Where We Bury Our Secrets

With every step across the grassy courtyard, the book burned a hole in the crossbody bag Dorothea carried with her. She hoped Cecilia would only notice the missing book after Dorothea had made it to the Thelapus. She shuddered as she remembered how dark Cecilia’s eyes had become when she first showed Dorothea what Cecilia referred to as “the key to Divina Potentia.” This was the exact thing every girl at Saint Catherine’s School for the Artistically Inclined strived for. The only problem was that Dorothea could not read whatever language the book was written in, but she knew where she could find someone to help her.

The courtyard this time of evening was mostly empty; only some first and second-year students walked along the twisty cobblestone paths that led to the seven-pointed dormitory courtyard, also known as the Septagon.

As Dorothea approached a group of five or four bright-eyed first-year students, they split like the Red Sea and let her through. Their attempts at quiet whispers were unsuccessful as she heard them mutter amongst one another, “That’s Dorothea Danforth.”

From the dark green uniforms they wore, Dorothea knew that their words carried the same weight that came with discussing ghost stories. Dickins, the dance school, had a strange love-hate relationship with Rockery, the theatrical school, though the two schools were practically siblings in their shared love of the stage.

Saint Catherine’s is a family, Headmistress Marks always said during the yearly commencement speech. When Dorothea was a first-year student, she believed the sentiment in the lightest and most pure way possible, but as six years passed, she changed her tune. Yes, Saint Catherine’s was a family, but all the girls who attended the school would be marked by a stain across their character that connected them all. A stain that would only disappear as their bodies turned into food for worms. Dorothea looked over her shoulder, making sure the first-year students were far enough away so that when she looked into the crossbody bag, nobody would see her.

She was surprised and relieved that the book was still in her bag. Losing the book would be catastrophic for the school and deadly for whoever got their hands on it. Stealing the book had been a risk enough; she didn’t dare peel open its cover and withered pages to see the inside.

Looking up, she saw the Thelapus against the setting sun in the distance. The Thelapus was a seven-story conservatory that housed studios for musical, dance, theatre, ceramics, and painting students, and the largest set of archives and library that the small town of Tiding had ever seen. As she walked towards it, she prayed that her attempts and efforts would not be in vain, and that the person she needed the most would be working in the library.

It was dark by the time she reached the grand staircase that led to the Thelapus’s large iron and gold doors. She entered the arched double doors, finding herself in an empty gallery room. Against the far wall was a large scaffolding along with a tarp laid out across the floor in front of a clean white wall. The space would be where the Southbend painting student would put her senior thesis. Not important, she told herself as she looked for the door leading to the library.

Shamefully, she’d never taken a trip to the school’s archives, but after all, she’d no need to. All the materials she needed for her work on the stage had been provided by the drama department year after year. She walked through the gallery, knowing that the auditorium was to the right, she ventured left.

After what could have been twenty minutes of walking around in the ever-growing dark, she found the large arched doorway with the words Archives written above it. Tentatively, she pushed the door open, which revealed a spiraling set of stairs with only a faint warm glow proving anything was down there at all.

Her footsteps echoed through the spinning staircase until she reached the bottom platform. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her hand kept retreating to her bag to make sure the book was still at her hip. Yes, books could not grow legs and wander off, but this book was different. It was not a book at all; it was something much more sinister—tragedy and magic so tightly tied together that it was rumored to curse or bless whoever read it. How the book decided which to bestow upon a reader was exactly what Dorothea was on a mission to find out.

Dorothea was confused about how the archives managed to fit underneath the Thelapus as the bookcases lining the walls reached much higher than they should have been allowed. Four tables were situated in the center of the room, and Dorothea’s heart fluttered as she spotted Esme Carmello bent over one of them with her back turned to Dorothea.

“Esme?” Dorothea called out. Esme jumped, letting out a sound of surprise before she whipped around. Her tense demeanor shifting as she laid eyes upon Dorothea. The girl was tall and lanky, her limbs hanging awkwardly at her sides. She wore thick-framed metallic round glasses that made her grey eyes much larger than they were. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a messy bun that sat right above the collar of her white uniform button-down. She wore the same black blazer Dorothea did; a sign that they were in the same dormitory.

Their allegiance no longer with those who studied the same concentrations. With their admission into the senior dormitory, they relinquished all loyalties to the girls they’d known for six years and now pledged fidelity to one another.

“May I help you?” Esme asked, straightening up, pushing out her chest, and lifting her chin. While Esme might have pledged fidelity to the same cause as Dorothea, their concentrations would always come first. And right now, Dorothea was an uninvited stranger in Esme’s territory. But Dorothea was desperate, and if anyone could help her, it was Esme.

Dorothea straightened her own posture, thinking about how she could get Esme to do Dorothea’s bidding while thinking it was her idea. She reached down to touch the book in her bag. “I found something, but I don’t understand the language it’s written in,” Dorothea said with a smile. Esme smiled back, “You’ve come to the right place.”

The interaction went too well. Dorothea knew better about the way Query students worked; when dealing with masters of language and literature, you had to pay attention to the words they used.

“Can you help me?” Dorothea asked.

“I can,” Esme responded.

“What do you want in return?” Dorothea asked. Esme gave a coy smile.

“I want to know why you need my help,” Esme responded. Dorothea chewed on her lip. It was one of the many unspoken rules of Saint Catherine’s that the girls were discouraged from sharing intimate details about their lives with one another, including their day-to-day motivations and goals. Sabotage and betrayal came as easy as breathing to the students. Ambition ran wild and unchecked, and some girls were willing to do anything to achieve the divine potential they fought over.

“Cecilia Marrow showed me a book she says is the key to Divina Potentia,” Dorothea said, “I need help understanding it.”

Esme practically fell over. Dorothea had exposed her hand, but she was not reckless without reason. Effectively, she’d trapped Esme into an agreement. Now that Esme knew Dorothea’s motive, she also would be bound to any further actions taken regarding the matter. This was how Saint Catherine’s worked, and nobody understood how or why.

Esme walked forward, and Dorothea met her halfway; Esme was much taller up close than far away, and Dorothea believed if she blew on the girl, Esme might fall over.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that you just so happened to stumble upon it?” Esme asked in a low voice.

“I didn’t stumble upon it,” Dorothea clarified, “I stole it from Cecilia.”

“You stole something from someone who shows genuine signs of psychopathy?” Esme arched a thin dark eyebrow. Dorothea shrugged.

“Maybe if you refuse to help me, I’ll set Cecilia on your trail,” Dorothea said in a sigh, “you know my performances are nothing short of stellar.”

Esme gave her a look before smiling slightly, “You’re good at this.”

“We all ended up in Southbend for a reason,” Dorothea replied, “we both know the power of words.”

“Are you suggesting we form an alliance two weeks into knowing one another,” Esme said, placing her hands on her hips.

“I’m suggesting you help me, and later I will return the favor,” Dorothea said, knowing what she was suggesting was nothing short of a gamble on her life. She would feel bad about blackmailing Esme if Esme did not carry a notorious reputation with her, one filled with her ambition and twisted games. Southbend was the place where angels turned to gods, where good and evil converged to make beauty.

“Any favor?” Esme asked.

“Anything I deem worth my time,” Dorothea replied, “I know you’re not shallow, Esme, and you know neither am I.”

Esme didn’t say anything. “Does it bother you? Everyone believing you’re shallow just because you repeat words given to you?”

“Don’t deflect, Esme,” Dorothea shook her head. “Will you help me or not?”

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Esme shrugged.

“Exactly,” Dorothea said. “So, how do we do this?”

“First, seeing the book would help,” Esme said in a short tone. Dorothea’s lip twitched, but grateful that she’d earned Esme’s compliance, she reached into her bag and pulled the worn-out leather-covered book.

Esme’s jaw dropped as she looked at it, “How did Cecilia get this?”

“I have no idea,” Dorothea said honestly. “I think she showed it to me to try and impress me.”

“Why would she want to impress you?” Esme scoffed.

“Everyone wants the best liar on their side in a game of secrets and rumors, right?” Dorothea answered with hesitation. She knew how her peers viewed her; being the best at performance meant that sometimes people didn’t believe when she was being genuine with them. Everyone assumed Dorothea was merely using them to practice her ability to become someone else.

“Can you help me?” Dorothea asked, leaning her hip against the dark wooden table. Esme looked down at the book, running her fingers over its line again and again. She was entranced.

“I want to keep it,” Esme said, tapping the book, “I want to see if I can translate more of it.” Dorothea pulled her lower lip in between her teeth. She’d just gotten the book. Giving it away would be stupid.

“Who is to say I won’t create the best script?” Esme’s eyes flicked up to Dorothea’s. Esme’s grey eyes were darkening slightly, enough to give Dorothea chills. Esme continued, “And of course, I will require a leading lady.”

The weight of Esme’s words landed on Dorothea’s shoulders. Instead of making her feel heavy, she felt emboldened.

“What about Cecilia?” Dorothea asked.

“I’ll deal with her,” Esme said, “just do what you do best. Pretend like nothing is wrong.” There was a malicious and mischievous glint in Esme’s eyes, but one not meant for Dorothea.

“I’m the only person she showed it to,” Dorothea shook her head, sudden fear creeping into her. She’d not thought this agreement through; she’d been too wrapped up in what promises the book might bring to remember that there would be an after to this all.

“Please don’t pretend like you made it all the way to Southbend without stepping on the backs of others,” Esme’s words had a grit to them, and while the past twenty or so minutes had been the first time they’d had a serious conversation—Dorothea knew this was unlike Esme.

“I’ve seen firsthand what you can do, Dorothea,” Esme muttered lowly, reaching out to brush her fingers against Dorothea’s arm. “We’ll make a wonderful team.”

Dorothea nodded; as she’d no other choice. It could be worse, the best performer alongside the best writer. Liars, both in their own right. The best at that.

“I don’t trust you either,” Esme sighed, “but, we’ve found ourselves in a situation where blind faith is required, but all in an attempt to reach Heaven.”

No, Dorothea thought, we’ve found ourselves on the first steps towards Hell.