I scooched closer to the bar top as Wes filled a plate with stir fry and slid it across the counter. “I kind of already knew that.”
“Of course you did,” said Wes, making a plate for himself. “High-end universities like Waverly are notorious for that kind of shit. It’s just business, really. You said you had news as well?”
“Oh, right. I’m going to break in to Catherine Flynn’s office. Want to help?”
“Nicole!” Wes dropped his fork in shock.
“I’m kidding,” I said. Unable to leave my mysteries alone for long, I picked up my meal and carried it over to the coffee table near the couch, both of which were still laden with some of O’Connor’s research, despite Wes’s protests. The wooden puzzle box from O’Connor’s safe had become our new centerpiece. I dragged it toward me, fiddling with the spinning pieces on the front as I shoveled noodles into my mouth with the fork in my other hand. “You don’t have to help.”
“What a relief,” Wes quipped. “Is there any point in trying to persuade you not to go through with this?”
“Probably not.”
“Hm. And why, may I ask, do you feel the need to break in to your thesis advisor’s office?”
I shook the puzzle box, listening for any clue as to what it might contain. “I think she’s involved in all this crap.”
“Just because she’s a hard-ass doesn’t mean she’s plotting some kind of Waverly takeover. Also, for future reference, you probably shouldn’t inform your cop boyfriend about your plans to break and enter.”
“With any luck, there won’t be a whole lot of breaking,” I said through a mouthful of noodles and beef. “That building is ancient. Besides, I’ve met the security guard in there. His name is Stan, and he looks like he’s about eighty years old. It shouldn’t be much of a problem to sneak by him.”
“Stop,” said Wes as he sat cross-legged on the floor across from me and dug into his meal. “I’d rather stay ignorant of your harebrained schemes. At least that way, I can claim I didn’t know anything about it when they haul you off to prison.”
“Weston!”
“What?” he asked innocently. “I’ll wait for you until you get out. What’s the average punishment for espionage again?”
“Death,” I answered dryly.
“Oh, right. That throws a wrench in our romantic reunion then.”
I flicked a peapod across the table at him. It landed on a pink Post-It note, and as Wes picked up the peapod and ate it, I reached across the table and pulled the note, now stained with soy sauce, toward me. It was the one I’d written Jo Mitchell’s information on. I pondered the three words—nec plus ultra—again. It was Latin—that much was obvious—but I hadn’t had the chance to run the phrase through a translation application yet. I glanced at the puzzle box again. Twelve spaces to access whatever was inside the box, and a twelve-letter phrase jotted down on a pink Post-It.
“No way,” I whispered, picking up the box.
“What?” Wes asked.
“You’ll see in a minute, if I’m right.”
I maneuvered the first spinning dial to the letter “n” then worked my way slowly through the remainder of the twelve spaces. When the puzzle reflected the phrase on the Post-It, I held my breath and pressed my thumbs to the lid of the box.
It popped open.
“Holy shit,” said Wes. His fork clattered to his plate as he leaned over the coffee table for a better look. “What is it?”
The inside of the box was just as elegant as the outside. It was lined with lush, purple velvet, and nestled upon a small pillow of the same material was a petite ring. The band of the ring was polished silver, but the stone it sported was as black as night and cut in a peculiar octagonal fashion that would never be appropriate for a diamond. The same emblem that had watermarked Pluto’s and the Morrigan’s handwritten letters, the raptor with outstretched wings, was stamped on the varnished wood on the inside of the lid, and beside it, a short poem. I read it out loud to Wes:
“Not life, nor death betwixt the breadth
Not lost, nor found beyond the bounds
Not a crypt, nor a tomb is our latet room
Amidst the pillars we call:
Nothing further beyond! Nec plus ultra!”
“What the hell is that?” asked Wes.
“It’s a riddle,” I answered Wes. I took the ring out of the box, holding it up to eye level to examine it. It was quite small, I noticed. I experimentally slipped it onto the ring finger of my left hand, but it wouldn’t pass over my second knuckle. I handed the box over to Wes so that he could have a better look.
“What does ‘latet’ mean?” he asked.
“Hidden.” I knew enough Latin root words to recognize that one, and now that I had the English equivalent of nec plus ultra right in front of me, its translation seemed so simple. “Nothing further beyond.”
“So what, like a secret room?”
I nodded, taking the box back from Wes to read through the riddle again. “You better turn a blind eye tonight, Officer McAllen.”
He cocked his head, confused. “Why?”
“Because now I’m definitely breaking in to Flynn’s office.”
Later that night, after Wes had gone to bed, I bundled myself up in a black snow jacket and left the apartment. That afternoon’s flurry had picked up. A thin layer of snow already blanketed the ground. My feet crunched through it as I ducked my head against the incoming flakes and pulled my hood tighter around my face. Without the sun’s warmth, the trek across campus felt ten times longer, and when the buildings that bordered the quadrangle finally swam into view, a sigh of relief left
