"That your mother was searching for? No." He shook his head. "Lydia was killed by an Undead while performing her duty. She died honorably."

"I didn't mean that-"

"My daughter wasn't murdered," he said, as if it were painful to even say the word daughter.

"But Miss LaBarge hid the letter behind a photograph-"

My grandfather spoke over me. "Your parents were Monitors. Everything about their jobs was a secret, so it doesn't strike me as strange for your mother to have written a secretive letter."

He must have seen me shrink away from him, because he immediately composed himself. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Can I keep it?" I asked. "The letter. I just want to have something she wrote."

My grandfather hesitated, and then folded the note. "Of course."

"Thanks," I said softly. As I watched my grandfather collect the clippings from Miss LaBarge's office, I wondered if my parents had ever gotten the chance to tell her what they had discovered, and if so, what it was. But even if they had managed to talk, I feared that the secret of my parents' discovery had died along with my favorite teacher.

We arrived at the mansion late that evening after a long silent car ride, and went straight from the car to the end of the dining room table, where the cooks had already laid out an arrangement of sausages, b.u.t.ter rolls, and vegetable pie. I used to love this meal, but today it looked like it was made of plastic.

My grandfather sighed as he stuffed a napkin into the collar of his shirt. He was still thinking about my mother and Miss LaBarge, I could tell. For a moment he looked like nothing more than an old man-sad, exhausted, and brittle. Seeing him like that, I realized that I had to tell him what I knew.

"I had a dream," I said as I picked at a bit of dry bread.

"A dream?"

"That I was chasing Miss LaBarge as she rowed a boat across a lake."

My grandfather stopped chewing. "I beg your pardon?"

"I dreamed it the night before my birthday. The night she was killed."

He put down his fork and knife. "You're telling me that you dreamed Annette LaBarge's death?"

I pushed my hair behind my ear. "Well, not exactly. Just the moments before. But I was chasing her, as if I wanted to kill her." I didn't even realize what I was saying, but once the words left my mouth, I knew they were true. Why else would I have been chasing Miss LaBarge like that?

Pushing his plate aside, he leaned on the table. "What aren't you telling me?"

"What do you mean?" I asked. "I just told you about my dream-"

"But nothing else!" he said. "I spoke with Dr. Porter. He told me you weren't very helpful when he met with you."

I pushed the vegetables around on my plate, suddenly defensive. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The doctor said that you wouldn't even answer his questions."

"That's because he kept asking about my parents and my friends; about what we talk about on the phone. He even asked about my romantic life," I said, trying to control my voice as I stabbed a sausage. "He's a doctor. I don't see how that's any of his business." After chewing, I put my fork down. "Can you pa.s.s the salt?"

When my grandfather didn't move, Dustin came from the corner of the room and handed me the shaker. My grandfather eyed me as I sprinkled salt on my vegetable pie and took a bite. Still bland. I reached for the salt again, when my grandfather intercepted me.

"That is quite enough," he said, taking the shaker from me. "The food is already well seasoned. And you will answer all of the questions the doctors ask you. I hired them for a reason."

I stared down at my plate.

"It doesn't make sense," my grandfather said, wiping his lips with his napkin. "You were dead," he said. "For nine days, you were dead. They found you on the green and took you to the nurses' wing, under my request, to wait for you to reanimate. I saw you with my own eyes." He paused to take a sip of water. "But on the day that you were supposed to reanimate, you disappeared. And when we found you, you were on the green again, not Undead, but alive. Completely alive." He studied me. "How did you survive?"

Outside, a maintenance worker was polishing the windows, the evening light blinking behind the motion of his rag. I could have filled in the gaps to my grandfather's story. I could have told him that Dante and I had the same soul. That I gave Dante my life that night, and ten days later he gave it back to me in a field of flowers. But then what? My grandfather would never understand. "I've told you everything I can already. I don't understand it any better than you do. What else do you want me to say?"

My grandfather shook his head. "There's speculation among the professors that you have some sort of immunity to the Undead. That you're a new kind of Monitor."

"What do you mean?" I said, swallowing.

"They think you're immortal." He paused. "But it doesn't make sense. No one cheats death like that."

Breaking his gaze, I picked at the food on my plate. "Well, I'm alive now. Can't we all just forget about it?"

"Forget about it?" he said, almost offended. "You're curious about Annette LaBarge's death, about your parents' deaths, but not about your own? This is your life, Renee. Don't you want to know how you survived?"

"Of course I do," I muttered.

"You're not yourself. You don't even look like yourself. And you're keeping something from me."

I glanced down the hall to where I could see the cooks shuffling in and out of the kitchen, pots clanking as someone did the dishes. Although I could remember the way the halls of the mansion used to fill up with the smell of simmering food around mealtimes, now I could barely smell it unless I lowered my face to my dish. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said. "Everything is fine." But the words fell flat.

I was definitely alive, not Undead, at least according to the doctors. Their tests had returned normal results: the glare of a flashlight shining into my eyes, my ears. A wooden stick pressed against my tongue. The cold shock of a stethoscope as it touched my back. What the doctors couldn't seem to measure or explain was how I woke up most mornings: groggy, disoriented, my eyes dry and heavy with sleep, as if I had just come out of a long afternoon nap and didn't know how much time had pa.s.sed while I was sleeping. To be honest, since last spring, I wasn't sure that I had ever completely awoken.

"You haven't been seeing that boy, have you?"

I choked on my water. "What boy?"

"You know which boy I'm referring to."

"No, I don't."

"Dante Berlin," my grandfather said with force. "Have you or have you not been seeing him?"

My throat tightened at Dante's name. It had been so long since I'd heard anyone other than myself say those words; it almost felt as though Dante had become a figment of my imagination. "No," I said, wishing I was lying. "I haven't."

My grandfather's face hardened. "Good. If he comes near you, I'll bury him."

I shrank back in my seat. No! I wanted to scream, but I knew that I couldn't. I couldn't do anything at all.

My grandfather motioned to Dustin to take his plate away, and pushed out his chair. Just before he left the room, he stopped. "We're giving Annette a Monitor's funeral on Friday. I expect you to come. Death is your profession now. It's time you accepted that."

Every day was windy on the coast of Maine. I could tell by the craggy cliffs and small knotted trees that were swirled and twisted out of shape. When we arrived at Friendship Harbor on Friday, after a five-hour drive, a crowd of people was already gathered by the sh.o.r.e. They all wore black. Docked behind them was a large wooden boat painted with the name Le Prochain Voyage.

Brandon Bell, Eleanor's older brother, was standing by the side of the boat, handing out garden trowels to the guests as he directed them on board. Beside him was his mother, an elegant blonde. I recognized her immediately, not only because I had met her at Gottfried last winter, when Eleanor had disappeared, but because I had just seen her. She was an older replica of the third girl in the photograph in Miss LaBarge's cottage. Cindy Bell. Seeing her now -her sleek black suit and impeccable makeup-I could barely imagine the two women being friends. But if Cindy was here, it meant Eleanor had to be back from Europe.

Brandon's eyes lingered on me for a moment before he bent down to pick up a trowel.

"Thank you for coming," he said, handing it to me and averting his eyes. "The ceremony will take place just outside of Wreck Island."

I had expected a warmer welcome, considering I was one of his sister's best friends.

"Where's Eleanor?" I asked, looking over his shoulder to see if I could spot her blond ringlets. I wanted to tell her about my dream, Miss LaBarge's cottage, and the letter my mom had written to her.

Brandon looked puzzled. "She's not here," he said, as if it were obvious.

"What? Why?"

"Only Monitors can attend a Monitor burial."

"Oh. Right," I mumbled. Eleanor wasn't a Monitor anymore; she was the enemy. "How is she-" I started to ask, but Brandon didn't let me finish.

"If you could move along, that would be helpful," he said, and handed the couple behind me two shovels.

"Yeah, okay," I said slowly, stung by how quickly he had brushed me off.

The deck was crowded with Gottfried professors and a handful of older people that I didn't recognize. Genevieve Tart and a few other girls from Gottfried were standing by the wine table in sleek dresses, chatting. When they saw me, they stopped and huddled together, whispering. Waiters dressed in black suits wove through the crowd carrying platters of hors d'oeuvres amid the low hum of talk. "Monitoring without a partner." "Careless mistakes." "The Undead." "She didn't even have a shovel on her."

No shovel? In my dream I had taken the shovel from her and dropped it into the lake. Could it have been real? I continued listening, but it was more of the same. It was odd hearing the word "Undead" spoken in public, but everyone here was a Monitor, so there wasn't any reason for secrecy. The only person not engrossed in conversation was Eleanor's mother, who was sitting alone by the mast, nursing a drink and looking out to the horizon. A waiter offered her a canape, but she waved him away.

Beyond them, the waves crashed onto the rocky sh.o.r.e, where a woman was standing. She had plain brown hair and was wearing a dress that twisted around her in the wind like the trunks of the trees. Ducking beneath the lines that held the sails, I made for the side of the boat to get a better look, but people crowded past me, blocking my view. When I looked at the sh.o.r.e again, the woman was gone.

"Miss LaBarge?" I whispered, staring at the spot where I thought I had seen her. The salty air blew through my hair, and I blinked. It couldn't be, I thought, letting my eyes wander to the open casket on the other side of the boat. I was so disturbed by her death, and by the letter my mother had written to her, that I was seeing things.

"Renee," a boy said from behind me, and I turned. Brett Steyers, a friend from Gottfried and Eleanor's former boyfriend, stood there in a navy suit, his sandy hair blowing in the sea breeze. "Where have you been hiding all summer?"

I gathered my own hair as it tangled in the wind. "At my grandfather's," I said, forcing a smile.

"I bet," he said.

I furrowed my brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he said, tracing the lines in the wooden deck with his shoe. "So when did you find out about all of this?" His gaze drifted across the other Monitors, and I realized that he and I had never before spoken of the Undead.

"Last winter," I said softly. "You?"

"Last spring," he said.

"Are you still in touch with Eleanor?" I asked.

Brett shoved his hands into his pockets, shaking his head ever so slightly. "What about you and..." He let his voice trail off. Everyone knew that the Gottfried professors were searching for Dante.

Looking away, I watched a gull land on the deck and peck at a discarded hors d'oeuvre. "No," I said.

"People are saying he and his friend Gideon killed the headmistress last spring," Brett said.

I shuddered, remembering that night. Dante had been protecting me, while Gideon, another Undead, had taken the headmistress's soul, her legs quivering before they finally went still. Gideon died after that; Dante pulled him underground, which should have killed them both. But I gave Dante my soul to save his life. I died for him, and then ten days later he gave my soul back to me. He wasn't a murderer. I wanted to scream it into the wind until everyone knew the truth, until it sank into their bones. But how could I possibly explain everything, let alone prove that he wasn't dangerous?

"And they say that Dante's on the run. That he left for Canada." He searched my face for an answer.

"Dante would never kill anyone," I said defensively. "As for Canada, I wouldn't know."

A few paces behind him were April and Allison, the twins from my horticulture cla.s.s, along with a few other kids I recognized. I waved at them, but instead of returning the gesture, they turned away. I frowned.

Brett followed my gaze. "Don't worry about them," he said, and took a crab canape from one of the waiters.

The boat slowed, and the captain lowered an anchor into the water. The chain unraveled for what seemed like minutes, until it finally grew taught. My grandfather's voice boomed from the back of the boat. "Would everyone please convene at the bow?" he said.

The crowd formed a tight circle around Miss LaBarge's casket. Brett and I stood near the back.

"So, is it true?" Brett asked, his voice low.

"Is what true?"

"You know."

I shook my head. "No, I don't."

Brett glanced around us. "That you're some kind of...immortal?" He said it in jest, as if he didn't believe it, but I knew his question was sincere.

My face grew hot. Now I understood why Brandon and the girls from Horticulture had acted so aloof. Is this what it would be like when I went back to school? "I-I don't know what you're talking about."

An old man in front of us turned around and scowled. Brett gave him a polite smile, and leaned over me. "All of the Monitors are saying that Gideon took your soul, and you died, but instead of reanimating as an Undead, you just woke up. Alive."

I bit my lip. I couldn't tell him the truth. I couldn't tell anyone the truth, or Dante would be buried and I would become a specimen.

Brett studied me with wonder. "It is true; I can tell."

Before I could come up with an appropriately vague response, my grandfather stepped into the center of the circle and cleared his throat. The boat grew quiet.

"Monitors! Friends. Thank you for joining us on this cloudy occasion." His white hair waved in the wind. "Annette LaBarge was a mysterious woman. A solitary woman. A woman who wore many hats." He paused, letting his words hang in the air. "Some of us are here because we knew Annette the philosophy professor. Others, Annette the student, Monitor, and later, colleague. Still others, Annette the caretaker and friend."

The boat swayed. Two women in the front were weeping.

"As Annette would say, We cannot control the actions of others. All we have are our reactions.' So I implore you: let us learn from her death. Let us react. Let us find the Undead who killed her and put that creature to rest."

My grandfather took the pocket square from his jacket and wiped his temple before continuing with his eulogy. I gazed at the open casket, which was close enough for me to see the tip of Miss LaBarge's nose. Was death ever fair? If Miss LaBarge had died naturally, would that have been easier to bear? Or would it always feel as if life were being taken from us?

A gust of wind blew a stack of napkins into the water, speckling the surface with white squares. Above us, a flock of seagulls cawed.

My grandfather opened a prayer book and read a pa.s.sage in French as I looked at the swells of water sloshing against the side of the boat, at the seagulls roosting on the mast, and at the sky, which seemed larger and more dramatic over the ocean. I thought about how all these details seemed that much more beautiful, knowing that Dante still existed, and that he loved me.

My grandfather closed the prayer book and motioned to two men, who hoisted a barrel of soil up from below the deck and set it beside the casket. My grandfather touched Miss LaBarge's forehead with his thumb, and then, grasping his trowel, he plunged it into the barrel of soil and sprinkled the dirt over her body.

A line formed along the side of the boat, and, one by one, everyone followed. Brett stood behind me, and we inched forward until it was my turn.

I hesitated before stepping up to the casket, where Miss LaBarge was resting with two coins over her eyes. They made her look expressionless and somehow inhuman. Soil and flower petals were sprinkled across her body.