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Chapter 1 Destiny Sunday, 9:57am Destiny Whip warily eyes her bedside table, which could easily be mistaken for a miniature graveyard, what with all the little pills neatly lined in staggered rows, positioned upright like tiny headstones. It certainly feels as though she's regarding the burial ground of her hopes and dreams, haunted by the specter of the enormous potential she so dismally failed to live up to. When you're declared a child prodigy, everyone expects you to go far in life. But all Destiny has managed today is a slow shuffle to and from the bathroom. Even that required Herculean reserves of energy. Balancing her laptop on her knees, she reaches to the farthest side of the bed for her emotional support urn, pulling it close and tucking it into her armpit as though cuddling a teddy bear. She kisses the top of the teardrop shape, the metal cold against her chapped lips. Bex appears in Destiny's doorway, leaning her head against the frame. Morning, sunshine. Her best friend is still too scrawny, but not nearly as emaciated as she was a year ago when all she feasted on was beauty magazines and models, Instagram pages rather than anything resembling food. Bex looks mostly healthy again, her long chestnut hair gleaming, the hollows of her cheeks no longer reminiscent of sinkholes. You okay? Bex asks, the corners of her mouth turned down. It's the anniversary of the accident today. One year somehow crawling by on scraped knees. Some people act like severe depression is a tarnish that can be polished off with the application of enough elbow grease. Luckily, Bex isn't one of them. Destiny tries to speak, but a knot of regret is so tangled up in her throat that the words don't stand a chance. Her laptop suddenly squawks with an incoming video call. In the months since Destiny has been seeing Dr. Shepherd, they've never had a virtual consultation over a weekend. But today is going to be a tough one. Which is why the psychiatrist insisted on the appointment. As the ringing continues, Destiny gently places the urn beside her and reaches for her notebook. She pages to the list of tasks the doctor suggested last month. Bex sidles up, reading over her shoulder. 1. Leave the apartment once a day to go for a walk or grab a coffee. 2. Reach out to an old friend or colleague to suggest a meetup. 3. Replace all the dead plants. 4. Keep a dream journal about the white haired ghost woman. 5. Email the council expressing my wish to return. 6. Accept one of the consultancies I've been offered, one that doesn't require travel. 7. Work on forgiving Nate. 8. Limit my interactions with Bex. Bex side eyes the last item on the list. Rude, she huffs. You'd think I was a bad influence or something. Rather than answering Bex or the incoming call, Destiny thinks of how she's never flunked an assignment in her entire life, always top of her class, and despite being admitted to University as a 12 year old, Destiny cannot fathom this degree of failure. She's ticked nothing off the list, not even throwing away the plants whose shriveled corpses goad her, their untimely deaths undoubtedly due to the curtains constantly being drawn tight. That and Destiny forgetting to water them. The laptop's ringing grates on Destiny's nerves, but she can't force herself to answer and face Dr. Shepard's disappointment. It will be carefully concealed, of course, with the psychiatrist gently pointing out there's always next week or the week after that to achieve these seemingly simple goals. But it doesn't matter how much of an extension Destiny is given, it's no use. For how can she possibly cut ties with Bex, who's her dearest, not to mention only friend? Plus, there's no way the Council of Enigmatologists will take her back after she's been AWOL for so long. Each time an envelope drops through the mail slot, Destiny fully expects it to be a letter informing her that they've revoked her membership. It hurts to remember how thrilled she was to be appointed president of the prestigious group just 13 months ago, and how she, Bex, and Nate all splurged on a fancy dinner to celebrate when the call finally dropped. Bex exhales a long whoosh of defeat. I know I shouldn't enable you with all the talking, but it's not like I can call anyone on your behalf. They both look down at the image on the home screen of Destiny's laptop. It's a photo that was taken 13 years ago, when Destiny was eight. In it, her mother's arm is flung across Annie's shoulders, happiness radiating from the two best friends in waves. Destiny's eyes fill with tears as she studies her mother's straight black hair and pale skin and those enormous glasses obscuring most of her face. Jutting her chin at Liz, Bex murmurs, I wish I'd known her. Destiny nods before turning her attention to Annie, with her striking Afro and beaded shoulder duster earrings and her smile as bright as the sun. The image was captured two weeks before Liz died, and a year before the paperwork would go through to officially make Annie Destiny's second adoptive mother. Their deaths were wrenching losses, tearings in the fabric of Destiny's being that she never quite stitched back together. There were times in the before when Destiny experienced the sting of loneliness, that awful yearning of the one forever stuck outside, nose and palms pressed against the cold glass, gazing in at what belonging looked like, foreheads bent together, raucous laughter elicited by inside jokes, sentences finished by those who knew you best. But this is not loneliness, in the same way that a drop of water is not a deluge, the way a sigh is not a hurricane. I'm so sorry that you're having such a rough time of it, beck says, reaching out to tuck a flaming red curl behind Destiny's ear. She freezes upon seeing Destiny's expression, her hand hovering like a ghost between them. A year is a long time, though, and Dr. Shepard is right, despite the fact that she clearly has it in for me. You need to move on. God, that Bex is apologizing to her of all people, when everything that happened was Destiny's fault. No, I'm sorry, destiny says, her voice pulled so taut that it snaps, seeing the pills all standing to attention, no longer a cemetery full of headstones but rather an army ready to fight the last battle. Destiny reaches for the urn again, stroking it like a security blanket. If you stop talking to me, Bex, I don't know what I'll do. Not gonna happen, bex replies breezily. And then, more firmly, she says, okay, it's tough love time. You seriously need to shower because you're stinking up the place. Plus the kitchen needs cleaning. Those takeout containers have grown thumbs. I swear I caught them trying to hitch a ride to the nearest primordial swamp. Destiny laughs at how incredibly bossy Bex is, especially for a dead person. Still, it's reassuring that no matter how much has changed, some things stay exactly the same. Chapter 2 Destiny Sunday, 10:15am Destiny flinches at the unmistakable sound of the mail slot creaking open and a letter fluttering through. If she was waiting for a sign, then the arrival of a letter from the Council would surely be it. Ignore it, bex pleads as Destiny pushes her laptop aside to get out of bed. Who needs those losers anyway? Bex has never understood Destiny's affinity for the Council, but then, why would she? Even before she died, Bex always managed to fit in. Near the end, when her eating disorder began devouring her whole. Most people didn't even notice because she constantly surrounded herself with similarly emaciated women in an industry that normalized her illness. But until the Council, Destiny never knew what it was like to have peers. When other children her age were being invited to birthday parties or endlessly obsessing over their first crushes, Destiny was attending lectures at Yale, not only thoroughly annoying her professors who felt they were above babysitting duties, but also the other students who saw her as a precocious pain in the ass whose presence made them all look bad. Nerd. Geek. Dork. Dweeb. Freak. Brown nose. Boffin Propeller. Head. Prodigy. Wonk. They called her everything but her name, making Destiny feel like a lone pelican in a flamboyance of flamingos so bumbling and awkward that she'd never fit in even if she doused herself with pink paint and walked on stilts. But the day she got the Council's invitation, those hallowed hallways opening for her, Destiny found a squadron of other pelicans with their shoulders hunched and giant beaks agape, devouring knowledge as hungrily and indiscriminately as she did. They welcomed her as a contemporary, someone to be consulted rather than avoided, allowing Destiny, for the very first time in her life, to embrace her very pelicanness. And now here she is, about to be booted out of the only club she's ever cared about. Shuffling to the front door, she spots a dove gray envelope that's landed face up on the bamboo flooring, her name written across it in antiquated script. Destiny Whip. There's no address or stamp, which Destiny thinks is strange until she remembers that it's a Sunday and that no postal workers will be delivering mail today. She peers out through the peephole, spotting a cloak so black that it's almost blue. It disappears into the elevator with a swoosh, a matador challenging a bull before the doors ding closed. A heaviness gathers and settles in Destiny's stomach. Apparently the Council is so desperate to take her name off their letterheads that they've sent an emissary on the weekend. She wonders which one drew the short stick. Her money's on poor Dodkins, a delightfully eccentric little man whose area of specialty is 19th century puzzle box boxes from the Hakone region of Japan. Sighing, Destiny trudges back to bed. Her laptop rings again, Dr. Shepard calling once more, but Destiny slams it closed, not wanting any witnesses to this humiliation. Beck sits next to Destiny, ineffectually trying to fluff the pillows. The envelope doesn't have the pretentious wax seal, so it can't be from the Council. Maybe you've been nominated for another award, she exclaims, ever the optimist. But no, that can't be it. All of Destiny's work correspondence occurs over email. Her inbox full of hundreds of unread emails can attest to that. After slicing the envelope open with the lone jagged fingernail she hasn't gnawed off yet, Destiny withdraws the page. Dearest Ms. Whip, I hereby acknowledge receipt of your application to replace Ms. Leroux as the Scruffmore family historian. I'm sure you know how coveted the position is. It's no secret that ours is a most illustrious and mysterious lineage, and so I congratulate you on your compelling application and for making the shortlist of two approved applicants. Our family history has been a rather fascinating one, with most of the information required to unlocking it hidden within the Scrufmore vault, safe from prying eyes. Were you to be successful, you would be one of the rare outsiders granted access to those thousands of records that have come from all over the world, wherever a Scrufmore has lived in the past 2000 years. Come via the last ferry on the 27th of February, and then make your way to the Grimshaw Inn and Tavern for the night. Tell them arrangements have been made and all expenses will be taken care of. Be at the castle on the morning of the 28th ahead of your interview at 12pm should you be awarded the position, the secrets of the vault will be yours to be revealed. Until then, Mordecai Scruffmore Scroughmoor Castle, Erie Island P.S. your ferry tickets have been purchased. The ticket Number for the 27th is L 234 - 5778891212141414164 - 7 and that of the return is W 1710242451121112459819 the original read through is confusing. Told you it would be something interesting, Bex crows. But I'm not a historian, destiny replies, brow furrowed. And I never applied for this position. Weird, beck says, tapping her French manicure against her chin. Have you ever heard of the Scruffmore family? Destiny mulls it over. No, the name is unusual enough that she'd remember it. Google them, Bex instructs, her answer to everything. Destiny opens her laptop again with a pang of guilt over Dr. Shepard's two missed calls. She makes a mental note to pay for the consultation and email an apology. Googling the Scruffmore family gets zero hits. Same goes for Mordecai Scruffmore. Nor is there mention anywhere of the job listing. Erie island comes up as a vague blip on the map, about 30 miles offshore from the town of Gwillimbury. While the ferry terminal is listed as being a three hour train trip away, there isn't any mention of the island's castle or the Grimshaw Inn and Tavern. There are no pictures of the island at all, not even satellite images on Google Earth.