Page 102 of Reflections of Peonies
“I haven’t spoken to him in a half-century, and will not start today. I have no intention of revisiting that old flame.” She snatched her knitting supplies with jerky movements and spread them over her lap. “Yet he still watches me with that same dewy-eyed stare. It sends shivers through me.”
I pressed my lips together, looking between Mr. Weaver and Ms. Protean. He seemed mournful as he watched her violently knit, as if trying to maim the piece she was working on.
Could Mr. Weaver and Dr. Stephens have both been involved with Ms. Protean? It would explain why Ms. Protean and Dr. Stephens hated each other, and why Mr. Weaver’s ghost chose to linger here.
I couldn’t ignore what Finn had told me about my ability to foresee things.
“Is there something on your mind?” Ms. Protean interrupted my thoughts, her expression returning to her usual mildly fascinated and somewhat agitated state.
Now that I thought about it, she was actually the least-grandmotherly figure I’d ever seen—I was sure she’d have no hesitations about shifting and ripping out people’s throats if angry enough.
“You’ve been standing there with your mouth open. Come sit down. You’re making me nervous,” she commanded.
My thoughts raced as I settled into a chair. It wasn’t like I could ask her about her romantic entanglements. She was probably a hundred. There was no way she’d had a scandalous affair in her youth. People in those days were known for their wholesome family values and well-behaved women.
It was one thing to press boundaries in the professional world. But anything else was unheard of.
“How are your classes going?” Ms. Protean raised her eyebrow, needles reflecting the light as she worked her craft.
The feeling that had been following me around all day intensified. I pushed my hands in my lap. “I—I don’t think I can finish the semester. People are gossiping about me and Bryce, and I’ve seen them looking at me. Plus, I wanted to drop French to take Chinese.”
I felt so stupid. Here I was, admitting my failures to a woman who’d made a name for herself in this school. She’d never understand.
“Why are people talking about you and Bryce?” Mr. Weaver asked.
But I didn’t respond since Ms. Protean started speaking. “Don’t waste your time on something you’re not interested in.”
I bit my lip, touching my fingers together, choosing, for the moment, to ignore Mr. Weaver. It was difficult to carry on two conversations at once, especially when one party couldn’t join in. “But Iaminterested in Botany.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life.” I didn’t even know what wasexpectedof me. The others… did they even choose their own path, or was it decided for them?
And, as much as it shamed me to admit, being a research scientist didn’t seem so enticing anymore. I’d never be able to relax. Not with Damen dodging bullets every day and walking into haunted crime scenes with no one except Kasai for company.
Who would protect him? I couldn’t leave Damen’s life in Norman’s hands. I might as well send him off to his death.
“Poppycock!” Mr. Weaver was strangely invested in our conversation. He was no longer paying attention to the books atall. “How can you not know what you want to do? You’re almost sixteen already.”
“I’m nineteen.” I frowned at him.
“Ignore whatever Caleb is saying. Most people don’t have their lives planned out at your age.” Ms. Protean continued working as the shimmery white yarn pulled my attention.
“Did you?” Her admission encouraged me, and my racing heart calmed.
“Well, yes, I did.” She nodded, pausing her actions briefly. “I have known what I wanted since I was five. But that’s not normal. Do you want to wait out the semester, or take a break and regain your bearings?”
“There’s so much going on already,” I bit my lip. “What if the school won’t let me return next semester?”
“Bianca—” Ms. Protean sighed.
“You’re calling her by her name?” Mr. Weaver asked.
She took a low breath and set down her project on her desk. “Dean Abernathy would be a fool to refuse your readmittance. Especially considering who you are.”
Mr. Weaver perked up. “Who is she?”
“But I don’t want special privileges,” I told her. I glanced at Mr. Weaver. Was this okay?
