When I got back to the suite, I dumped my bag on the couch and headed for her door.

The door was cracked partially open.

“Scout?” I called out. I rapped knuckles against the wood, but got no answer. Maybe she was in the shower, or maybe she’d run an errand and didn’t want to bother with the lock. But given her collections and the stash of magic books, she wasn’t the kind to leave the door unlocked, much less open.

I put a hand on the door and pushed it open the rest of the way.

My breath left me.

The room was in shambles.

Drawers had been upended, the bed stripped, her collections tossed on the floor.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered. I stepped inside, carefully stepping around piles of clothes and books. Had this been waiting for her when she’d come back to the room?

Or had they been waiting?

“What happened in here?”

I glanced back and found Lesley in the doorway, her cheeks even paler than usual. She was actually in uniform today. “I don’t know,” I said. “I just got here.”

She stepped into the room, and beside me. “This has something to do with where she goes at night, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

My gaze fell upon the bed, the sheets and comforter in disarray. And peeking from one edge, was the black strap of Scout’s messenger bag.

I picked over detritus, then reached out an arm and pulled the bag from the tangle of blankets, the white skull on the front grinning evilly back at me.

My stomach fell. Scout wouldn’t have gone anywhere without that bag. She carried it everywhere, even on missions, the strap across her shoulder every time she left the room. That the room was a disaster area, her bag was still here, and she was gone, did not bode well.

“Oh, Scout,” I whispered, fear blossoming at the thought of my best friend in trouble.

The overhead light flickered.

I stood up again, decided now was as good a time as any to learn control, and closed my eyes. I breathed in through my nose, out through my mouth, and after a few moments of that, felt my chest loosen, as though the fear—the magic—was loosing its grip.

“Ms. Parker. Ms. Barnaby.”

Jumping at the sound of my name, I opened my eyes and looked behind me. Foley stood in the doorway, one hand on the door, her wide-eyed gaze on Scout’s room. She wore a suit of bone-colored fabric and a string of oversized pearls around her neck.

“What happened here?”

“I found it like this,” I told her, working to keep some of my newfound animosity toward Foley—who knew more about my parents than I did—at bay.

“She left at the end of lunch—said she had to come back to the room for something.” I skipped the part about why she’d come back, but added, in case it was important, “She was worried, but I’m not sure what about. The door was open when I got here a few minutes ago.” I looked back at the tattered remains of Scout’s collection. “It looked like this.”

“And where is Ms. Green now?” Foley finally glanced at me.

I shook my head. “I haven’t seen her since lunch.”

Foley frowned and surveyed the room, arms crossed, fingers of her left hand tapping her right bicep. “Call the security office. Do a room-to-room search,” she said. I thought she was talking to me, at least until she glanced behind us. A youngish man—maybe twenty-five, twenty-six—stood in the doorway. He was tall, thin, sharp- nosed, and wore a crisp button-down shirt and blue bow tie. I guessed he was an executive assistant type.

“If you don’t find her,” Foley continued, “contact me immediately. And Christopher, we need to be sensitive to her parents’ being, shall we say, particular about the involvement of outsiders. I believe they’re in Monaco at present. That means we contact them before we contact the police department, should it come to that. Understood?”

He nodded, then walked back toward the hallway door. Foley returned her gaze to the remains of Scout’s room, then fixed her stare on Lesley. “Ms. Barnaby, could you excuse us, please?”

Lesley looked at me, eyebrows raised as if making sure I’d be okay alone with Foley. When I nodded, she said, “Sure,” then left the room. A second later, her bedroom door opened and closed.

When we were alone, Foley crossed her arms over her chest and gazed at me. “Has Ms. Green been involved in anything unusual of late?”

I wanted to ask her if secret meetings of magically enhanced teenagers constituted “unusual,” but given the circumstances, I held back on the sarcasm.

“Not that I’m aware of,” I finally said, which was mostly the truth. I think what Foley would consider “unusual” was probably pretty average for Scout.

Then Foley blew that notion out of the water.

“I’m aware,” she said, “of Ms. Green’s aptitude as, let’s say, a Junior Varsity athlete.”

I stared at her in complete silence . . . and utter shock.

“You know?” I finally squeaked out.

“I am the headmistress of this school, Ms. Parker. I am aware of most everything that occurs within my jurisdiction.”

The ire I’d been suppressing bubbled back to the surface. “So you know what goes on, and you let it happen? You let Scout run around in the middle of the night, put herself in danger, and you ignore it?”

Foleys’s gaze was flat and emotionless. She walked back to Scout’s door, closed it, then turned to me again, hands clasped in front of her—all business. “You presume that I let these things happen without an understanding of their severity, or of the risk that Ms. Green faces?” She’d spoken it like a question, but I assumed it was rhetorical.