“Then, what is she?”
The farther she flies from my sight, the more my chest aches at what feels like a sudden loss.
“A firebird.”
2
BRODERICK
Six months later
I’ve madeit a tradition at the end of each semester, when the final grades have been entered into the electronic system, to treat myself to a drink.
From the bottom-left drawer on my desk, the one I keep locked all semester long, I unearth my favorite brand of scotch. The amber liquid probably deserves to be poured into a beautiful crystal decanter, but all I have is my hastily cleanedRead the Syllabusmug. Oh well. At least, this way, if any stragglers happen by my office, I’ll appear to be a responsible faculty member rather than a man getting tipsy on the job.
But I doubt anyone will see me. The students donned their graduation robes a week ago, and most of my colleagues are off enjoying their summer. Or at least finishing their grading at home. I prefer to work here, in my not-so-large office that has grown from organized to cluttered in a matter of months. I’ve only recently moved out of my room in the Folk Haven PublicMythic Library—aka Mor’s Victorian house that she converted to hold all her magical texts. My rental is a small house on the edge of town, and with the hectic nature of starting a new job this semester, I haven’t unpacked much more than my bed and my teapot.
The alcohol is heady on my tongue with a slight sting as it slips down my throat. I’m in the middle of savoring the subtle flavors with my eyes closed when there’s a light knock on my door.
“Professor Shelly?”
Oh gods. Her. It’s her.
I spin my chair so fast that some of my scotch sloshes over the rim of my mug and onto my hand. But who cares about booze when there’s a vision in my doorway?
The firebird. The woman I haven’t gone a day without thinking about since my sisters and I broke her curse.
“Ophelia.” I gasp out her name, in love with the elegant sound of it ever since I learned the moniker.
She didn’t fly far that night, just to an undeveloped plot of land owned by Moira MacNamara—local selkie and member of the Mythic Council. Because of Ophelia’s rather spectacular display that evening, our small town’s magical ruling body had to be notified in case any humans unaware that mythical creatures lived in Folk Haven saw her. But there were no calls to the local authorities about a fiery bird flying through the night sky, so the incident was contained.
Georgiana, a siren and the Of the Wing council member, took charge of Ophelia’s care—all flying mythics are considered creations of The Winged One and therefore given the Of the Wing designation. One might argue a firebird is actually formed from The Bright One’s hand, but there are so few fire-based mythics in Folk Haven that they don’t have representationon the Mythic Council. Georgiana learned Ophelia’s name, provided the mythic a place to stay, and helped her find a job.
A job that brings her by my office every Wednesday.
“Are you here for the recycling?” I ask. “I don’t have any bins in my office.”
The first time Ophelia showed up in the English department faculty offices, I about perished on the spot.
She wasn’t a huddled, terrified woman on fire. She stood straight, her golden hair glossy and smoothed back in a ponytail and her glorious body clothed in fitted jeans and a Clean Haven Recycling polo shirt. But the firebird wouldn’t meet my eyes or engage in conversation with me for more than a few words.
Ophelia is shy, and I am awkward.
Also, I’m pretty sure she’ll always dislike me for that “cute bunny” comment.
I still curse myself for that horrible slip of the tongue.
“I already collected the bins.” She waves over her shoulder toward the cart she trucks around Ramla University to dump the recycling in. “Can I talk to you?”
Talk to me?
There’s nothing I want more in this universe. Instead of saying such a dramatically needy comment, I manage a much more respectable, “Of course.”
Setting my mug of scotch on the far end of my desk—hoping she doesn’t smell the booze on me—I hurry to clear student papers off the cushioned armchair in the corner of my room. I want to encourage student visits, which means having comfortable places to sit.
Ophelia silently watches my frantic movements, then settles on the edge of the chair when it’s cleared. That’s when I notice she’s holding a notebook and a pen.
“How can I help you?” I ask as I resettle in my chair, at a loss for what she could want to discuss with me.
