Page 113 of The Black Table
“We—” she throws a glance at me, her cheeks pink.
I nod, picking up the mantle. “We completed your assignment,” I say. “The one you said you wanted done by Monday?”
I feel my muscles want to tense in frustration, but resist. My arm’s out of the sling now, thanks to the concoction Morgan pulled together yesterday, but it’s still stiff, and I’m not going to risk anything.
“The…” Dr. Emrys says, but when I produce the sheaf of papers, his eyes light up.
“Ah, yes, my little game.”
“It’s an ambigram,” Gwenna says, the flush still in her face. “It took us a while to figure it out, because the writing was so cramped, but once we did?—”
There’s something about the way she talks when she’s excited about something, I’ve noticed. It’s…infectious, energized, like she stops forgetting to hold back and just unloads everything that’s in her mind.
Magnetic. Attractive.
No. Focus.
A sly smile crosses Dr. Emrys’s face. “I thought you’d like that,” he says. “Very cheeky, the way they turn that little bit of the hermetic text into a literal bit of text painting, eh?”
“Hermetic text,” Gwenna repeats.
“Yes.” He folds his hands on the desk. “The Emerald Tablet, a masterwork of pseudo-religious writing from the 14th century. Something of a foundational text for modern magical practices of all sorts.”
He murmurs a laugh, and I feel heat crawl up the back of my neck.Careful, old man. Don’t reveal any more to her than she needs to know.
As far as Gwenna knows—as far as anyone knows—he’s just an eccentric old professor.
He looks around the room, as if casting for something new to offer us. “Well, now that you’ve polished that one off, let me see?—”
“May I speak with you privately, Dr. Emrys?” I say shortly.
He looks up. “Mr. Pendragon,” he says. “What’s the matter?”
“I’d like to speak privately,” I repeat, looking at Gwenna. “Would you excuse us?” I ask her.
“I…” She blinks, nods. “Of course.”
All the light that had brightened her face when she was talkingabout the puzzle blinks out in a second. Now she…she’s curling her shoulders, biting her lip, pushing her way to the door, through desks and chairs.
I wait until I hear the click of the latch before speaking to Emrys again.
“Games?” I say. “Puzzles? We’re wasting time. I don’t understand what we’re doing here.”
“I’d say that much is obvious,” he says dryly.
God. His refusal to be serious, even now, infuriates me. Before I can even form a retort, Dr. Emrys looks at me with curious, peering eyes. “You’ve known me for how long, Mr. Pendragon?”
I resist the urge to tense again, thinking of my injury.
“Since I was eleven,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “And it stands to reason I’ve known you just as long, eh? So trust me when I say this. You are far too serious a man, Mr. Pendragon.” He tips his chin down at me. “You were serious as a boy, and you’ve only…hardened since then. In many good ways, to be fair. In discipline and strength and skill.”
In everything I’m supposed to be better at, I think.
“But you’ve lost that sense of play.”
“The sense of…” I trail off, incredulous. “Is this just a game to you?” I demand. “The research, the books, the quest. Do you know how much my father has?—?”
