We’d decided, en masse, that a formal confrontation, which was the standard club M.O., would be too much for our shy brother to handle, so the best thing to do would be to go to her one by one and express our concern that perhaps her boyfriend failed to treat her with the proper respect. A girlfriend intervention. But she proved a slippery little sucker. It was nearly impossible to contact her outside the tomb, and we never caught her alone inside, or without the trappings of one of Josh’s top-priority electronic missions to track down the traitor.

We weren’t getting very far on that front. Once, when Lydia was out of the room, I asked Josh if he thought it had anything to do with the strange Phimalarlico e-mails all the Diggirls had received at the begining of the year. After all, the patriarchs had also received mysterious e-mails on the private account. And the weird poem had included the lines “Cut through the web in which you’re caught/Learn of the thief who can be bought.” Could that not be a reference to our current scandal? After all, we were dealing with stolen information sold to a website.

“Or maybe it was an even more pointed reference,” I went on. “Remember what Jenny said to Graverob—er, Nikolos the day we found out about secretsofthediggers.com? We still have no idea who sent those e-mails, or what they mean, but what if they were a clue? It’s the first time this has occurred to me. What if the ‘thief’ is a play on his name?”

Josh laughed, thankfully ignoring my slip of the tongue. “That’s a bit obscure, Amy. You’ve been reading too much Dan Brown. But I like your first idea. I’ll ask Jenny to do a little digging into the source of those e-mails.”

“You don’t think it could be Nikolos?”

“He might be the most inappropriately named member of our group,” Josh replied. “One guy who never needs to be a thief. And even if money isn’t the motivation, Nikolos is probably the last guy who’d be interested in further angering the patriarchs. He wants them back on our side, remember?”

I nodded. “So then, who doesn’t have a huge trust fund, and possesses a yen to piss off the patriarchs?”

He met my eyes. “You mean, aside from you?”

The only thing I could guarantee was it was neither George nor myself. We were far too busy to bother with anything so mundane as selling society secrets.

Let me lay it on the line for you: George Harrison Prescott is insatiable. We hooked up between classes, after Rose & Grave meetings, before dinner in the dining hall. We hooked up in his room, in my room, in an entryway bathroom shower stall, in the library stacks, and, on one incredibly ill-advised occasion, in the Prescott College Common Room. On the very same couch, I might add, where I had previously resisted his considerable charms.

It never got old. We’d be in the middle of some fascinating political debate at a society meeting, and all of a sudden I’d catch myself reminiscing about some particularly enjoyable interlude, flush scarlet, and look over to Puck, who was almost always watching me, and certainly knew exactly what kind of naughty thoughts were going through my head. As soon as we were released from the tomb, we’d sprint back to his place, and stay awake until the wee hours doing everything but debating. Or we’d be sitting there in the dining hall, having lunch with all our Prescott College friends, and I’d feel his hand on my thigh. His gorgeous copper eyes would glint at me, and next thing I knew, I was talking about some non-existent reading I had to do that afternoon and George would mention a load of laundry and off we’d go—this time to hook up on the counter near the griddle in the momentarily abandoned Prescott Buttery.

George never ran out of places where he wanted to have sex with me, nor out of ways in which to do it, and, to my credit, I didn’t spend much time thinking about who else he might have done there or how. I didn’t spend much time thinking at all. Brandon would have been so proud of me; he’d always insisted I overanalyzed every situation I was in, destroying it before it ever had a chance to blossom. But with George, I was living entirely in the moment. He was beautiful and fun and sexy as hell, and I really didn’t care what else he was up to as long as he kept making me feel the way I felt whenever we got together.

Besides, we were together so often that, oversexed as the boy is, I don’t think he had the time or the stamina for anyone else.

Halloween, always momentous on the Eli campus, came around again, and since it was our last, the seniors I knew went all out. Most of us Diggirls raided the tomb’s costume supply for our outfits. Lucky, of course, kept to her new policy of avoiding the rest of us and was nowhere to be found. Thorndike, who still hadn’t shaken off the latest in her series of colds, rallied in the getup of an Amazon queen, though the rest of us advised her that the skimpy costume was unlikely to protect her from the elements.

“The reason you keep getting sick,” Angel said, holding up a stunning Georgian ball gown, “is that you don’t take care of yourself. Explain again what you have against wool?”

“It’s a matter of sustainable agrarian models. Small farms are fine—” Thorndike paused to sneeze.

“The reason you keep getting sick,” Lil’ Demon interrupted, “is because you won’t take those supplements I gave you. With a vegan diet like yours—”

“I’m not taking anything that quack gave you, okay?” Thorndike snapped. “And to be honest, I don’t think you should, either. Just because it worked wonders on Jessica Simpson—”

“That may be a reason to avoid it on its own,” I added.

Thorndike continued. “I was reading up on the ingredients the other day, and I think—”

Lil’ Demon paused in her efforts to wriggle into a mermaid costume and pinched her thumb and forefinger together. “Zip it. Are you a medical professional? No. You’re not even studying the sciences. Last I checked, you were majoring in Ethnicity, Race, and Migration.”

“And what’s your major this week?” Thorndike asked. “You know you do have to declare it sometime before graduation, don’t you?”

“American Studies.” Lil’ Demon smiled sweetly. “And I think I may actually have a thesis topic. Even Errol Flynn over there will like this one.”

Juno looked up from the floor, where she was strapping on a pair of thigh-high, Three-Musketeer—style boots. A cutlass hung from her hip. She twirled her silent-screen mustache. “Oh, do tell!”

“I’m writing about the development and spread of collegiate organizations,” Lil’ Demon said. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading in our own history books, and it’s fascinating. Phi Beta Kappa gives rise to Rose & Grave, gives rise to other societies, gives rise to fraternities and sororities throughout the…” She trailed off as she took in our expressions. “What? I’m not going to tell any of the secret stuff!”

“Of course you aren’t,” Angel said, but she sounded far from convinced.

“Exactly how much research have you been doing?” I asked. My eye had landed on several pieces of faux Pilgrim wear, and I was busy constructing a wardrobe for Hester Prynne—if Hester Prynne had been a bit more of a sexpot. Long skirt, warm hooded cape, and a corset top emblazoned with the requisite “A.” “And what does our noble Secretary think of your efforts?”

A nervous giggle ran through the room.

“He’s getting more paranoid than you are,” Lil’ Demon replied to me. “It’s quite impressive, really. But I refuse to change my behavior because of all this nonsense. We start letting it affect how we run stuff in this tomb and the terrorists really have won.”

This time, the laugh was genuine.

“Seriously, though, you should see some of the stuff I’ve found. Maybe, if I have some time, I’ll do a report on the secret, historical stuff for the rest of the club.”

“That’s a great idea,” said Juno. “What kind of stuff are you talking about?”