Dr. Newhaus continued lecturing about how the Undead cope with death, but I was no longer paying attention. How had I known the word Wanderl.u.s.t? How had I known any of the answers I'd been blurting out in my cla.s.ses all semester? I was still lost in my thoughts when the bell rang.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Noah gazing at me as Clementine whispered something to him. Throwing my books in my bag, I gave him a quick glance, and left.

I ran across the courtyard, back to my room, and I slammed the door.

All semester I had been wondering where the information in my head was coming from. Where the visions were coming from. Could it be from Wanderl.u.s.t?

Pacing across the rug, I thought back to what Dr. Newhaus had said in cla.s.s: when the Undead takes a human's soul, there were two kinds of possible transfers -information and extended memories. It seemed I had a little of both.

Hadn't I exchanged souls with Dante last spring?

When we kissed, hadn't I relived his memories of when we first met in science cla.s.s, of when we first kissed in the Latin cla.s.sroom, of when we were called into Headmistress Von Laark's office for the last time?

Hadn't I also relived events that I'd never actually experienced before? His sister getting pneumonia. Flying in an airplane with his family. Crashing into the water. Dante drowning.

Like a burst of cold air, the truth wrapped itself around me. I leaned against my bedpost in shock. When we exchanged souls last spring, I had absorbed some of Dante's memories. I had been reliving Dante's past and unknowingly absorbing information he had once learned. That was how I knew what Wanderl.u.s.t was, how I knew about the ile des Soeurs, how I knew that canaries were used in coal mines. Because Dante knew all of those things.

I don't know how long I stood there going over everything in my head. If I had absorbed Dante's memories, did that mean that my visions belonged to him, too?

Dr. Newhaus had said that Wanderl.u.s.t was about absorbing memories, but my visions weren't Dante's memories. I was seeing them long after our kiss, and it seemed like they were happening now, not in the past. Then again, we were soul mates; everything worked differently with us.

"My sis-" I'd said to the nurse in my vision of the hospital, just before I'd corrected myself to say brother. Dante had had a sister. And the cemetery. Dante had been there right after my vision; he'd known exactly where the Monitor section on the map was, and he'd noticed the headstone just before I tripped over it.

I thought back to the night before my birthday, when I had my first vision. Had Dante chased Miss LaBarge through the waters of Lake Erie? "You?" she'd said. Could she have been talking about Dante? In the vision, I'd had long hair. Dante did, too. Was it possible that he'd taken her shovel and then killed her?

Unable to control myself, I began to tremble. No. Maybe I was seeing him in my visions, but he couldn't have killed anyone. I had to believe that he would never hurt anyone. He'd told me himself that he wouldn't, that he wouldn't hurt me....Except he had. I was hurt now. And Miss LaBarge was dead. What explanation could he possibly have?

Outside, the day faded to night, and tiny snowflakes floated in through the open window on a cool, swirling breeze. Standing up, I lowered the pane and went to splash my face with water. But when I turned the k.n.o.b of the bathroom door, it was locked again.

"Go away," Clementine yelled from inside, though this time her voice was different. There were no girls in the background whispering or giggling.

She blew her nose. Quietly, I pressed my ear to the door, only to hear the soft sound of her crying.

"I can hear you," she yelled suddenly. "Go away."

Stunned, I fell back. And without thinking, I slipped on my coat and scarf, getting ready to leave. I didn't care where.

When I opened the door from my bedroom to the hall, Noah was right in front of me, his arm raised as if he were about to knock.

"Noah," I said, jumping. "What are you doing here?"

He looked red and fl.u.s.tered, his brow gathered into a tiny wrinkle. When he saw me, his face softened. "I just wanted to see you."

I scratched my head, confused. Behind me I could hear Clementine turn the faucet on in the bathroom.

"You seem upset. Are you leaving?" he asked, betraying a hint of panic as he surveyed my coat and scarf.

"I-I'm fine," I said, unable to think coherently enough to form a proper response. "I'm just going for a walk."

"Can I come?"

I glanced at Clementine's door. The last thing I needed was for Clementine to find out that Noah was here, talking to me. "Okay."

"Okay."

We walked in silence, both lost in our own thoughts as the traffic lights changed soundlessly in front of us. As we waited on the curb for a car to pa.s.s, Noah turned to me. "I broke up with Clementine for good."

His words took a moment to sink in. "I'm so sorry." I didn't know what else to say.

"Thanks."

He didn't offer anything more, and I didn't ask.

The city was different at night. Without any destination we meandered down the streets, past s.e.x shops and head shops, tattoo parlors and peep shows. The windows of the storefronts were smudged and cracked and glowing neon.

As we pa.s.sed under the awning of an all-night cafe, I stopped. Through the gla.s.s I spotted someone wearing a tan suit coat that looked incredibly familiar.

"That's Dr. Newhaus," I said.

Our psychology professor was sitting alone at a table, staring down at a plate of food, deep in thought.

It was a smoky French bistro, the kind that served cheap wine. A television was on, tuned to a hockey game. There were barely any people inside, save for two older men smoking cigars, and a group of college boys heckling a waitress.

"I wonder why he's out so late alone," I murmured, watching him pick at his food.

"Do you know about him?" Noah asked from over my shoulder.

"Know what?"

"He was one of the best Monitors in his cla.s.s. My father told me he was fearless; always the first to volunteer, and later the first one on the trail of an Undead. They used to be friends a long time ago.

"Eventually he got married and had a son. Apparently I was friends with the kid when we were both younger, though I can't remember any of it."

"You don't see him anymore?"

Noah shook his head. "He died when he was ten. Fell out of a tree in their front yard."

I raised my hand to my mouth.

"In his grief, Dr. Newhaus decided that instead of burying him, he would wait until his son reanimated. That's when he and my father started drifting apart."

"What do you mean?"

"Dr. Newhaus decided to homeschool his son. The rumors are that his wife wanted to bury the boy, but Dr. Newhaus couldn't bear it. Supposedly that was what eventually destroyed their family-not the death itself, but Dr. Newhaus's inability to cope with it."

"What do you mean, it destroyed their family?"

Inside the restaurant, a haggard waitress carrying a tray was standing behind Dr. Newhaus, speaking to him, but the professor was lost in his thoughts and didn't seem to hear her. Only after she touched his arm did he turn around.

"His wife divorced him, leaving him to care for his Undead son alone." Noah shrugged. "You know how it ends. Folly after folly, and eventually he had to bury him. Bury his own son. Can you imagine?"

I gazed at Dr. Newhaus through my reflection in the window. "When did all of this happen?" I said, my voice cracking.

"A decade ago, maybe more. That's when he became a psychologist."

"I want to go," I said, tearing myself away from the window. "I don't want to be here anymore." Though I wasn't sure if I meant here at the cafe, or here in Montreal, or here in general. Everything was too complicated.

"Me neither," Noah said, his breath dissipating into the night. I followed his gaze down the street, where the block lights of a theater stuck out over the awnings. "Hey. Do you want to see a movie?"

The only thing showing past midnight was a black-and-white film about a man who plotted to murder his wife. I shuddered as I stared at the dull colors of the movie poster, which seemed to mock me. But before I knew it, I found myself waiting as Noah bought two tickets, a bag of b.u.t.tery popcorn, and two large sodas. We were the only people in the theater, and took seats right in the middle.

"This is a cla.s.sic," Noah said. "You're going to love it."

It wasn't until the movie started that I realized it was entirely in French, with no subt.i.tles.

"They're talking so quickly I can barely understand them," I whispered to Noah as he pa.s.sed me the popcorn.

After a moment of confusion, he realized what I was saying. "Oh no," he said. "I forgot."

Clearing his throat, he leaned toward my ear and began to translate, his voice deep and accented. I slid down in my seat, laughing despite everything and sipping my soda as our thighs pressed against each other. Somewhere in between a woman crooning in scratchy French and the fly that landed on the projector lens, I fell asleep, my dream a chaotic swirl of murder and betrayal, of me and Noah in black and white, smiling as we ran, hand in hand, into white light.

Hours later, a man with a broom and dustpan nudged me awake. I blinked. The screen glowed white, and popcorn was strewn about our feet. Noah's head was resting on my shoulder, his hand sweaty and wrapped around mine. "Renee," he murmured in his sleep. He was dreaming of me, just as I had been dreaming of him.

I realized then that for the first time in months, my dream had been my own.

DECEMBER IN MONTREAL WAS DARK AND BLEAK, with winds so strong they could blow a person over, and snow that buried parking meters and bicycle stands. From the windows of our cla.s.srooms the city looked post-apocalyptic and abandoned. For me, it was real. The world I thought I had known, the world colored by Dante, was gone now, and everything felt vacant and meaningless. Every morning it was harder to get out of bed. The prospect of facing the day seemed too exhausting to bear. I couldn't focus on studying for my exams, and every time the voice inside me screamed, Search for the ninth sister!, I silenced it. Eternal life doesn't exist, I told myself. The Nine Sisters were nothing more than a group of smart women who protected a secret about literature or politics. Immortality was a legend. And even if it wasn't, what was the point in searching for it? The only reason I wanted to find their secret was because of Dante, because I wanted to be with him for eternity. But I didn't know if I wanted that anymore.

After the night in the movie theater, things changed between Noah and me, though it happened so quietly that it was hard to catch. We still went on walks together, wandering through the slushy streets after cla.s.ses to get a bite to eat, or studying for exams with Anya, on a rickety table at the coffee shop, an espresso machine whirring in the background. On the surface, everything appeared the same. I didn't tell Noah about Dante, but something about the way he studied me when he thought I wasn't looking made me think he understood.

"Hey, maybe the ninth sister was a doctor," he'd say in the middle of a study session, when he saw me lost in thought as I stared out the window at the snowplow on the street. "Maybe that's why the riddle was hidden at the Royal Victoria."

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"Or maybe she was very sick," Anya said, "and hid the riddle beneath the bed where she was treated."

Noah scratched the stubble on his chin. "I guess anything's possible. We could check hospital records. What do you think, Renee?" he said gently, trying to catch my gaze.

"Yeah," I said, trying to smile. "That sounds good."

"Great," he said. "Friday after cla.s.s? Maybe after, we can all get dessert at my parents' house. Take it easy, you know?"

"Easy," I murmured. Should relationships be easy? No, I used to think. Everything worth doing took work and time, but for some reason, when I'd woken up next to Noah in the theater, none of that seemed clear anymore. I needed to talk to Dante. I needed him to tell me that he hadn't killed Miss LaBarge, that there was some reasonable explanation.

Before I knew it, exams were over, and as the snow swirled outside my window, I packed a single suitcase and dragged it across the courtyard. While I was waiting to hail a taxi, I heard shoes crunch in the snow behind me.

"You were just going to leave for three weeks without saying good-bye?" Noah said, his cheeks a deep red.

"I thought you were still in exams," I said as a taxi pulled over to the curb and popped its trunk.

Noah shook his head. "I was sitting in my room when I saw you step outside. You looked like you were about to be blown away."

I laughed. "Definitely not with this thing," I said, lifting my suitcase.

"Here, let me get that," he said, but I pulled it out of reach.

"I can do it," I said, and with some difficulty, I pushed it into the trunk.

"Right," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Of course you can."

The exhaust from the car fogged in the cold as we stood there, not quite looking at each other. "So, I guess I'll see you when you get back?" Noah said, as if he had meant to say something else, but had changed his mind.

"Yeah," I said, because what else could I say?

He forced a smile. "Great."

"Great."

Noah made to open the door for me, but I beat him to it, our hands touching as I reached the handle. "Oh, you don't have to-"

"Right. Sorry."

After I slammed the door, he brushed away a little circle of snow from the window so that we could see each other. He waved good-bye. And I was off.

When I got to the airport, I checked my bag and boarded a rickety little airplane with only one bathroom and one stewardess.

The looming buildings of Montreal shrank into white as we ascended through the clouds.

A disheveled college boy in a baggy sweater was sitting next to me. He was reading Dante's Inferno. He smiled when he saw me staring at his book. "Do you know it?" he asked, his gaze wandering from my face to my stockings.

I pulled down my skirt. "No," I said quickly, and put on my headphones.

Ma.s.sachusetts was masked by a white flurry when we landed. Dustin met me at the airport with a takeout cup of hot chocolate and a big hug, and insisted on carrying my suitcase to the car.

Barren trees frosted in ice formed a canopy over the roads as we drove west to Wintershire House, the tires squeaking as they pressed into the snow.

Dustin asked me about Montreal and St. Clement as he navigated. Tinny Christmas music played softly in the background. We pa.s.sed frozen ponds, churches with Nativity scenes out front, and white colonial houses buried in snow, their owners shoveling tiny trails to their front doors.

The streetlamps turned on one by one as we drove up the driveway to my grandfather's mansion. Burlap sacks covered the topiaries, now dusted in white. My grandfather's car was nowhere to be seen.

"He's traveling on business but will be back for dinner," Dustin said as he hoisted my suitcase out of the trunk.

And sure enough, when I ran down the stairs an hour later, my grandfather was standing in the dining room, slinging his dinner jacket over the back of the chair.

"Ah, Renee. Welcome back." He always said back instead of home.

"Thanks."

Dustin served us a robust meal of pot roast and spaghetti puttanesca. My grandfather tucked his napkin into the collar of his shirt and picked up his fork and knife.