Julian shrugs, a flick of wrist. “Some stories need a martyr.”
“She’s not a martyr,” I say.
His smile widens. “She’s not our kind, either. But you want her to be, and that’s what I don’t get. What’s different about this one?”
He’s baiting me, but I’m too raw to care. “She doesn’t give in, even when she should.”
Julian considers that, tipping his head. “No, she doesn’t, does she. That’s what bothers you.”
I want to punch him, but instead I reach for the next folder. Pull too hard, the whole stack shifts, dust motes exploding into the light. I steady it, knuckles white.
Julian’s voice softens, just a hair. “If you want to hurt her, you’ll have to do it yourself. Board’s not interested in breaking their own project.”
“I don’t want to hurt her.”
He stares at me. “You want to protect her? You?”
I don’t answer.
We work in silence after that. Him flipping pages, me chasing patterns in Board discipline reports, legacy lineages, old scandals smoothed over by generations of payoff and threat. I memorize details without thinking: a headmaster’s signature, the weight of the paper, the way the ink halos on the old paper stock. I clock everything, file it away, keep my mind sharp so the anger doesn’t show.
Fifteen minutes in, Julian sets his book aside, rises, and walks to the iron railing that runs the length of the room. From here, you can see the grand library below: rows of oak tables, students hunched over their own burdens, sunlight smeared across the marble in strips.
Julian watches the floor, humming under his breath. “Speak of the devil.”
I join him at the rail.
Eve Allen, in a sweatshirt and skirt, is holding a stack of books twice her weight to one of the study tables. Her hair is down, but it’s a disaster; loose at the crown, braid falling apart, probably slept on wet and didn’t bother to fix it. Her stride is off, and when she sets the books down, her whole body folds for a second.
Julian glances at me. “Hmmmm, I wonder what our dear old Colt is gunna do now.”
I grit my teeth, then turn and stride to the spiral staircase. At the landing, I glance back. Julian’s still at the rail, watching. The corner of his mouth flicks up, half mocking, half impressed.
I take the stairs two at a time, not bothering to hide my intent. I’m done pretending.
Eve sits near the north window, a stack of books in front of her like a barricade. She’s reading—no, more like staring at a line and willing it to make sense. Her hands tremble when she turns the page, fingers rigid at the knuckle, ink from a cracked pen smeared on her skin. Every few minutes she looks up, scans the room, then ducks her head again.
She doesn’t see me until I’m right behind her.
She’s copying something from the book, but her notes are a mess, full of rewrites, arrows, cross-outs. Her writing is neat when she’s calm. Not today.
I watch the flex of her wrist, the way her tongue pokes out when she’s trying not to bite through it. The way she tenses when a group of girls passes by, their laughter sharp and angled. How she makes herself smaller, as if that’s ever worked.
It’s like watching a rat in a maze. No, not a rat. A lioness caged by people who think she’s something smaller.
I don’t say a word. I just lean in, bracing both hands on the edge of her table.
She jumps up, her hips smashing into the table as suddenly she realizes she’s grinding against me, then snaps her head around, eyes gone wide and wild. For a second I see the party replay in her pupils: the champagne, the laughter, the way she didn’t cry.
She waits for me to speak. I let the silence pile up between us until her breathing is so loud she must hear it in her ears.
“Did they make you cry?”
She stiffens, tries to move out of the cage I’ve made for her. “No.”
I laugh once. “That’s too bad. They’re usually better at it.”
She ignores me and tries to push me off her.
