Page 22 of The Black Table
He brightens and nods. “Even better. There’s this seminar—Latin, with Dr. Emrys—where you get to read directly from the archives. In facsimile, obviously, and it’s competitive to get in, but?—”
“Dr. Emrys?” I shuffle around my bag, pull out my schedule.
LATIN 302 — EMRYS
Ponytail Brett’s eyes go wide. “Whoa, really?” He casts a bashful look at me. “You must be, like…a genius.”
“Oh, I…don’t know.” I stir my beurre blanc self-consciously, gaze drifting to Morgan, who’s furiously flipping pages through her book. I wouldn’t have her as the study-at-dinner type—or study much atalltype—but then again, you don’t get to Caliburn without at least alittleacademic inclination.
“Rumor has it there’s an original copy of Magna Carta in the archives,” Ponytail Brett goes on.
I snort. Not likely. Ponytail Brett shrinks a little.
“Okay, yeah, maybe not,” he admits.
Because there are only four of those on Earth, I think. Then I chastise myself. Do Ineedto be such a bitch? Ponytail Brett is the only person on this campus who’s been anything more than chilly to me. And he at least knew enough not to call ittheMagna Carta.
“Could be a reissue,” I venture. “Later thirteenth century, or early fourteenth.”
“Yeah!” He sighs, leaning into his hand. “I’d kill to see that up close.”
Me too, I think, and I’m about to say as much when there’s aclunkof someone setting down a tray beside me. I look up, and see…
Elena.
“Oh,” she says, pursing her lips. “Um.” She glances over her shoulder, to Claire, who’s waiting an arm’s length away, and bugs her eyes at Elena in response.
I hold still, expecting some apology or flimsy excuse for why she doesn’t want to sit next to me, but none comes. She just lifts her tray and leaves, turning her back like she never even saw me. So abrupt it’s genuinely a little shocking, and freezes me in place to watch them depart. And as I stare, I inadvertently lock eyes with someoneelsewho seems to be staring at them.
Morgan.
She sees me, blinks, gives thebarestflicker of her lips that is either a smile or a nervous tic, and slams her book shut.
God, I’m really crushing it, socially.
I set down my fork, what’s left of my appetite evaporated, and mumble some farewell to Brett as I take my bag and get up, walking slowly enough so that I’m not dogging Morgan’s steps on the way out.
She exits to the right, following the path that goes to Broceliande and her—our—room, so I instinctively head left.
That puts me on the path to the Divinity School, and that means coffee. And with coffee, I can stay up until, presumably, Morgan either goes to sleep or goes…to do whatever she does on Friday nights.
Impulsively, I pull out my phone to check for communication: nothing. No texts, no missed calls. I should be relieved, but all I can feel is suspicion. Like my mom is waiting for me to make the first move, secretly testing whether I’ll reach out like a normal, happy little college girl or if she’ll have to force me into contact.
Just the thought of it makes me so pissed that I decide to text her out of spite.
Great first day of classes! Going to hang with some new friends tonight. Miss you.
I pause, consider.
Then delete the last two words, and hit send.
After the chapeland the library, Holy Grounds might just be my favorite place on campus.
It’s dark and crowded and cluttered and full of life, even on a Friday evening—a perfect place to hide in plain sight. The armchairs are mismatched and overstuffed, the coffee machines are ancient, dented things, and the decor is a combination of art museum posters, zine-line linocuts, and prayer cards from various shrines around the world.
“People bring them back from vacation,” says the barista, a guy who’s so thoroughly bald he doesn’t even have eyebrows, catching my stare. “If you ever visit a saint, bring one back. Good karma.”
I blink. “Um, sure.”
