Page 72 of Cross My Heart
Wow. Now, I’m really curious.
If the story hit a little too close to home, and revealed something about this secret society… What don’t they want us knowing?
On a hunch, I get up, and go to the front desk, where my favorite clerk, Maeve, is working. She’s got immaculately-coiffed grey hair, and a collection of bright, modern spectacles, and knows every inch of this place. “Tessa,” she greets me, smiling. “I managed to tuck away that essay collection you ordered. Half your class came in to try and find it,” she adds, “But I know you needed it.”
“Thanks,” I exclaim, as she hands me the slim volume. “I’ll try and be quick. I hate how the minute the reading lists get sent out, it’s like a Hunger Games, every man for himself.”
Maeve chuckles. “Anything else I can help you find?”
“Well, actually, does the library keep old newspaper copies?” I ask hopefully. “There’s an article I’m looking for.The Oxford Student, from two years ago. May 6thedition.”
Maeve checks her computer. “We’ve got most of our periodical collection digitized, but… Oh yes, we haven’t gotten around to those just yet. You should find them in the basement, Room D, far back wall. Boxes are labeled.”
“Thanks!”
I head down the creaking spiral staircase to the basement. Upstairs, the main library is all vaulted ceilings and stained glass, with carved wooden study carrells and leather-bound books on towering shelves, but things couldn’t be more different down here, out of view. Strip lights flicker overhead, and squat metal shelves fill a rabbit warren-like mess of rooms and hallways, all crammed with books.
I follow Maeve’s directions to a stuffy, low-ceilinged room, and find stacks of boxes shoved against the wall. They’re filed in no particular order, so I have to dig through three different crates before I finally find the year I’m looking for. April… May…
There it is.
I pull out the crumpled, yellow pages. ‘Oxford’s Secret Societies: Revealed!’ the headline reads.
The light flickers overhead, and I pause, glancing around at the dim, dusty stacks. For some reason, it feels like I’m doing something illicit here, but I tell myself I’m just being paranoid. I turn back to the newspaper and open it wide.
Inside, there’s a double page spread, an exposé of the most popular societies, past and present. There are details of scandalous initiation ceremonies, and lists of members, with grainy black and white photos of groups posing for the camera. ‘By far the most notorious—and secretive—organization is the famed Blackthorn Society,’ the article reads. ‘Members are tight-lipped, but are thought to include media mogul Cyrus Lancaster, and Member of Parliament, Lionel Ambrose.”
The Blackthorn Society.
I inhale in a rush. There it is, in grainy black and white. Another clue that the society is real.
And if Cyrus and Lionel were members back in their day… Then Max and Hugh have got to be, too, just like I thought.
And Saint, too…
I eagerly read the rest of the article, but to my disappointment, there’s nothing particularly shocking. Details about a hazing ritual, involving a dead pig’s head, like Jia joked, and some speculation about the Blackthorn Society influencing student elections.
Nothing important. Nothing I can use.
Still, it’s the closest I’ve come to anyone confirming that the society actually exists. The article was written by a Jamie Richmond, so I snap a few photos to copy the article, then pack up the boxes and head upstairs to daylight again. After a quick internet search, I find a social media profile that seems to fit for Jamie, so I send a message, saying I’m interested in his research, and would love to talk. Fingers crossed he gets back to me soon.
Right now, he’s the best lead I’ve got.
* * *
By the timeI finish up my studying, racing to get another essay finished before my deadline, I’m tired out. I’m doing the bare minimum of my studies to keep up with my classmates, but still, the past couple of days have been nonstop, and I want nothing more than to change into my comfiest sweatpants and collapse on the couch. But I know, I can’t blow my roommates off,again. I’m walking on seriously thin ice right now, and they already have a weird chip on their shoulders about all the time I’m spending with Saint and his friends. So, I change into jeans and a basic black tank top, grab my jacket, and head out across the city to meet them for drinks.
The bar they picked is in a classy neighborhood of upscale stores and restaurants, about a twenty-minute walk from Ashford. It’s in a converted church, with soaring ceilings and a long, polished bar running in front of the original stone statues. When I arrive, the place is already buzzing, with some of the more elite students and local twenty-somethings, all sipping expensive cocktails as upbeat music plays.
And I mean,expensive. When I catch a glimpse of the prices on the menu, I wince.
“You’re buying, right?” Jia greets me with a hug, and I’m relieved to see that Kris seems to be in a good mood, too.
“Sure!” I say, pulling out my credit card. I’m determined to put the awkwardness behind us, and smooth things over—even if it is going to cost me. Literally.
“Then let’s have martinis,” Jia decides.
“Ooh, and lemon drop shots,” Kris pitches in. “And some of those yummy olives to nibble, too.”