He’d finally figured out what it was and why it had struck a chord with him—the cursed ruby. It was something constantly whispered about in the ancient manors on the Westborough estate. Although they didn’t like to speak of this shameful event, the Emerson family had once, back in the 1800s, stolen a ruby from one of the ancient temples in Mysuru, in the Indian state of Karnataka. The thievery had been orchestrated by Grey’s own great-great-grandmother, who’d had her footmen undertake the task. This was back when the British still ruled India, and although some members of the extended Emerson family tried to pooh-pooh it as some kind of centuries-old Indian vendetta, Grey believed it completely—the British were infamous for stealing all manner of precious artifacts from their colonies.

Because of the provenance of the ruby and how sacred it was, a member of the ruling Mysuru family—one of the matriarchs of the Rao family, in fact—had cursed it. There was even an actual poem, a prophecy the Rao matriarch had uttered. His father was so obsessed with it, Grey knew it by heart:

A hallowed dream stolen,

A world darkly despairs

A storm, a life, a sudden death

Heralds the end, the last heir.

As the glass rose dims,

So the hope of redemption

Eighteen years, one by one,

Until what’s left is none.

Mend that which is broken

Repair that which is severed

Or the Northcliffe name is forsaken

And shall vanish, at last, forever.

His mother had died in childbirth because a storm—apparently the worst the town had seen in a hundred years—had prevented the doctor from getting to her in time. Grey’s father was out of town on a business trip. He’d never forgiven himself, or Grey.

Grey remembered when he’d first learned what the curse really meant for him. Father had flown to St. R’s for a mandatory parent weekend the school did for kids under the age of thirteen. Grey was twelve; it would be their last mandated time together. By this time, six years after being dropped off as a kindergartner, Grey and his father had drifted apart—already, he felt more like a distant relative one equated with the holidays than the person who’d helped give Grey life.

He and Father had gone to a hot-air balloon event the school was hosting. Grey remembered wanting to float above the treetops, to feel the wind whipping his face and hair, the exquisite thrill of the experience being that high in a colorful balloon that felt like it should exist only in a dream. He couldn’t wait for his turn.