“It’s a book of incantations.”
She notices the intricate Welsh cursive. “You can read that?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re so interesting,” she says, laughing like I’ve told a joke. “Do you, like, study languages or something?”
“No, it’s part of my magic.” Before I can stop myself, I add, “What’s yours?” I know it’s a bit rude to ask a fellow magician directly about their capabilities, but I’m curious. What made Sibylline accept her and not me?
Pippa looks at me like I’ve asked if she likes eating slugs for dinner. She spins back around in her chair, stands up, and starts gathering her things: a series of reference books, her journal, her scarf, her coat, and her book bag. They don’t need names for me to know they’re designer. “I can always tell the time, without looking at a clock,” she says coolly. “I know, it’s kind of trivial.”
“Not at all,” I say, to be polite. I know it’s not her fault that her father’s name and reputation probably got her in, but it stings a little. That’s all she can do?
Pippa doesn’t seem bothered at all as she slings her bag over her shoulder, turning to an archivist who’s pushing a wheeled cart toward us. “Raven needs help,” she says.
I blush, especially when the archivist glances my way as Pippa leaves. He’s cute, and that somehow makes it ten times worse.
“I don’t need help,” I say to the archivist.
“It’s not a problem,” he says. He’s a little older than me, maybe twenty or so, with shoulder-length brown hair that’s a little scruffy for such a charming face. He reminds me of a Labrador, with cheerful dark eyes and a friendly smile. His name is embroidered in gold thread on the breast pocket of the blazer that all senior archivists wear: Aspen. I’m not sure if it’s his first name or his last.
He picks up the book I’ve been reading. “Well, now, how’d you get up here?” he asks the book amusedly, as if it might answer. And then I almost think it really might. “I know just where these go. Would you help me carry them?” Aspen glances at me. “I’m Aspen, by the way, Aspen Franklin. And you are?”
“Raven Chen,” I tell him.
“Cool name,” he says. “Your parents were into Poe? Quoth the raven, Nevermore?”
I laugh. “Nope. I wish it was that cool. My real name’s Clarissa, but it never stuck.”
Aspen’s smile is contagious. “Are you a first-year? What house are you in?”
“No…I…I’m not a student here. I just work here,” I say, trying not to sound too embarrassed. “You?”
“I’m a third-year,” he says easily. I can tell he’s wondering what I’m doing in Sibylline. Probably thinks I’m a townie. I guess I am a townie.
I take half the stack while Aspen takes the other, leading me away from the circulation desk and toward the back of the hall. Invisible at first until we make a turn, the shelves are actually a narrow, manufactured alley, hiding a large wooden door that Aspen unlocks with a brass key from a chain on his belt. The air shifts, turning stuffier and more humid, when we step into a long hallway. Offices and lounges for the archivists border either sideof the hall as Aspen takes me through another locked door. It leads us to a narrow, winding stairwell, spiraling down into the dark.
Aspen waves his hand in the air, and a trio of small lights burst to life in front of us, leading us like little fireflies.
“I hope you’re not afraid of the dark,” he warns.
I try to laugh, but it comes out like a hiss. “The dark? No. Tight spaces, though?”
“Oh, me too! I eventually got used to it, and you will, too. I promise, it doesn’t get too bad,” he says. He’s sweet. The way he’s reassuring me is making my face red. I hope he can’t see it. “Think of the tunnels under campus like a big basement. Nothing to worry about.”
I have no choice but to trust him as we climb down and down. The air grows heavier, smelling mustier as we go, and I’m getting dizzier by the second. I don’t want to think about how far underground we are, but I can’t help it. It’s getting harder to breathe, but I don’t let it show.
“So!” Aspen’s voice rips me away from my spiraling thoughts. “Do you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend? More-than-a-friend friend?”
“Are you trying to distract me?” I ask coolly.
He swivels his head to look at me, grinning. “Is it working?”
No,I want to say.I’m not interested. I’m in love with one person and one person only. “Anyway, to answer your question: No, I don’t have a boyfriend.” I think about Atticus, though, and only slightly choke on my words.
“Huh,” says Aspen.
“What?”
