are you still doing here?"

He whipped towards me, a mock look of hurt plastered on his features. He touched a hand to his chest. "But I must witness this story blossom!" He squared his shoulders with such determination. If he applied the same amount to his studies, he wouldn't be scheduled for remedial midterms for Professor Bailey. "I would love to have been at the beginning when you tie the knot as Mr. and Mrs. Crowhaven!"

That...

I shook my head. "Look, you've been a great help to me today, but you really should go," I said. "I'd rather talk to Alyson alone."

Ethan pouted. "You sure?"

"Sure."

He blew a breath, shoulders slumping. "Fine." He peeled away from my personal space and stalked off. I watched his frame grow smaller with every step he took. When he rounded the corner, he whipped back to me and pointed. "Don't die in there, okay?"

Before I could process if he meant that as a joke or a threat, the imp popped out of the frame and sauntered off. The door swung open with a nasty creak, and a petite girl with short, blue hair poked her head out. Wait...this girl—

Oh. Alyson. Her name was Alyson.

"Yes?" she said in a passive voice, staring out into the corridor as if she didn't see me standing in front of her. Then, her gaze rose and settled right onto mine. A goofy smile spread from her lips, pulling it apart with the beginnings of a manic grin. Or at least...it seemed so. "Oh, Arlo. I didn't see you there. I thought it was some new slates pulling a prank on me again."

Which said a lot about her. New slates pulling pranks on their fellow new slates and her letting them were a new level of pathetic. If she was an elite, she would have stood up for herself, flashed her old money on their faces, and gotten them to leave her alone. And a month of backstage duty? That was the equivalent of being sent to the cleaner's quarters.

"I came to see you, actually," I said, looking around us to see if someone had tailed me on my way here. Perhaps the investigators were undercover and had been following me around. In their minds, I was only proving their suspicions true—that I was indeed the one who murdered Horace. But here I was, about to do their job for them. "Have you got time?"

She perked up, her eyes widening at the prospect of getting some sliver of chance with me. "Of course," she said. The door opened wider as she stepped aside, waving me over. "Come in. I just finished locker inventories. The girls are complaining about stolen uniforms again."

I indulged her request, coming upon a quaint lounge with two gold-rimmed couches facing each other. A low, mahogany table with carved festoons for legs and polished, glass-topped surface separated them, bearing a plump but empty flower vase as its crown. Translucent windows faced the door, exchanging rays of sunlight past the drawn curtains. Frames of unknown figures—but probably important—decorated the dull, green-gray wall paint between gold-brushed sconces with three bulbs each.