Page 128 of The Black Table
And suddenly an idea grabs me.
“I know where.”
I feel in my coat pocket. The key is in there, for emergencies only. Who’s to say if this qualifies? But…
“Come this way.”
I gesture and she follows, down the path that crosses Grove Quad, past the Classics building, to the quieter side of campus, where Luther Pendragon, president of the Caliburn University board of trustees, has his office. Gwenna’s a silent presence behind me as I swing open the front door, walk down the hallway and to the right and fit the tiny key into the lock. The door gives and I push it open.
“In here,” I say.
The frown returns to her face.
“Where are we?”
I don’t see the point in lying to her.
“My father’s office. We won’t be disturbed.”
She steps in, and I follow, and the door shuts with a heavy click. We’re both inside, before I’ve really thought it through.
“Wow.”
She looks up and around, taking in the massive space, the windows gleaming with moonlight, the desk and its platform, the books, the sitting area.
“I know. Hardly showy at all.” I move to the light switch, and then think better of it—with the lights on in here, it’ll be bright as a supermarket, a dead giveaway from outside that someone’s in here when they shouldn’t be.
Instead, I gesture for her coat, which she slides off and hands over. I hang it on the rack, followed by mine, as she steps closer to a display case behind the armchairs and near the bar.
A trophy case.
She leans in a little closer, alights her fingertips on the top of one of the golden figures poised in a lunge, weapon out, on top of the cup.
“Yours or his?” she asks and darts a look back at me. I don’t answer because, to be honest…
“I’m not sure,” I say. She gives a light snort, turns back to the case. A photo of me, age 11 or so, mask under my arm, blade held up in a salute.
“Would you look at that,” she says, tipping her head to the side.
“What?” I ask, genuinely curious. I step to her side, fold my arms, and follow her gaze.
“You don’t see it?” she says. “You look serious even then.”
I remember that photo. The junior tournament in La Crosse, Wisconsin. Punishingly long days. Throbbing feet. Aching muscles. Aching everything.
“I won,” I say.
“I’m sure you did.”
There’s a frisson of something between us. Unspoken. Intense. Too much. I’ve forgotten why we were here. And I need to remember. Having this much energy inside me is doing things to my thinking.
“I have the facsimiles,” I say. Turn away from her and pick up my bag to put it on the coffee table. “I haven’t looked at them yet, but?—”
“So you’ve really always been all business,” Gwenna says, turning very slowly as she walks to the chair opposite me.
She doesn’t sit in it, instead glides down to the floor, sits cross-legged with her back at the foot of the chair so she can reach for the papers as I produce them.
“Focused,” I say, tidying the stack of papers against the edge of the table. “Yes.”
