Page 72 of The Narrow

“Eden, good,” he says. He sits behind his desk, looking over something on his laptop. He shuts the lid as I enter and gestures behind me. “Close the door, will you?”

I obey robotically. My mouth is dry. We have no idea what Oster’s involvement in any of this is, but I couldn’t forget what Liz Elliott said: he tried to keep Maeve and Grace apart.

“Take a seat,” Oster says.

I sink into the chair in front of him. Each time I’ve sat here, it’s been right before my life changed. My nerves are electric.

Oster folds his hands. He looks grave, his white eyebrows drawing together. “Eden, I heard from your teachers today about your injury.”

Instinctively, I draw my splinted arm against my body. “I fell. During Vespers,” I say.

“Yes. I also heard some reports that you were drinking beforehand,” he says.

I wonder who’s telling tales. Not Ruth and Zoya, surely? At least I can be certain it isn’t Veronica. Not after what she saw. “Not drunk, just clumsy,” I assure him, but my voice is tense and unconvincing.

He leans back in his seat. “Your teachers also tell me that you are struggling with your work. You’re off to a rough start this year.”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” I say.

“And you’re already quite behind,” Oster says.

“Shouldn’t I be talking to my teachers about this?” I ask testily. “A few missed homework assignments isn’t exactly a dean-level crisis, is it?”

He taps a finger against the arm of his chair. “Normally, it wouldn’t be. But I have to confess, Eden, that I was concerned about the decision to send you to Abigail House. In some ways, it seemed ideal. Two birds, one stone, all of that—your tuition problem and Delphine’s need for a companion solved neatly. Now I’m not so sure. I am beginning to question the wisdom of removing you from the support of your friends.”

“I like Abigail House,” I say immediately, fighting the edge of panic. He can’t make me leave, can he? Without Abigail House, I’d have to leave the school altogether—he wouldn’t dothat.

“I know you and Delphine have become quite close,” he says, and something about the tone of the words makes me tense up.

“Who told you that?” I ask. And then I realize—the cameras. We forgot about the cameras.

When Del kissed me, it was in the living room, not the safety of her bedroom. Madelyn was anxious to be away; of course she was checking on her often. She could have mistaken Saturday night’s drama for a sleepwalking episode, since she couldn’t see the downstairs hall, but the kiss—the kiss she must have seen.

I bristle. “Del and my relationship is none of your business.”

“True,” Oster says. “But your well-being is.”

“And it’s bad for mywell-beingif Del and I are dating?” I ask.

“That’s not what I’m saying. I have no problem with the two of you seeing one another,” he says, raising a hand.

“Right. Like you didn’t have a problem with Maeve and Grace Carpenter?” I ask.

His face pales. “Where did you hear about Maeve Fairchild?” he asks.

I straighten up in my seat. “I know that she and Grace were in love. I know that you tried to keep them apart.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oster says. He sounds angry. He straightens up, and I find myself shrinking away from him.

“Then you didn’t break them up? You didn’t help Grace’s family forbid her from seeing Maeve?” I demand.

“I have no idea where you heard about Maeve, but she was a troubled girl. I was trying to protect Grace. As I’m trying to protect you now.”

“Protect Grace from being in love with a woman,” I say, voice dripping with scorn.

Oster’s jaw tightens. “I am not going to discuss this any further with you, Eden. And it has no bearing on the situation at hand. I am not kicking you out of Abigail House, and I am not saying anything about your relationship with Delphine. But Iamrequiring that you speak to a counselor. You have an appointment with Ms.Maynard tomorrow afternoon. Be there, or we will need to revisit this conversation. We are done here. You can go.”

His tone invites no disagreement. I stand, fuming, and stalk out the door. His secretary wordlessly hands me a Post-it with my appointment details on it, and I flee. In the sunlight outside, I scrub away the sheen of tears that’s formed over my eyes.

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