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in no time. I drank a Coke and tried to read a three-month-old copy of Cosmo that was lying on the coffee table. Brandon was right; the taglines were much more intriguing than yet another recycled article explaining that women have G-spots. I didn‘t make it past the third perfume ad (none of which, I was chuffed to see, hawked anything called ―Ambition‖).

    I got up and went to the window, but there was no sign of Lydia or of a bunch of robed figures.
    Half an hour later, I decided to calm my nerves by taking a nice stroll—down to High Street.

    Now, aside from being home to the English department and the Art History lecture hall, High Street is also known for hosting the Rose & Grave tomb. (These ―tombs‖ dotted the campus, their huge, mausoleum-like facades hiding interiors that were supposedly more like mansions.
    Remember, the Egyptian pyramids were tombs as well. But no one knew if the society tombs held actual…bodies.) According to rumor, there‘s an intricate code for members that can tell them exactly what is going on inside the tomb based on the position of the low, wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance. I didn‘t know what the code was, but I assumed that I‘d find out.
    Sometime.

    I walked past the entrance to two residential colleges, and then, as was common amongst all students, crossed to the other side of the street so I wouldn‘t be seen walking in front of the Rose
    & Grave tomb. It was an unwritten rule on campus—the college equivalent of refusing to walk in front of a haunted house in our childhood neighborhoods.

    The tomb was made of sandstone blocks and seemed somehow darker than the surrounding stone and slate buildings. A fence surrounded an unkempt yard spotted with patches of grass and a few late, struggling daffodils. Strange that the Diggers didn‘t keep up the landscaping, though it added to the imposing nature of the property. The sodium streetlight nearest the tomb was perpetually out of order, meaning that the tomb itself stood in a pool of deep shade and long, sinister shadows. If I didn‘t know better, I‘d think they did it on purpose.

    Maybe I didn‘t know better. I sat down on the curb and rested my chin in my hands, regarding the building warily. The gate was half open. What did that mean? Someone was inside?
    Someone wasn‘t? Someone was lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on me the second I came near? I looked both ways down the street, but it was deserted.

    The niggling fear in the back of my mind rose up to taunt me. It wasn"t Rose & Grave who carried you into the bathroom. It was a prank, and you fell for it, hook, line, and hooded robe.
    Stupid Amy Haskel, you"ll be the laughingstock of Eli tomorrow.

    Why hadn‘t they taken me away with them? They‘d tapped me, right? I was a member now, right? So if I wanted to go up to that gate, if I wanted to walk right through and pound on the door and demand to know what the hell they were doing—then I was entitled to. Right?

    And if you"re not a member, they"ll cart you away to the dungeon.

    I stood up, clenched my fists at my sides, and marched across the street, utterly determined for all of ten steps. As soon as I got to the gate, my resolve wavered and I stopped to check again.
    Still no one coming.

    I held my breath and put my hand on the gate. Nothing. No one came to arrest me, or yell at me, or threaten to eradicate my existence from the planet for daring to infiltrate the society grounds without permission. I took a step inside. Then two. Somewhere around six steps, the gate clanged shut behind me. I yelped, jumped about two feet in the air, and rushed back to the fence.

    The gate wouldn‘t open. I fumbled with the catches, but if there was a release mechanism, my fingers weren‘t finding it, and I couldn‘t see a thing in the dark. Oh, crap. I‘d been a member for all of fifty minutes and I‘d already broken the fence and messed with the secret code.

    And trespassed. Don"t forget how