Page 133 of The Black Table
I blink, clutch the strap of my bag. Images of jewel heists, Indiana Jones, tarp-covered shipping crates float into my mind.
“Destroyed.” That’s Luther Pendragon’s voice. “In a fire.”
Oh. Oh no. No.
“But…” I start.
“That’s the B level,” the dean goes on, “where I’ve been given to understand you spent a lot of time.”
Oh no. No.No.
“Yes,” I say, “but?—”
“And this is yours?” The librarian bows her head and produces something, which she hands to the dean.
My scarf. Or most of it. It’s half as long, now, one end fringed in ashy burn marks.
“No!” I say out loud, “I mean—yes, that is mine, but I didn’t?—”
“Things went dark at around 6 p.m.,” the dean goes on. “From then on?—”
My chin is stuttering, big fat tears are flowing down my face, because I know where this is going. Know what they’re saying to me.
And yet I can’t bear to hear it.
“I didn’t do it!” I say. “It wasn’t me. It?—”
“She couldn’t have done it,” someone else bursts out.
My heart leaps. It’s Lanz, gesturing wildly. “She wouldn’t do that. She’s?—”
“So you have an alibi for her, then?” Luther Pendragon snaps.
“I—” Lanz withdraws a little, doesn’t meet his eyes. “No, but?—”
“Had I known,” Luther says, “of this girl’s predilections, of the fact that she was to be placed in a class with myson”—he angles his eyes at Kingston—Kingston, who doesn’t move, who doesn’t speak, who maybe half an hour ago was kissing me incessantly on the floor of his father’s office—“I never would have allowed her on this campus.”
“No,” I say. “Please.”
Something warm and firm wraps my shoulders. I look up. It’s Callahan. He says nothing, barely even looks at me, but squeezes hard.
I don’t know where to look. My eyes flail around the room, land on Kai, who’s sitting in an armchair, jittering a leg and chewing on the edge of his thumb, saying nothing, eyes flicking to me and then away again.
“That was,” the dean says, “a priceless collection ofmanuscripts and books, one which Luther Pendragon had personally financed, worked for years to acquire.”
“Gone,” breathes the librarian.
The pain in her voice is so real, so recognizable, that my stomach gives a guilty heave and IknowI didn’t do anything wrong. “Impossible to be replaced. And?—”
“I didn’t do it!” The words burst out of me again, cut off by another sob.
My shoulders are shaking even too hard for Callahan’s grip.
Because I’m not an idiot. I’m Laura Vale’s daughter. I know what a preponderance of evidence is. Malice aforethought.Mens rea, actus reus, corpus delicti.All the Latin phrases.
“I want to believe you, Miss Vale,” the dean says, and his voice sounds like almost, almost he really does. “I do, but I’m afraid it doesn’t…look very good for you right now.”
“I wasn’t there.” I try one more time. “I was?—”
