Page 8 of Foresyth Conservatory
“Supporting a diverse student body—what’s wrong with that?”
“I think it’s because they were struggling toassemblea student body. Look at this one from 1875: ‘School set on top of a mass grave, raises questions from locals. Enderly locals complain about strange noises near school.’”
My arms tingled with the familiar excitement that only came when I worked on a case with my father. I grabbed the old parchment, scanning it eagerly.
“And this one from 1893,” Gabriel continued. “‘Mysterious disappearance of terminally ill child, Elizabeth Svenski, eleven, in Concord’—a neighboring town.”
“1893 . . .” My heart skidded to a stop. “That’s one of the missing years from my father’s journals.”
“What?” Gabriel said, breaking his gaze from the papers and meeting mine.
“My father’s journals—his collection goes back decades. But there are three years missing: 1891, 1892, and 1893. My mother said he’d been investigating Foresyth sometime before his death. Could it have been that long ago? I don’t remember him looking into it while I was alive.”
“Maybe he was investigating Elizabeth Svenski’s disappearance.”
I pursed my lips but quickly broke into a smile. “This has been very helpful, Gabriel. I can’t thank you enough.”
His eyes darted to the counter of my bookstore, noticing my father’s old leather briefcase and my packed satchel.
“You can’t go, Dahlia. There’s something wrong with that place—I can feel it,” he said, gripping the folio so tightly that his fingers were turning white. I put my hands over his and lowered them.
“That’s precisely why I need to go. If there’s been a missing student, and now a dead one, there could be others who might get hurt.”
“I don’t care about anyone else getting hurt, I care aboutyou. If it’s money you need, I could talk to my father at the treasury. We could arrange something,” he pleaded quickly.
Anger rose in my chest before I could snuff it out.
“Please, stop before you offend me. I don’t need anything from Mr. Lexor or the treasury. It’s not just about money,” I said sternly. “My father lived his life putting himself at risk in the pursuit of truth. And what have I been doing? Wasting my life away in bookstacks, selling stories to anyone naïve enough to buy them.” Gabriel flinched, and I realized how my words hurt him. How I was rejecting the life that he had set out, and accepted, for himself. Perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps this was the only way he could let me go.
“I refuse to live like this. I refuse to live in other people’s stories.” I motioned around the bookstore. “I appreciate you coming here, Gabriel,” I said, standing, “but it’s getting late, and I should bid you adieu. Thank you for the research file.”
“If you’re determined to go, then there’s something else you should know.” Gabriel fumbled in his satchel and pulled out another folio. “I didn’t know what this meant, but maybe it could help you.”
“What is it?”
“There are reservation files—there’s an entity called theCouncilthat’s been reserving public grounds near Enderly since 1875. I wouldn’t have traced them if they hadn’t slipped up once in 1881, logging their name as ‘The Council of Foresyth.’ They meet regularly, seemingly according to the lunar calendar, every twenty-eight days. They’ve met everywhere from City Hall to Enderly Public Library.”
My eyes widened at the information. “Gabriel, you sleuth! This is incredible,” I said, scanning the files.
“Like I said, I don’t know what it means, but maybe there’s a higher governing body at Foresyth. If there’s a string of unusual occurrences, maybe they’ll know something.” He stood stiffly then, picking up his satchel from the table.
“Well, I guess this is goodbye then,” he said, walking toward the door. I could sense the hurt in his voice. He turned to me, his eyes searching mine, as if he was trying to memorize my face. I puffed my chest out, ignoring the swelling pang of sadness from saying goodbye to my oldest friend.
“Goodbye, Gabriel. You’ve been a big help. I’ll write to you.” I knew he’d be safe here in Greenwich; that would be solace enough. He turned back before exiting into the torrent of rain and said, “Try to stay alive, will you?”
I smiled and nodded, and he disappeared into the whitewash of rain.
“The venerable Lord Edmund W. Foresyth II, esteemed founding father of Foresyth Conservatory, dedicated nearly two decades in pursuit of the school’s consecrated site before settling upon the grounds at Enderly in 1872. His quest commenced in 1854 during a scientific expedition intended to observe the rare transit of Venus. While en route to the island of Oahu, Lord Foresyth was beset by visionary glimpses of a grand academy crowned by an imposing clock tower. He surmised that the celestial phenomenon may have disrupted the temporal-spatial continuum, granting him a glimpse of the school’s future grandeur.
Over the ensuing years, Lord Foresyth traversed more than 50,000 miles in his search for these sanctified grounds. In a final twist of irony, he discovered that Enderly lay a mere 30 miles from his place of residence in the Tar Heel State. Reflecting on this journey, Lord Foresyth wrote in his memoirs that the spiritual and physical breadth of his expedition had been essential to attuning him to Enderly’s unique energetic frequency, an insight that would ultimately lead him home.”
—Foresyth Conservatory: A Complete History,Unabridged, 1891
Chapter 5: Welcome to Foresyth Conservatory
I packed only the most critical items for Foresyth: two Hermetic daggers (which I had taken care to sharpen), my bag of spare mechanical parts, a book of Nordic rune translations (I admit I had not committed them to memory), two changes of clothes, the only dress I owned, and a pair of Oxfords.
My intent was to return from Foresyth as soon as possible—investigate the scene of the crime, make my deductions, and give the name of the killer quickly. In between my official duties, I’d inquire about my father’s past and his connection with Foresyth, but no more than that. It would take me a fortnight, perhaps two. I was committed, for better or for worse, to returning to Greenwich with the bounty in hand. If not for my own sake, then for my mother’s.
