Page 140 of Dead Beat

“It’s hard to tell what might help when you’re in it.”

Alex knew they were all thinking the same thing: that it should be Darlington taking on this battle, that he knew the history of Yale and its magic better than anyone. But it had to be the soldier.

“All of the ornamentation is arranged in patterns of four or eight,” Darlington said. “And this bit is truly weird.” He searched through the papers, then drew out a sheet of four photographs. “Almost everything on the tower is historical or allegorical—famous authors and inventors, personifications of war, law, death, and so on. But there are also four students.”

“These are supposed to be students?” Turner asked incredulously.

They were wildly creepy and distorted, unlike any of the other figures Darlington had shown them.

“They’re grotesques,” Darlington conceded. “But you have to remember that they’re barely visible unless you’re hundreds of feet in the air. Lawrie and Rogers had names for them: the scholar, the athlete, the literary man, and the socialite.”

“Almost a match for the pilgrims,” said Turner.

He was right. Kittscher the scholar, Hector the athlete. She could imagine Daniel Arlington II as the pretentious literary man and eager Lionel Reiter as the socialite.

“And who gets top billing?” Alex asked, tapping the crown of the tower.

Now Darlington smiled. “Dante and Virgil.”

“That feels less coincidental,” Turner said.

“Shakespeare and Homer are up there too.”

Again, the pattern of four.

Tripp scuttled in, cupping his hand beneath a spoon. “Dawes wants someone to try the sauce.”

“This is my right and sacred duty,” said Alex, raising her hand to taste.

“How is it?”

“Since I might die tomorrow, can I just have a pitcher of it?”

Tripp grinned. He had the faintest smattering of freckles across his nose. Alex had never noticed them before.

“You guys need to set the table,” he instructed and vanished back into the kitchen.

They cleared the plans away and set out silverware and glasses. The routine was simple, welcome, but it all felt too final. A ritual for parting.

She could feel the current of fear beneath the chatter of dinner, a crackle of static. Dawes barely ate, and now that she really looked, Alex could see she had lost weight. Darlington did his best but mostly pushed the food around on his plate. Only she and Turner managed to do justice to Dawes’s cooking.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he murmured when the others were once again discussing how to protect the entrance to Branford and Harkness.

Alex nodded. Yes, she was afraid, and a hard stone of regret had settled in her gut. She had finally found the peace she had longed for, people who valued her, a life worth holding on to. But she also felt what she suspected Turner was feeling too: relief. The time for talking and planning and speculating was over. They were both better in a fight.

When dinner was over, Alex asked Tripp to help her clear.

Dawes tried to wave them off. “You don’t need to bother with that.”

“If I die tomorrow, I’m not leaving you with a sink full of dirty dishes.”

“Stop joking about dying. It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” Alex said. “Besides, I need to keep busy.”

When Tripp joined her by the sink, she turned on the radio. She didn’t want the others to hear this.

“Take off your cap,” she said.