The Ash Grove Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy: Ash Grove Chronicles

Chapter 1

Joy Sumner stood at the iron gate to the old cemetery at ten to midnight. No flashlight, no cell phone, nothing but her digital camera and her sense of bravado—all thanks to smarmy Sheila Hardesty.

In morning assembly Sheila had been trying to scare a new transfer student, Alissa Pennington, with ghost stories about some of the more unusual features of Ash Grove High School for the Performing Arts.

I’ve heard so many creepy things about this school I wasn’t sure I wanted to transfer here, Alissa told Sheila. My mom didn’t want to let me, but Dad finally talked her into it.

You might have been safer if he hadn’t, said Sheila darkly. She was one of the star dancers at Ash Grove, but you’d have thought she was an actress from all the drama she was creating. You know that the school was built on a portal to the underworld, don’t you?

You’re kidding!

Swear to god. Every now and then a student will just disappear and never be seen again. The faculty always comes up with some excuse, but everyone knows the truth is that the portal will just open up sometimes and swallow people up.

Joy and her roommate Maddie Rosenbaum, sitting in the row behind, exchanged a disbelieving look. Sheila was laying it on thick.

And it gets worse than that, she said, dropping her voice as if afraid of being overheard. Josiah Cavanaugh, the founder? Some people say he was, like, the high priest of a pagan cult that used to perform blood rituals during the full moon.

Joy couldn’t help smiling at such a ridiculous claim. Accounts of Josiah Cavanaugh did portray him as an eccentric, but only townies believed the more outrageous occult stories.

Alissa’s face had gone white, though. She was too easy a target. Sheila pressed her advantage.

The worst thing, she said in a dramatic stage whisper, is that he may not be completely dead.

What? Do you mean he’s a­—a ghost?

Maddie rolled her eyes, but Joy was starting to get caught up in the drama despite herself. Sheila was putting on a good show.

He might be something even worse than a ghost, Sheila said. They say that if you go to the old graveyard at midnight and pick a rose off the bush on Cavanaugh’s grave, he’ll stick his bony hands up through the dirt and drag you down into the ground with him.

Alissa’s eyes were wide with alarm. That is messed up, she breathed. I can’t believe they haven’t closed this place.

That’s because it’s all hogwash, said Joy, unable to sit by silently any longer, and the two girls craned around to stare at her. Don’t let her scare you, Alissa.

I wasn’t scared, she snapped, instantly defensive. Just—interested.

Sheila’s just making stuff up to mess with you, Joy reassured her. No one’s ever claimed all those things.

"Oh, that’s right, Joy knows everything about Ash Grove and Josiah Cavanaugh, drawled Sheila. Her father’s an English teacher here and her mother’s a dead musical genius, so Joy thinks she’s, like, above everyone else. Bet you don’t feel so important now that your dad’s in Oklahoma at the cancer clinic, huh? He isn’t here to protect his widdle girl any more."

Joy ignored this. It’s true that Cavanaugh’s will ordered wild roses to be planted by his grave, she told Alissa. It was a superstition he got from his mother. She was Scottish, and she believed it kept the dead from rising. But the rest is BS.

Alissa’s eyes were round. Did it work? The roses?

Well, we haven’t seen a dead body dig its way out of the ground yet, said Maddie sarcastically. Joy sometimes thought that Maddie had the soul of a jaded thirty-year-old in the body of a teenager. Because her father was a classical pianist and a big Mozart fan, her full name was Elvira Madigan Rosenbaum, but only teachers ever had the bad taste to call her Elvira.

So you’re saying there’s nothing to fear from taking a rose from Josiah’s grave, said Sheila.

Of course. Nothing at all.

So you wouldn’t be scared to try it?

Why would I be?

Sheila folded her arms and stared challengingly at Joy. Well, I dare you. I dare you to go to the graveyard tonight at midnight and find Josiah’s grave, and bring back a rose from it.

She was surprised, but not afraid. Okay, she said. I’ll do it.

She should go alone, Alissa put in. And without a phone.

Good idea, said Sheila. You heard that, Joy? No friends, no lifeline. And no flashlight.

Maddie balked at that. How do you expect her to find her way around without a light? Sonar?

The moon’s almost full, said Sheila. It should be bright enough to see by. Oh, and get a picture of the grave with the rose bush. She tossed her long red hair over her shoulder. I don’t want you to think you can get away with bringing me a rose from a florist.

No problem, said Joy. And because Mrs. Minish, the history teacher, was bearing down on them with a fierce expression, she added in a lower voice, Tomorrow at morning break, I’ll see you in the coffee bar. And I’ll have your rose.

So now she stood here at the rusted old iron gates. The graveyard hadn’t been in use for decades; the more recent dead were housed in one of the modern memorial gardens favored for their ground-level markers that were so easy to mow over. The old cemetery had been left to the elements—and years of neglect. Joy wondered if any of the gravestones even remained, and what condition they were in. She might not even find it possible to identify Josiah’s grave.

Of course it’s a setup, Maddie had said, when they’d discussed it earlier. That was in the student center coffee bar, where the three of them—Maddie, Joy, and their mutual best friend William Russell—gathered every morning at break. The earthy fragrance of coffee and the hiss of the cappuccino machine made the prospect of a graveyard vigil seem cozy and quaint. Maddie was stirring the fourth packet of Splenda into her half-caff (I’ve gotten so used to the stuff my body’s developed an immunity, she said) and making plans for Joy’s expedition. You realize that Sheila is going to hide behind one of the gravestones and jump out at you.

Joy shrugged. I’m not scared of her.

But she might be planning to recruit some muscle for the job.

We could always send you in wearing a wire, suggested William. That way we could come in as backup if you needed it. William had a gift for musical instruments that extended into technological gadgetry as well. With untidy brown hair and steel-rimmed glasses, he was cute in what Maddie had once called an accidental hipster way. The music department has some pretty sophisticated sound equipment, he added, warming to the idea. We could get you hooked up with a microphone, and maybe one of those tiny video cameras, and monitor you from the road...

Joy made a face at him. That’s way more Mission Impossible than the situation calls for. I’ll be fine.

Maddie shook her head. It’s not just Sheila you have to worry about. Someone may be spreading those stories about the graveyard to run people off. Drug dealers, maybe. It’s what I’d do if I wanted to keep the townies away. Maddie called herself a post-goth, which in practice meant that she still dyed her hair black but had let most of her piercings close up. She was in the theater track and planned to be a stage actress, and sometimes it seemed like she was trying to infuse maximum drama into everyday life.

William laughed. Seriously, Maddie? I doubt anyone’s running a meth lab out of the cemetery. Maybe a couple of good ol’ boys hang out there to drink their Budweisers, but that’s all.

Even so, Joy could be in over her head. I should have stopped her.

Joy didn’t like the way the conversation was going. She had thought Maddie would respect her for taking the dare, not act like an overprotective parent. I’m not a baby, Maddie, she said.

What I don’t get, said William, is why you even care what Sheila and her crowd think of you. You don’t have to prove anything to them.

That was the thing, though: she wanted to. It wasn’t just that she didn’t come from money, like most of the other students at Ash Grove, and wasn’t beautiful like all of the aspiring actresses and dancers there. Everyone had always assumed she was a goody-goody because her father was a teacher. She had hoped she might finally be able to break out of that pigeonhole now that her father was on medical leave of absence. But all that had happened was that she didn’t know where she fit in anymore.

She pushed the thought away. Thinking about him, undergoing cancer treatment alone and far away, was too painful. It’s not that big a deal. Anyway, it’ll be fun. I love old graveyards.

That’s so not the point. Maddie wasn’t ready to be won over yet.

Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll take my pepper spray.

If Sheila’s there, you won’t need pepper spray, said William. You’ll need holy water.

* * *

Now, in the chill-looking moonlight, which lay like frost on the weedy track that led away from the gate, the coffee bar felt years in the past. Joy stood for a second listening to the wind in the evergreens, a ceaseless hushing like the ocean. Usually she loved the peacefulness of nighttime and the sounds of the night creatures. Tonight she reminded herself not to relax, to stay alert for an ambush.

Her blood hummed pleasantly with adrenaline and caffeine as she pushed through the gate. Its hinges shrieked but it swung open easily, somewhat to her surprise; perhaps Sheila and her confederates had been here before her to booby-trap the area.

Traffic sounds died away as she climbed the slight rise, her progress slowed by the overgrown grasses that whipped against the legs of her jeans. The sound of a passing motorcycle died out into the chattering of night insects. The crumbling old gravestones were half hidden in the tall grasses, some canted at odd angles or fallen over and lying in wait to stub her toes and trip her up, and she thought in exasperation of Sheila’s prohibition against bringing a light. After a moment’s thought, she fished her mp3 player out of her jeans pocket and turned it on. The glow of the display wasn’t as bright as a flashlight, but it made finding her way a little easier.

The Cavanaugh plot, when she found it, was surprisingly clear of overgrowth. A huge oak tree shadowed the headstones, blotting out part of the moonlight, so that the scene was illuminated in fitful moving patches as the breeze stirred the branches. She stepped warily from grave to grave, reading the headstones. Jonathan Cavanaugh... Jessica Cavanaugh... Jedediah... these people had a fixation, she thought with amusement. Some of the inscriptions were unreadable; one was half obscured by a rose bush, with a few unlikely early blossoms glowing bravely white through the tangle of leaves. Mindful of the thorns, she carefully parted the branches. Ah, there you are, Josiah, she thought, and reached for her camera.

She hesitated before taking the rose, because it seemed wrong to steal one of the few things of beauty left to a dead man, but she needed her proof. The stem broke under the slight pressure of her fingers, and she straightened, gazing at the small pale bloom in her hand.

What the hell are you doing? came a furious voice from behind her.

She whirled, almost dropping the rose. In the instant that he first spoke, before thought took hold, her mind had snapped to Josiah Cavanaugh, a skeletal patriarch dressed in moldering Victorian finery. But the man who stood facing her was scarcely more than a boy; maybe a couple of years older than Joy, no more, and he was wearing jeans and a leather jacket. She thought confusedly of fifties songs about dead teenagers, the leader of the pack come to grief on Dead Man’s Curve.

Because he was too beautiful to be human. A ghost, or an angel, maybe. The bones of his face were too perfect, like sculpture, with a high strong forehead over brows drawn fiercely down in anger. His eyelashes were so long they cast shadows on the white angles of his cheekbones, blanched by the moon. His eyes themselves she could not see, but from the grim set of his mouth—a mouth so lushly curved that she could almost feel her forefinger tracing its softness—she knew he was enraged. He was tall, tall enough that she had to keep herself from flinching backward as he strode toward her, and tipped her head back to meet his gaze. His jacket, hanging open, revealed a lean and muscled body like an athlete’s.

That’s really sick, he said, lowering his voice now that he was standing only feet away. Stealing from a grave.

She half agreed with him, and that made her stubborn. Don’t try to tell me that a man who’s been dead for seventy years will miss a rose, she retorted. I’m not doing him any harm.

He ignored that. What are you even doing here? he snapped. Why don’t you go back wherever you came from?

This is city property, and I’m a citizen, she said, hating how bratty it sounded. I have as much right to be here as you do. For that matter, what are you doing here?

He grinned, baring a flash of teeth. I belong here, he said. I’m a dead man.

Oh, please, she said, but a prickle of unease stirred her scalp all the same. Dead teenagers, she thought.

No, really. At night I crawl out of my grave to attack stupid girls who wander around in my cemetery. He took a step closer, and she had to fall back a pace. His eyes were unreadable in the dimness. So unless you want to take up residence here too, I suggest you get the hell out of here. She realized her back was against the trunk of the tree, the bark rough through her shirt, and he braced one arm beside her head, leaning in toward her.

Or what? She knew she should be frightened, but she sensed that his words were only for effect. She was an annoyance, yes, but he had no intention of doing more than frighten her. At least she hoped so.

He brought his face very close to hers, and she caught the scent of him, cleanly masculine against the sweetness of the roses. The spectral light caught the edge of his cheek and jaw, and cast them in silver against the night. What do you think? he whispered, and brought his mouth down on hers.

And Joy took the dare.

Clearly he had expected her to twist away, to run—not to kiss him back. His touch was almost perfunctory until she responded. But when she slid her arms around his waist, she felt his jolt of surprise.

This time it was he who fell back a step, and he looked suddenly younger in his confusion. Are you some kind of vampire groupie, or something? he said.

She laughed outright. What kind of vampire rides a Kawasaki? And when he gave her a startled look, she explained. I heard it earlier, when you drove up. That was probably what made her think of The Leader of the Pack, she realized now: the sound of his bike as she entered the cemetery. Nothing ghostly at all.

There was a moment of silence, then: How did you know it was a Kawasaki?

She couldn’t help feeling a little smug. My friend William’s brother used to have a Ninja, before he got it tangled up with a utility pole. It was a honey of a bike. Is yours a Ninja?

Yeah, he said slowly, his eyes more intent than ever, and surprise in his voice. Yeah, it is.

She pushed off from the tree trunk and walked past him, back the way she had come. Well, good night, Heathcliff, she said over her shoulder, enjoying her advantage. I’ll leave you to your brooding.

Wait. Despite herself, she stopped short at the command in his voice. But there was no aggression in his stance as he drew up with her. You forgot this.

She had dropped the rose without ever noticing—perhaps, she realized, when she put her arms around him. The hand he held out to her was long-boned, elegant, with slender fingers that she somehow knew would be deft and sensitive. She tried to remember if he had touched her with them, and felt her face growing hot. She was more flustered now than she had been when kissing him.

Thanks, was all she said, but she knew she was blushing. Her hand brushed his as she took the rose from him.

It’s not Heathcliff, by the way, he said quietly. A breeze ruffled his hair, dropping one loose wave over his forehead as he looked at her. It’s Tan... Tristan. He seemed to reconsider. Tanner.

Three names, she said. That’s a lot for one person. She was trying to sound offhand and sophisticated, but she had a feeling he wasn’t impressed. When he didn’t respond, she said, Don’t you want to know mine?

He smiled then, for the first time, and she felt as if the ground had dropped out from under her feet. It had seemed impossible for him to be any more handsome, but he was. Oh, I know your name, Joy, he said.

Then the answer came to her, and she could have kicked herself. Sheila told you. Of course. It was too much to believe that a guy like this could just happen to be hanging out where he’d run into her.

But he said, I don’t know a Sheila, and as she tried to decide whether he was lying, he handed her a flashlight. Here, take this, he said. So you can find your way home safely.

Thanks, she said again, automatically. But won’t you need it?

That amazing smile flashed again, this time mockingly.

Dead men can see in the dark. Now run along home, Joy Sumner. Don’t kiss any more strangers.

She turned and walked away through the long grasses and down the hill, shining the beam of his flashlight before her. Not once did she turn around. Because she knew, even without looking, that he watched her all the way out of sight.

Chapter 2

Making out in a graveyard, said Maddie. Now that must have been an intense experience.

He sounds dicey to me, William objected. Even for an emo, picking up girls in a cemetery is a little off.

The three of them were gathered once more at their favorite table at the coffee bar. The white rose from Josiah Cavanaugh’s grave stood in a glass of water on the table, and Joy turned it so that the blossom faced the window.

It wasn’t like that. And we didn’t make out, she added, with a dirty look at Maddie. I keep wondering how he knew who I was. We must know each other from somewhere. And I do have this feeling I’ve seen him before. She wished she’d had her wits about her last night and had asked him.

Maddie’s eyes widened. You knew someone that hot and never introduced me to him?

William, not being susceptible to male hotness, stuck to the topic at hand. Well, if he knew your name, chances are you do know him from somewhere. Maybe from one of your classes. Have you checked the student directory?

Joy shook her head and took a gulp of coffee. She had been too wired to go to sleep after her cemetery encounter, and was paying now for her wakeful night. She was already on her second large latte. What’s the point? No last name, three first names. And there’s no guarantee he’s even at Ash Grove.

He who? came a new voice, and Blake, Maddie’s current boyfriend, took a seat at their table. He was a handsome black drama student with a theatrical baritone voice and deep brown eyes that made Joy think of Diet Coke. I really need to work on this caffeine addiction, she thought.

Just this guy I ran into last night, she said, and Maddie gave an undignified snort.

Just this dreamy mystery man she snogged in a graveyard, she corrected. Blake, do you know a guy named Tan, or Tanner, or Tristan?

Blake considered. Well, I don’t know if it counts as all three, but there is that model called Tristan. His billboards for Sybarite are all over Highway 64.

Ooh, good. Let’s see what some Google-fu can tell us about him. Maddie dug in her purse for her smart phone.

While she was tapping away, Sheila came in with Alissa, who had evidently been crowned her second in command. A handful of other dancers, Sheila’s usual crew, were with them. Maddie had dubbed them the Ballet Bitch Brigade, or BBBs for short. Gabbling together excitedly, they headed straight for the counter without showing any intention of stopping.

Joy called, Sheila! Over here, and waved to get her attention. Sheila rolled her eyes at her friends, and they stalked over to the table.

What is it? she snapped. "I’m busy."

The rose on Josiah Cavanaugh’s grave. I got it. And I did not, as you can see, get dragged underground by his corpse. She presented her camera, with the photo showing on the display, and made a ta-da motion to the rose.

Sheila gave them scarcely a glance. What, do you want a prize or something? she said.

Well, no, but—

You’re holding us up, interrupted Alissa. We’ve got much more important things to do. Like scheduling an appointment with... Melisande. She said Melisande as if she were saying the queen or the president.

Melisande, the supermodel? Maddie exclaimed. That’s crazy. Why would she be in North Carolina at all, let alone meeting with you?

Sheila smirked. Because she’s scouting for new talent, and that’s us. Buh-bye. She tossed her hair, and the three of them strode off with the long dancers’ gait that always made Joy feel clumsy and slow.

Wow, she just gets more adorable every day, said William dryly. I’m sorry, Joy. It looks like you wasted your time.

Joy shrugged to hide her disappointment. She had half thought that she would win some props from Sheila for carrying out the dare, but evidently Sheila’s feelings about Joy hadn’t changed. It’s not like we were ever going to become bestest-ever friends, she said. But if it’s true about Melisande, I can see how she’d be more interested in her than a stupid dare.

Melisande was a big deal. She was everywhere: magazines, billboards, TV, red-carpet events of all kinds. Her pale, arresting beauty made her one of the most recognizable women in the hemisphere, and one of the elite, like Gaga or Madonna, who didn’t need a last name. The famous poster of her wearing nothing but a strategically arranged snake was on the bedroom wall of practically every teenage boy in America, and when Hollywood decided to remake the H. Rider Haggard story She, Melisande was the natural choice for the beautiful, imperious sorceress of the title, She Who Must Be Obeyed.

But there were also other, more sinister sides to her persona. More than one of her husbands had died unexpectedly or tragically, so some of the tabloids had gone so far as to call her a black widow. There had even been hints that Melisande was involved in some underground organization that could end her enemies’ careers—or their lives. But as accustomed as she was to hearing ridiculous rumors about Ash Grove, Joy was inclined to dismiss the more lurid stories as pure fiction.

But why would she come here to discover the next Heidi Klum? she asked. Sheila must have gotten the story wrong. I doubt she’s even in this state.

Actually, it’s starting to look like she is, said Maddie. Check out this guy Tristan’s Wikipedia entry. She gave a whistle. And definitely check out the photo.

The photo did grab one’s attention. It was the guy from the cemetery, in one of those arty black-and-white images that dominated men’s fragrance ads. He was bare-chested, skin glistening with strategically applied beads of moisture, staring into the camera with a sulky pout that should have been ridiculous but... wasn’t.

Man, those are some impressive abs, said Blake. I wonder how many hours a day he works out? A six-pack like that is a serious time commitment.

It’s time well spent, said Maddie appreciatively. I can’t believe you just stumbled into him in a graveyard, Joy. You are so lucky.

But he probably doesn’t look like this in real life, does he, Joy? asked William. I mean, I’m sure he’s all airbrushed and CGI’d here. She thought he sounded wistful. William had what might be called an intellectual’s build rather than an athlete’s. He was skinny because he forgot to eat, and his most strenuous activities were mental.

Well, he wasn’t all dewy like that when I saw him, but that’s actually pretty much how he looked. Embarrassed at the looks the others were giving her, she took refuge in the Wikipedia text. ‘Tristan is the professional name of a print model based in New York and Hollywood,’ she read aloud. ‘After being discovered by legendary supermodel Melisande, he went on to model for Abercrombie & Fitch and Calvin Klein’s fragrance Sybarite. Most recently, he was selected to be the face of Melisande’s upcoming line of herbal skin-care products.’ So it could make sense that she’d be here with him. But that doesn’t explain what he was doing here in the first place.

What he was doing was putting the moves on you, said Maddie. I repeat, you are one lucky chick.

She thought about her father’s cancer, about being stuck here at school instead of being with him. About being the only student at Ash Grove who wasn’t beautiful or brilliant or both. Lucky was not the word she would have chosen. She got up and slung her backpack over her shoulder. It’s almost time for music theory, she said. William and I need to get going.

See you, said Maddie. If you meet any more demigods wandering around, steer them my way, huh?

Hey, objected Blake. I’m right here.

Not for long, if this Tristan guy shows up.

Blake folded his arms. Nice, Maddie, real nice. So you think of me as just a temporary placeholder.

Oh, like you treat me any different, she snapped. You never pay any attention to me.

That’s not fair.

What’s not fair is you at rehearsal yesterday, flirting with every single—

Joy and William exchanged a wry look and left them to their argument.

Looks like it’s time for another Maddie Relationship Meltdown, Joy said to him, as the raised voices of Maddie and Blake followed them to the door.

William shook his head in exasperation. She seems to have this supernatural ability to pick guys who are bad for her. Blake’s a decent guy, but I could have told her he wasn’t ready to be exclusive. Not that she’d have listened.

Maddie’s inevitable messy breakups always left her swearing never to date again. But then, sooner rather than later, she’d be snuggling up with another high-maintenance hunk who couldn’t commit or had trust issues or was on the rebound from a toxic relationship. I guess she needs the drama, said Joy. I just hate that she’s always getting hurt.

Me too. She deserves better.

But Maddie and her romantic misadventures left her mind as they approached the classroom building. The campus grounds always had a soothing effect on Joy. Ash Grove High School for the Performing Arts lay in a swathe of grassland in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Pines and oaks grew thickly over a ridge at its back, and from the playing field students had a spectacular view of ranks of gently sloped slate-blue mountains along the horizon.

She knew from her father that Josiah Cavanaugh, an eccentric philanthropist (but not a pagan, wizard, or zombie, despite Sheila’s claims), had established the school in the 1910s in the hopes of attracting budding musicians from around the world to the tiny, unknown corner of Appalachia known as Brasstown. And, strangely enough, it had worked. Soon word spread that graduates of Ash Grove were consistently brilliant and accomplished, and enrollment grew. A theater building was added to the complex in the next decade, and the school began to turn out actors who won raves from critics and audiences alike. Josiah Cavanaugh’s school soon had a dazzling reputation.

It also, locally at least, gained a reputation for stranger things. Some of Cavanaugh’s eccentricities caused comment, like his insistence that the doorway of every building contain iron to ward off evil. There were also stories of things that had never been proven, such as the rose garden. It was said that Cavanaugh had had part of the woods cleared and a rose garden planted there for his bride, but no one had ever found a sign of such a garden. The closest anyone found were the wild roses that his will’s executors had planted by his grave.

Cavanaugh himself was present in the form of a bronze statue that stood near the dining hall. Dressed in the formal style of the early 1900s, he sported a handlebar moustache and a frock coat. His gaze was fixed on the mountainous horizon. One hand was on his hip, and from the other a top hat dangled.

William elbowed Joy as they passed. You should have fed Cavanaugh’s hat last night, he said. Then maybe your dreamboat would have given you his number. It was a tradition for students to throw coins into the statue’s hat for good luck before a performance.

Maddie would say I had plenty of luck even without Josiah’s help. It was just too bad that money in the hat wouldn’t do anything about her dad.

The campus was as resolutely old-fashioned as its founder. The dorms and classroom buildings were quaint buildings of red brick and local stone, with peaked English roofs and the expected ivy meandering over the walls. Inside were bare rafters, whitewashed walls painted with philosophical homilies, and well-worn plank floors. Despite its old-fashioned appearance, the school kept up to date in the important ways, with the latest lighting and sound equipment for the theater and music departments. But in every other respect it seemed like time had stopped there.

Ash Grove had never really built up ties to the outside community; most of the locals knew it only by name and through the ridiculous stories about its supernatural atmosphere. The school existed in its own cozy little bubble, out of time and even out of place, and let the rest of the world race on without it. And it continued to turn out brilliant graduates who went on to prestigious colleges and dazzling careers.

Joy seemed unlikely to become one of them, however. During the afternoon break, she was called to the principal’s office.

This is the third time this semester, Joy, said Dr. Eleanor Aysgarth. I’m really surprised at you. First skipping classes, and now sneaking out of the dorm after lights out? I hope you didn’t go so far as to leave school grounds.

Joy shrugged. It was a nice night for a bike ride; what can I say?

This received a stern look over the top of Dr. Aysgarth’s glasses. Joy suspected that the principal wore glasses only because they made such a great theatrical prop. She gestured with them when she was lecturing. She took them off when she was about to make a significant point. She conveyed disapproval by tipping her head down and looking over them. It worked, though. Joy felt abashed as the cool blue eyes transfixed her over the tortoiseshell.

I know things have been hard for you lately, with your father’s illness and your having to move into the dorm.

Joy said nothing. The feeling of being out of place had always been there, even when she was a day student, but her father’s presence had shielded her from the worst of it. Now that she had to live with the other students, she was getting the full impact. Some of the students, like Sheila and her crowd, acted as if her presence compromised Ash Grove’s standards. Even those who didn’t treat her like a freak show, like Maddie, seemed confused as to why she was even here.

When she didn’t respond, the principal continued. Even taking that into consideration, though, I can’t just let you work out your issues by flouting the school rules. Why are you smiling?

I’m sorry, said Joy. It’s just that it’s so nice to hear someone use ‘flout’ correctly. Everyone always gets it mixed up with ‘flaunt.’ I guess that’s why you’re a Ph.D.

The principal gave a heavy sigh. Joy, come on. I don’t want to be a dragon here. But you need to shape up. This isn’t the first stunt you’ve pulled this semester. I thought you wanted to follow in your mother’s tradition and really do good work here. Has that changed?

Anna Merridew Sumner, an Ash Grove graduate, had had a brief but brilliant career as a singer, songwriter, and pianist. Her two CDs were now out of print, but pirated mp3s circulated widely. Joy knew she could never live up to her mother when it came to talent, but she had hoped somehow to follow in her footsteps and keep her memory, at least, alive.

When she said nothing, the principal pressed her advantage. You might also want to think of your father’s feelings. What will happen if I have to suspend you? How will he feel about that?

She winced. Seeing it, Dr. Aysgarth’s expression softened. I know Sheila probably goaded you, she said in a gentler tone. But I also know you’re too smart to fall for that. If you need to get out on your own to work through things, come see me, and we’ll work something out, okay? Otherwise—she stood up, so that Joy had to look up at her—I’m going to start to think that you made a mistake enrolling here.

Joy nodded dumbly. Her face was burning. It would be humiliating if she got thrown out of Ash Grove—not just for herself, but for Dad as well. It had never occurred to her before that it might happen. I won’t do it again, she said, and thought she was telling the truth.

Good, said Dr. Aysgarth. And then, in such a low voice Joy could hardly catch it, And if you do, don’t get caught.

Sometimes, thought Joy as she headed to class, the principal was several shades of awesome.

* * *

After classes ended for the day and Joy returned to her dorm, she paused by the open door of Gail Brody’s suite. Gail (it was hard to think of her as Mrs. Brody) was the resident faculty member, or dorm mother. She taught honors math, so Joy didn’t have any classes with her, but they’d known each other for years, since Gail used to babysit Joy. It was nice having someone who felt like family in the dorm, but it made things awkward when teacherly duties clashed with family feeling. This was one of those times.

Hey, she said, and Gail looked up from the papers she was grading. They were spread out across her living-room carpet, and she was sitting cross-legged in their midst. She was young, under thirty, and had only been married for a few years. Her husband, Jim, taught at Murphy High School, a short commute away.

I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to Dr. Aysgarth, said Joy, feeling awkward. She knew that Gail was probably the one who had reported her absence last night.

The teacher nodded, which made her ponytail bob. In sweats instead of her teaching clothes, she looked little older than the students she supervised. I was sorry to have to report you, Joy. But after Sheila told me you weren’t in, I didn’t have any choice but to follow it up.

Joy could have dope-slapped herself. How did she not guess that Sheila was setting her up? And she’d walked right into it.

But that wasn’t Gail’s fault. No problem, she forced herself to say. I knew I was out of line. Hereafter our heroine is a reformed character and becomes a shining example to the entire student body.

Gail laughed at her glum tone. Surely not. That sounds pretty grim. Oh, did you hear the news? she added, as Joy was turning away. Melisande, the supermodel, is in town. You know that mansion they just finished building over the ridge from Ash Grove? It turns out it’s hers, and she’s moving in. She says—or her people say—she intends to start mentoring students. She wrinkled her nose at people. I guess we didn’t rate a personal appearance. Anyway—could be something to consider.

So it was true, and Melisande was in town. But why would she move out here in the middle of nowhere?

Apparently the herbs for her new skin-care line are grown in the area, and she liked the climate so much she decided to build a vacation home here. I suspect this is going to be her get-away-from-it-all refuge for when all the glamour and fame get to be too much for her.

But won’t she be bored? Joy wondered. I can’t imagine just giving up that lifestyle.

The teacher shrugged. Maybe she truly is interested in being a mentor to the next generation of toothpaste and underwear models. But honestly, I’ll be surprised if we see much of her. I suspect that after a few months of country living she’ll be jetting back to Hollywood. Except that she’ll have to go all the way to Atlanta even to find a jet.

As Joy crossed the lobby and climbed the stairs to the room she shared with Maddie, she turned over the idea of Melisande as a mentor. No doubt about it, she was a very influential woman, and it would be a boost to anyone in the entertainment field to be able to drop Melisande’s name. She suspected that this would be an exciting prospect to far more than just Sheila and her crowd.

Inside her room she dropped her book bag on her bed and kicked off her sneakers. Anyone seeing the room would have known just whose half was whose. Maddie’s was a colorful jumble, the bed unmade, clothes heaped all over the floor, movie posters crowding the walls. Joy’s area looked as if she hadn’t finished moving in. The walls on her side were bare, and the top of her dresser held only a stack of books and a framed photograph of her with her father, taken when she was around eight years old, two years after her mother’s death. Her father was giving her a piggyback ride, and both of them were looking into the camera with identical grins. She remembered the day the photo was taken: they were at Six Flags, and the July heat made the whole park smell of creosote. It was a smell she always associated with rollercoasters and happiness.

There were no pictures of her mother. Those were back at home, where Joy felt they would be safer, instead of being exposed to the hectic life of the dorm. Or maybe, she admitted to herself, she just hoped that she wouldn’t be in the dorm long enough to miss her favorite possessions.

She booted up her laptop. It was an old one, without a built-in webcam, but William had set her up with an external one. Soon enough, there was her dad on the screen. It was always a bit of a shock to see him looking so pale and tired, but his smile at least hadn’t changed. Hey, kittycat, he said. How’s my girl?

Twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday, they saw each other on Skype. Her father had said that any more often might derail Joy’s studies, but she suspected he also found the visits tiring and didn’t want to let her see it. She was always careful to avoid telling him about anything that might cause him to worry. Lately it meant that she’d been leaving a lot of stuff out. But since long conversations tired him, it was just as well.

How are you feeling? she asked.

He hesitated. I had an infusion today, so I’m kind of wobbly. Nothing serious, though.

You’re getting plenty of rest? Not trying to do too much? She didn’t want to nag, but sometimes it felt like the closest she could get to actually helping him get better.

Yes, Nurse Ratched. But the crinkles around his eyes showed that he wasn’t scolding. I’m in the running for patient of the year. How’s English with Mr. Berenger?

"Okay, I guess. He’s started us on Macbeth, but he doesn’t do the Scottish accent like you do. It’s not nearly as much fun as reading it with you."

That made him laugh. I wouldn’t have the energy right now to do the accent anyway. It takes a lot of gusto—at least, the way I do it. And how’s the job in the dining hall working out?

She shrugged. It was okay as long as Sheila and her crowd didn’t use it as an opportunity to mess with her. Just the teensiest sliver of turkey. Maybe that one there. Ew, gross, not that one! The one next to it. To the left. No, my left. How hard can it be to put a slice of meat on a plate? And so on.

It would be so different if Dad were home. They’d be cooking supper together at their house near the river, with the radio playing the oldies station and the back door wide open to the soft twilight air. If the river was running high, they would be able to hear its chatter, even over the music and the two-lane road that separated their front yard from the riverbank. After supper he’d run lines with her when she was in a play, or they might take turns reading aloud, Dickens or Wodehouse or Terry Pratchett.

Things would be like that again, she told herself. Dad would get well and come home, and she’d be able to leave the dorm and stop working in the dining hall.

If she just told herself that often enough, maybe she’d even start to believe it.

I wish you’d let me come to Oklahoma to be with you, she blurted. I feel so useless. I know I’d be more help to you there than I am here. I could keep track of your appointments, manage your meds...

We’ve discussed this already, he said. It’s better for you to stay at Ash Grove and not disrupt your education.

It’s already— she began, but stopped. Part of her wanted to tell him she’d been reprimanded by Dr. Aysgarth. If she stopped shielding him from things, he might be concerned enough about her to consent to let her join him—but on the other hand, more worry wouldn’t be good for him right now. She compromised.

I can’t focus on school when I’m worried about you, she said.

Nevertheless. He was at his most teacherly when they argued. I need you to try.

If it’s money that’s the problem, I’ve been saving up, and pretty soon I should be able to afford plane fare. Maybe in a few more weeks—

Joy, no. He rubbed the bridge of his nose in the gesture that meant he was weary, but his voice had lost none of its conviction. The best way you can help me is by staying on track with your studies and taking good care of yourself.

She sighed. You’re the one who needs taking care of.

And I have a wonderful team of nurses and techs to do just that. In fact, here’s Angela now, so I’ll have to go.

Joy conceded defeat.

I’ll talk to you soon, then, Dad, she said. I love you.

She never used to say that before his diagnosis; it was always understood between them. But now, when he said, I love you too, honey and closed the session, she wondered if he knew that she said it because she was scared he might die.

She shut down the computer and gathered up her sheet music. Still in sock feet, she padded back downstairs to the dorm lobby, where a piano stood against the back wall.

Her mother had been a piano virtuoso before she had graduated from high school, so Joy had some catching up to do. Unfortunately, she still found reading music a slog. Also, she had inherited her father’s short, stubby fingers, so she had to work hard to span the keys. As she played scales to warm up, she found her thoughts returning to Tristan. With those long, slender fingers, he’d probably be a terrific pianist.

Then her hands stilled on the keys, as the image flashed into her memory all at once, like a snapshot.

Not piano. Guitar.

He used to sit at the first table on the left as she entered the dining hall. Feet propped up on a chair (until a teacher caught him), picking softly at a guitar. Never paying attention to anything but his own music. He had been skinnier then—the long sessions at the gym must have come later. And his hair was shaggy and fell in his face, hiding his remarkable eyes and cheekbones. But it was definitely the same guy. Tanner Lindsey had been a student at Ash Grove.

He was at least a year ahead of her, she remembered, so they had had no classes together. She couldn’t remember ever having seen him hanging out with anyone, so it was no wonder her friends hadn’t been able to place him either. And after the start of her sophomore year she couldn’t remember seeing him again—not until their encounter in the graveyard. She wondered how he had been discovered by Melisande, and what he was doing back in town. She couldn’t imagine that rural North Carolina had much to attract world-class models. Maybe he still had family here?

But that wasn’t the most pressing question. What in the world would make a celebrity model exile himself to a graveyard and call himself a dead man?

Chapter 3

Next morning at assembly Dr. Aysgarth announced that Melisande, as their new next-door neighbor, was holding an open house that Saturday for the students of Ash Grove. Those interested could sign up with Dr. Aysgarth’s office aide. Even before the principal had finished speaking, the excited chatter of the students nearly drowned her out.

Normally the event would have been of only mild interest to Joy. But since there was the possibility that Tanner would be there, she joined the roiling mass of students who were signing up. We’ll have to go in shifts, laughed Tasha Daltrey, Joy’s best friend among the day students. If we all go at once, Melisande will run and hide in her panic room. And I wouldn’t blame her.

Are you hoping to meet a Broadway producer? asked Joy. Or just going out of curiosity? Tasha was a triple threat as a performer: actress, singer, and dancer. She was also consistently voted one of Ash Grove’s prettiest students. Her combination of coffee-colored skin and light amber eyes was arresting, and she carried herself with a dancer’s grace. But unlike some of the other reigning beauties (Sheila came to mind), she didn’t try to enforce her superiority on anyone else.

Some of both, I guess, said Tasha. It sure never hurts to know someone in the business. Clark’s riding with me; do you and William want to come with? Day students were allowed to have cars on campus, but boarding students were stuck with the school’s shuttles unless they could cadge rides with day students.

William’s not going. He had no interest in celebrities and said the evening would be better spent playing L.A. Noire. But Maddie thought it might be a good chance for some networking. We’d love a ride.

Cool, we’ll meet up in your dorm lobby beforehand. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask: how’s your dad doing?

About the same, said Joy, making an effort to speak lightly. It’s just going to take a while before we know if the chemo is working.

Tasha looked concerned, and opened her mouth to reply, but then the two were jostled aside by other students eager to get their names on the list. Joy wasn’t sorry to have the conversation cut short. It was nice that her friends asked after her father, but speaking about him without getting emotional was almost impossible. She waved a goodbye at Tasha and retreated from the fray.

Although Melisande’s house was only a short distance away from the Ash Grove campus as the crow flies, it was only accessible via the road, which meant going the long way round. As they passed through the security gates and along the driveway in Tasha’s Toyota, it became clear why Melisande had not made it easier to reach her: the winding drive between tree-covered hills ended in a dramatic view of the house, so that visitors would be duly impressed.

Some visitors, anyway. It’s like the Ikea version of Falling Water, was Maddie’s verdict.

The house was a jarring contrast to Ash Grove. As neighbors, it would have been hard to find two as different as the rough-hewn, comfortable Ash Grove and the sleek modernity of Melisande’s house, its facade lit up by floodlights. On the inside they found that it was open and airy, with scarcely any dividing walls, and as pale as a blank canvas: the walls were light cream, and the floor was of blond wood, only interrupted with a few throw rugs of white fur. Squashy sofas upholstered in pale linen and low glass-topped tables were the only furnishings except for a grand piano on a dais at the far end of the room, where a male pianist was playing almost inaudibly over the conversation. A free-standing staircase descended from the upper floor. The overall effect was expensive but sparse, even to the point of being characterless—all except for the art. The paintings and photographs on the walls all showed just one subject: Melisande.

Pouting on magazine covers; vamping in a quirky portrait by Annie Leibovitz; wearing eighties shoulder pads in a stylized painting by Nagel; even draped in Grecian robes in a publicity still from a sword-sandals-and-CGI movie. She was everywhere Joy looked.

It’s a shrine to herself, she said in a low voice to Maddie, who nodded.

She must have an ego the size of Lookout Mountain.

I think she’s divine, announced Clark, William’s roommate, who was surveying the scene with an almost hungry look. He had dressed up for the occasion as the girls had not: he wore a cobalt-blue shirt with the sheen of silk, and the crease in his pants was sharp enough to cut steak. His butter-colored hair and blue eyes gave him a deceptively cherubic look. I’ve never seen so many gorgeous people in one place—and they’re all here because of her.

It was true. The room was filled with beautiful people. Tall, slender, with perfectly toned bodies that spoke of a rigorous diet and exercise regime—or excellent genes—they lounged on the sofas or draped themselves elegantly against the walls, posed as if someone were painting their portraits. The women had long, shining hair; the men were either moussed or dramatically shaved. All were so perfect and exquisite they might have been sculpted, polished, buffed, and lacquered for viewing. All of their gestures were graceful and fluid, as if they were dancers. Probably some of them were, Joy thought.

She recognized a runway model who had been in the news lately for her engagement to a race-car driver, and a classical violinist who had crossed over into the mainstream as much for his surly dark handsomeness as for his playing. Joy felt that William had made a wise decision in opting out of the evening; he had predicted it would be a glorified photo op, and so far it looked like he was going to be proven right. The Ash Grove teachers who were present in the role of chaperones looked sadly out of place. Among them Joy recognized Dr. Michael Fellowes, Ash Grove’s former principal, whose silver hair made him all the more anomalous in the crowd of young people.

I feel like a Hobbit, said Maddie. Isn’t there anyone else here under six feet tall?

And does it seem to you like there’s a lot of skin showing? Joy couldn’t help asking. She knew that she was probably more easily shocked than her friends, because none of them had grown up in a small town, but there certainly seemed to be a very relaxed attitude toward going shirtless (among the men) or low-cut and short-skirted (the women).

Maybe if you spend a lot of your time sculpting your body, you want to show it off as much as possible, suggested Tasha, but Joy’s attention had wandered elsewhere. She was looking in vain for Tanner.

A tall man (but they were all tall) with an air of authority strode over to them. With his dark, sculpted beard and small silver hoop earrings he looked like a cross between a pirate and a rock star. He had very even white teeth, which he flashed in a Mephistophelian smile at them, and a Bluetooth in one ear.

My, what tender young morsels, he said. Welcome, ladies and gentleman. Just when I was beginning to get bored, too. I’m Raven, Melisande’s right-hand man.

Just Raven? asked Maddie. No last name, like Flea?

His grin widened, and his dark eyes dwelt appreciatively on her. A bit less parasitic than that. And what is your name, sweetheart?

Maddie introduced them. To Joy’s horror, Raven kissed the hands of all the girls (he settled for giving Clark a wink).

You’ll find a selection of mocktails at the bar. In deference to Ash Grove rules, we’re alcohol-free tonight. Melisande should be joining us soon, so just make yourselves comfortable and enjoy mingling in the meantime.

Is everyone— began Joy, and then thought better of it. But she had caught Raven’s attention.

Yes, my dear?

Oh, I was just wondering if Tristan is coming.

As a matter of fact, he will be here tonight, said Raven, raising an interested eyebrow. I take it you’re a fan of his?

She’s his biggest fan, Clark put in before Joy could speak, and she stared at him in shock. He didn’t know she had met Tristan. She’s got pictures of him all over her room, and she kisses every one of them before she goes to bed every night. If you could arrange it, she’d love to get his autograph. He added in a stage whisper, "On one of her, you know, girls."

It was typical Clark mischief, but Joy could have strangled him. It didn’t help that Maddie and Tasha, the traitors, were having to struggle not to laugh.

Indeed! Raven looked amused but intrigued. So our Tristan has a local following. We’ll just have to see what we can do about that autograph.

He slipped away before she could protest. She glared at Clark. Remind me to kill you later.

You’re welcome, he said, unrepentant.

You’re impossible, she returned.

As angry as she was, however, she was soon distracted by the famous faces in the room. The lure of people-watching was too strong to withstand.

Isn’t that woman in purple the actress who’s in all those corset-and-bustle movies?

You’re right! And that’s Olivier what’s-his-name, the French actor. I didn’t realize he was even in this country. What is he doing out here in the middle of nowhere? What are all of them doing here, for that matter?

They’re Melisande’s entourage, of course. A familiar voice made them turn. Sheila Hardesty stood behind them with Alissa and miscellaneous boyfriends. Her eyes glittered as she took in the scene. All these people follow her everywhere just because she’s so incredible.

Maddie exchanged a look with Joy. And it has nothing to do with her influence, or the fact that she can promote their careers, she said skeptically.

Sheila tossed her head impatiently, and Alissa chimed in. They have agents who do all that. Melisande is just an amazing presence to be around. You haven’t met her; you wouldn’t get it.

"Wow, I’m so glad they’re here, said Maddie witheringly, as they swept off in a cloud of scorn. However would we lost little lambs manage without the BBBs to guide us?"

Tasha gave her a pained look. You know I hate that expression. Not all of us in ballet are bitches.

In your case, it can stand for Beautiful Black Ballerina, Joy offered.

Just like, in Blake’s case, it stands for Bodacious Baritone Beefcake, said Clark. Where is he tonight, by the way?

Maddie snorted. I’d be the last one to know. I’m just his Bitter Brunette Beard.

Before they could ask her what she meant, the noise level dropped suddenly, and Joy felt a charged expectancy in the room. The pianist who had been playing unheard drew his hands back from the keys. Everyone was looking toward the staircase, and Joy followed their gaze.

A shining apparition was making its graceful way down the stairs. Joy had seen so many depictions of Melisande by now that she thought she knew what to expect. But photographs had not caught her personality, and Joy realized at once that Melisande’s effect in person was something no photograph could convey.

Melisande moved noiselessly, languidly. With her white skin and white-blonde hair that fell past her waist, she seemed to gather all the light in the room. She wore nothing but a charmeuse slip dress, and this too was white. She actually seemed to glow as she entered the room. She held her head with the calm assurance of a queen, and Joy was not surprised when applause broke out around her. The woman could certainly stage an entrance.

Good evening, everyone, she said in a voice that was cool and silvery, yet somehow seemed to reach every corner. I’m glad to see you all here. Those of you from Ash Grove High, please make yourself at home, and don’t be bashful about introducing yourselves. She smiled and surveyed the room. I don’t think my other guests require introductions.

There was an appreciative ripple of laughter, and a wave of people surged up to her. Even Dr. Fellowes was caught up in heroine worship; she saw his silver head among all the blonde and brunette ones jostling to be near her.

Joy continued to examine her hostess. She really was extraordinary looking. Her hair was as pale and glossy as corn silk, and so fine that it wafted gently in every current of air. Her hands and feet—which were bare—were small and finely shaped. The rest of her was shapely too, as her bias-cut slip