Nick, Patch, and Genie stepped out of the museum. It was nearing closing time, and tourists were gathered on the sidewalk in front of the Met. The strange, sweet smell of pretzels, kabobs, and roasted chestnuts was in the air.
“You both go ahead,” Nick said. “I want to stay here for a minute.” He sat down on the steps as he watched Patch lead Genie across the street to the building where they all lived.
Nick wondered if he could go back home or if he would have to live at Patch’s for now. He had almost forgotten, but he was scheduled to leave town in a few days. Months ago, before any of this had happened, Nick’s mother had booked him on a college tour, twelve schools in seven days. He should have been excited for this fresh start, but at this moment he wanted to start putting back together the pieces of his life before he embarked on something new. More than anything, Nick longed to buy a ticket to the West Coast, to go and seek out Phoebe. After thinking about everything they had been through, he understood now how much pain she had been in, and how she had spoken honestly, even in the kitchen in Southampton, even when she had said those hurtful things. She had been right: he had put his family ahead of everyone else, ahead of her, and he never wanted to do that again. As much as he wanted to run after her, he understood that he needed to give her the time she deserved to figure things out. He trusted that Lauren would call her, and eventually, she would come back home.
He glanced across the street at his apartment building. The landmarked building had always been an emblem of all that he thought the Bell family represented: strength, tradition, security. Ever since he had learned about the Society, however, and all that it stood for, it had seemed false. Would anything ever seem real again, or would it all seem as flimsy as those Society rituals, cheap theatrical tricks designed to scare people?
His grandfather’s legacy, too, felt false. Palmer had built up a dubious empire, respected by so many, and yet, what was it? Was it anything more than lying, conspiracy, thievery?
Nick walked across the street, carefully taking the crosswalk. As he approached the building, his brother Benjamin stepped out of a black town car. Nick hadn’t realized that he was in town.
“Ben!” he called. “I thought you were in Florida.” He was supposed to be on spring break with some of his college friends.
“I had some business I needed to attend to,” Ben said. This was unlike his brother. His main business in life seemed to be partying with his friends.
“Did you hear about what happened?” Nick figured he could talk about it to his brother. What could they possibly do to him?
“I did, Nick.” He seemed downcast, but not in the odd, selfishly disappointed way that the mentors had. This look was different, a genuine sadness.
“What’s wrong?”
Ben looked at him. “There’s something Palmer always used to say, and now Dad says it as well. It’s a Latin phrase: Alea jacta est. ‘The die is cast.’”
“What do you mean by that?”
Ben glanced anxiously at the building’s doors, as if to make sure that no one could overhear.
“Nick, you may think you’re out of the Society, but you never really will be.”
His brother opened the back door of the town car and got in, shutting it behind him. Nick stood on the sidewalk, speechless, as the car pulled away from the building and merged into the river of traffic going down Fifth Avenue.