Page 7 of The Black Table
She taps her chin. “There’s been some confusion over rooming here at Shiz,” she murmurs.
“What?” Oh God, is she a musical theater person? I don’t think I’ll survive that. “Were you assigned a single?”
“No.” She shrugs. “I saw there was a name, but you didn’t show up for three weeks, so…” She gestures airily at what I now know to be my bed, covered in her things. “I just took over. I thought I had lucked out and maybe you, I don’t know, transferred or joined a cult or something. Ha.”
I clutch the handle of my suitcase a little, and as if she notices, Morgan peers around me like she’s expecting there to be more stuff.
“I’m sorry. I’m so rude. Morgan. Le Fay.” She extends a hand with extraordinarily long fingernails painted a deep, almost blood-colored purple. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Gwenna,” I say.
“I’ll get…all this out of your way,” she says, although not without a hint of reluctance in her voice. I want to apologize, even though it’s not my fault. She did see that I was on her registration. She shouldn’t have expected a room to herself.
But then again, I guess someone not showing up for three weeks does sort of imply that they’re…not going to show up. And while I hate to judge based on appearances, Morgan does look like the sort of person who’s used to getting her own way.
Great.
She unceremoniously arm-sweeps the pile of things into an empty laundry basket and kick-pushes it into the corner of the room.
“Deal with that later,” she says, tossing her hair. “So, what are you studying?”
Same thing as everyone?I think. “First-year stuff,” I say.
Morgan gives a light snort. “Sure,” she says, “but eventually you want to study…?”
This is awfully interrogatory for get-to-know-your-roommate chatter. I let go of my suitcase, still standing in the doorway.
“Twelfth-century French religious writings,” I say, “with an emphasis on the Cathar heresy and the religious experiences of women.”
It’s good to practice saying it out loud like it’s something normal, and here at Caliburn, it’s at least more normal than anywhere else. I have no idea what Morgan will make of it, but to my surprise, she nods approvingly.
“Fascinating,” she says, and sounds like she means it. “I’m studying Renaissance demonology myself, some Italian folk magic, that sort of thing.” She flicks her fingers through the air. “I imagine we’ll be in a lot of classes together.”
I can’t tell from her tone if that’s a good or a bad thing, and I really just want to lie down, which seems like a fading possibility the more we talk. I push my suitcase toward my bed, stupidly not sure if I should start unpacking or make more conversation.
But it doesn’t matter, because we’re interrupted.
“Morgan, I need to?—”
The door swings open, and I find myself staring into the same golden-brown eyes.
“To learn to knock?” Morgan finishes for him, tilting her head.
“I did knock,” he mumbles, eyes still fixed on me.
“Knockingas you open the dooris not the same thing. It’s like signaling when you’re halfway into a merge on the highway.” Morgan flops into her chair and eyes him. “What do you want?”
He straightens his shoulders, which almost span the entire door frame. I decide now is a great time to deal with my suitcase and conveniently not engage with himorher.
“Just…ah, you know,” I hear him say hesitantly as I drag my suitcase to the foot of my bed. “Coming by to pick up?—”
“Right, right, right,” Morgan says. She puts a hand in the air to silence him and rummages around on her desk with the other one, opening a series of tiny drawers and flicking through various boxes until she locates what she’s looking for—a small drawstring pouch, which she cocks back like a missile. “Think fast.”
She throws it, and he snatches it from the air without even blinking.
I let out an inadvertent grunt, tugging on the handle of the suitcase and realizing the literal lift it will be to get it onto this bed. It maybe was ridiculous to try and cram my entire life in here.
But then again,my entire lifeisn’t much. It’s just heavy.
