Page 15 of The Black Table
The professor must notice, too, because she wheels on him. “Something to add? You’d like to contribute to the commentary on theme of the poem, then?”
He sits up straighter. Big blue eyes at attention. Clears histhroat.
“Non, mais…” He begins, averting his gaze to the floor.
Then back up.
And my God, but those eyes are hard to look away from.
“Mais ici…l’amour, la mort. Ce ne sont pas la meme chose?”
But here…love, death. Aren’t those the same thing?
Silence.
Even I have to admit, it’s sort of a good point. No, a legitimately good one. But accidental, surely—a broken clock that’s right twice a day.
“Touché,” the professor says, after a moment. “But we shall conclude there for the day. A draft of yourexplicationsdue to me at Monday’s class.Bon week-end à tous.”
The room hums back to life, people packing up and shouldering bags, and I scoop my things together as swiftly as humanly possible—but not swiftly enough, because as I do, the professor draws to our corner of the table.
“You might do well with a tutor, Mademoiselle Shalott.” She purses her lips, looks from Elena to me. “Or at least start by reading the text, hm?”
I can feel, literally feel, the waves of hot wrath emanating from her to my left. I don’t dare look up until the latest possible moment, until I’m certain Lanz is almost gone from the room.
But not quite. Because I glimpse him as he slips through the classroom door, him and the long, black carrying case slung over his back. Like you’d use for…a lacrosse stick, maybe? Except it’s the wrong season. A rifle? God, I hope not.
Elena, my erstwhile group partner, sees my staring and huffs. I muster every ounce of strength I can to tamp down my bitchy impulses and go for a joke.
“I hope that’s not a gun in there,” I joke.
Elena laughs, in genuine disbelief—at me, not with me. “Sorry, what?”
“In that…” I trail off. Never mind. Never fucking mind, whatever I’ve said is so stupid I want to self-immolate.
“It’s a sword,” she says, like I’m four years old. “For fencing?” She exchanges a look with Claire, her blonde friend who’s sidled up to her and whose expression in response reads something liketold you the new girl was weird.
My stomach sinks.
“Lanz is on the fencing team,” Claire supplies. “Didn’t you know?”
What is this, Caliburn University Quizzo? I clench my fists under the table. “No. Why would I know that?”
Elena snorts again. “Because ofthat.”
She looks down at the table, and when I follow her gaze, I see it there, nestled among my notes and textbook:
The handkerchief. Rumpled, but unmistakably marked with its tiny sword.
“I…”
I have no good explanation for why I have that on me. Even formyself,I don’t have a good explanation.
But it doesn’t matter. Elena’s seen it and drawn her own conclusions—and whatever those conclusions are, they are not making me look good.
She and Claire hustle off, whispering together about Friday night plans they clearly don’t want me to overhear. But I do catch one thing:
Camlann House.
