Page 49 of An Academy for Liars

“Don’t look at it,” said Dante, his gaze locked on the doors of the elevator.

Lennon stared at him, stunned. “You can see it too?”

“No,” said Dante. “But I know you have one. Everyone does.”

“Where’s yours?”

“It’s here,” said Dante, eyes fixed on the doors. “Invisible to your eye but present nonetheless.”

“What are they?”

“John Drayton believed they were the shadows of our better selves. Freud might’ve called them images of the id.”

“And what do you call them?”

“A glimpse of what we’ll become if we lose sight of ourselves,” said Dante.

“If everyone has one, why are we the only ones that can see them?”

“The short answer is that we’re not everyone,” said Dante. “The long answer is that those of us with the ability to persuade are more closely aligned with the ego and, by extension, the id. Some theoretical persuasionists even believe it’s the source of our power. According to them, an unnaturally strong id lends us the ability to manipulate on the level that we do. That’s also why particularly talented persuasionists see their ids more prominently, why they…struggle.”

Lennon thought of the other Dante, whom she’d encountered her first night at the school. Had that been his id? A projection of his darkest self?

The doors of the elevator slit open with a hiss and wheeze, as if the cabin had rapidly depressurized. Lennon, reeling, stepped out into the warmth and light of a full day, and onto the cobbled streets of Amsterdam. There were bike bells trilling and the chatter of birds flocking in the trees that lined the canals. The air smelled of grease and pollen and, faintly, cigarette smoke, and the sun was so bright that for a moment after stepping off the elevator, she couldn’t see.

“I still don’t understand how this is possible,” said Lennon, and her own words sounded like someone speaking from far, far away. Asher eyes adjusted to the sunlight, the scene before her—the glittering waters of the canal, the tall townhomes with gleaming windows, a smear of blue sky—appeared strange and bulbous, as if she was seeing everything through fishbowl lenses. She began to feel like she was going to throw up, or possibly lose her mind. She staggered.

“Hey. Stay with me,” said Dante. “Ground yourself.”

Lennon tried to comply, but her breath came fast and shallow. She felt like she was going to pass out. Dante caught her by the elbow, and her heart thrilled a little at his touch. A kind of force—like sharp heat—emanated from his fingertips. It made her feel even dizzier, but she still didn’t want him to let go.

Lennon closed her eyes, drew a breath, and when she opened them again, all was as it should be. They were on peaceful cobbled street. A boat moved by along the canals.

Dante dropped his hand.

Amsterdam was one of the most beautiful cities that Lennon had ever seen. Every street they strolled down looked like something from the high-gloss pages of a luxe travel magazine. They passed the brick row houses, walked along canals flocked with ducks. Dante stopped by a small shop and bought them herring sandwiches (which tasted a lot better than they looked), small cups of espresso, and stroopwafels, larger than Lennon’s face, still warm from the waffle iron.

Jet-lagged, but hungry, Lennon tucked into her food, eating and observing as they wandered the streets of Amsterdam. She noticed that Dante had intentionally slowed his pace. Later, she would come to suspect that he took the longer, more scenic route to their hotel, to allow her a better view of the city. She even stopped by a small stand where she procured a miniature canal house as a souvenir for Blaine (Dante put it on his card).

It was easy to believe, walking with him through the streets ofAmsterdam, that this was something it wasn’t. In fact, Lennon indulged in that very something, allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be with him. How it would feel to slot her fingers into the spaces between his, or to trace the outlines of the moth tattoos on the backs of his hands. She knew, of course, that it wasn’t real, but in the moment, it almost felt like it.

They spent some hours exploring the city before finally checking into a small inn by a narrow stretch of the canal. The suite was on the third floor. It had two bedrooms and a small living room, with a balcony that overlooked the canal. It was the sort of hotel with chocolates on the pillows, the towels folded into the shapes of swans.

Upon entering, Dante stepped out onto the balcony to take a call, while Lennon washed up in the bathroom. It was strange, but despite the fact that the time she’d spent in the elevator had been relatively brief she felt no less tired than she would have after the seven-hour flight it would’ve taken for them to travel there otherwise.

When she emerged from the bathroom—hair wet, in a cloud of steam, but fully dressed—it was to Dante sitting on the couch in front of the TV, his phone in his hand, forearms braced on his kneecaps, head hung heavy. He looked up at her and she thought she saw something—a flicker of surprise, held in his eyes like the reflection of a flame—before it died into his usual stoicism.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Fine, just family stuff.” He pressed to his feet, slipped his phone into his back pocket. “I’m going out for a few hours.”

“A few hours? What am I supposed to do, sit here and watch TV?”

“There’s a pool downstairs, and if you want you can take a walk. Just be careful—”

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit, and we already took a walk. I want to go with you.”

“Lennon—”

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