After several heavy raps of the bronze lion door knocker, I glance down at my clothing one last time. What does one wear to stake out a secret society? I’d settled on comfort over fashion: jeans, a fading Star Wars T-shirt, low boots. My curls are in a cute bun, high and full on my head. Nothing that screams “spy.”

The door opens to reveal a pixielike girl with short dark hair in a flowy dress and leggings. Her large dark eyes rake over me, then dart around the steps and up the drive, like she’s looking for someone else. “Who are you?” she asks, not unkindly.

“I’m Bree Matthews. Nick told me to meet him here.”

9

SEVERAL EMOTIONS CARTWHEEL across the girl’s face: alarm, doubt, and curiously, hope. “Nick told you to meet him here? Tonight?”

“Yeah.” I add an uncertain frown and waver to my mouth. “Is that… is that okay? He said it would be—”

A squeak leaps from the pixie girl’s mouth. “Yes! Of course it’s okay. If Nick said it, ohmygosh… yes.” She squirms like a caught mouse, and I feel a little guilt mixed with triumph.

When she opens the door farther to let me in, I notice a blue silk ribbon bracelet wrapped around her wrist. Sewn into the center of the fabric is a small silver engraved coin. “It’s just that you’re a little early,” she exclaims. “No one’s really here yet. I can’t let you into the great room without your sponsor, but we have a salon for guests. You can wait there while I call Nick.”

Sponsor? “Sounds great,” I say, and follow her into the foyer.

I immediately recognize the smell and the Southern Living–meets–ski lodge decor, but that’s where the Lodge’s familiarity ends.

I’ve never seen anything so grand in my life.

The stone walls of the three-story foyer extend up into open rafters. On either side hang paintings in gold-leaf frames and heavy-looking tapestries in dour browns and blacks. There are actual, honest-to-God iron sconces lining the entryway before us, but instead of flames behind their glass coverings, there are vintage Edison bulbs. Twin staircases flank the porcelain-white marble floor and curve up to an open balcony connecting the two wings of the second floor.

Bentonville doesn’t have houses like this. Normal people don’t have houses like this. At least not in my world. My parents had renovated an old split-level from the seventies, and we’d moved there eight years ago. Most of the homes nearby are rural farmhouses passed down from grandfathers and great-grandfathers, or middle-class neighborhoods filled with older houses that look like mine.

As I gape, the girl looks over her shoulder with a dimpled smile. “I’m Sarah, by the way. But most people call me Sar.”

I smile back. “Nice to meet you.”