“What are they protesting?” I ask. “Why did her sign say ‘blood on your hands’?”
His lips pull back from his teeth as he winces. He seems to be uncomfortable about what we saw, too. “There are people who think the books in the Rosette were stolen.”
It’s like I’ve been punched in the gut. “What?”
“Yeah. Since its founding, Sibylline has made it their top priority to preserve magical texts. In places all over the world where there is war, or unrest, or even natural disasters, Sibylline has rescued thousands of texts and brought them here for safekeeping.Some people, however, think they stole the texts, or otherwise acquired them illegally, and that the university is hoarding them for their own gain. Certain spells and rituals can only be found in those books, so it makes them priceless. And by working at the archive, we’re complicit.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I remember reading about some scandal with some stolen scrolls that Egyptian magicians demanded back. I heard it was resolved, though. I thought they were returned.”
“Lots of people think so. There was an investigation some years ago. The government got involved and everything, lots of hearings—it was a big deal at the time, but people moved on. Or forgot. Stone does a really good job at keeping these kinds of things out of the news as much as he can.”
“What about the hearings? What did they find?”
“They just sort of fizzled out, I guess. The board ruled that all of the acquisitions were legal, so…nothing happened.”
“But people are still protesting. Everyone hasn’t forgotten,” I say.
“We see a few pop up now and again, but Warden Stone is quick to shut them down. I don’t like the way he treats them, but I guess there’s really nothing we can do about it. We’re just employees, right? We’re not the ones calling the shots.”
“No, I guess not. But is that a good excuse?”
Aspen shrugs. “I like my job. I think we do good work. Whatever happened in the past, right or wrong, I know I’m at least keeping the books safe. I’m doing them justice, and that’s what matters to me.”
“But I mean, why would Sibylline ever rule against its own self-interest? Just because the board says something’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s right.”
Aspen studies me for a moment, a curious curve in his brow. “I mean, yeah. You’re not wrong. You’ve got spirit, I like that.” He laughs.
I blush. I should keep quiet. I shouldn’t draw attention to myself, but then again, does that make me complicit in Sibylline’s corruption, like that woman’s sign said?
“Hey,” Aspen says, making me look up. He stops me on the sidewalk with a gentle touch on my wrist. I notice we’re in front of the Benoist Museum, situated near a small row of ornate potted plants leading up to the entrance. Dorian should be getting out any moment. I tuck my hand into my coat pocket, as if staving off the cold, but my fingers curl around the key.
Aspen steps in closer to me and dips his head a little to even our gazes. “I mean it,” he says. “I really like you.”
“Thanks.” I’m still blushing. I don’t know what else to say.
“You can say no if you want, but I’d kick myself if I didn’t ask. Can I kiss you?”
It’s such an earnest question, it catches me off guard. The key in my pocket feels even heavier now.
Behind Aspen, the front doors to the museum swing open, and I catch sight of Dorian leaving. He pops the collar of his coat to shield his neck from the chilly autumn air, and then his eyebrows rise when he notices me. There’s an ache in his gaze I can’t ignore, a longing I know all too well. None of us in our little trio is in love with the right person. We are each an arrow pointing the wrong way.
My gaze snaps back to Aspen. He’s close, soft-eyed and smiling. He’s waiting for an answer.
Without a word, I lean in, pressing my lips to his. He’s warm and soft, tasting like blackberry tea. It’d be a nice kiss if my heart were in it. My mission is more important. I palm the key and takemy hand out of my pocket to wrap my arms around Aspen’s shoulders, pulling him closer to me. He lets out a pleased little sigh, and I raise the key behind his head to show Dorian that I have it.
Then, without Aspen being any the wiser, I drop the key into an ornate planter. Our date is only just beginning.
9
Atticus
I am tired of myself tonight. I should like to be somebody else.
—Oscar Wilde,The Picture of Dorian Gray
At midnight, Iarrive at the agreed-upon spot, near the main gates of campus in a walled-off garden darkened by the moonlit shadow of the hulking administration offices. Stone statues are scattered about the garden, and the fountain is quiet, the paths neatly raked. At first I think I’ve beaten him to the rendezvous, but then I sense a presence nearby. One of the statues isn’t a statue at all. Like a piece of art coming to life, Dorian steps into the slanting light of the streetlamps. He’s been waiting for me, silent as a cat, wearing all black: a hoodie, sweats, a baseball cap, and as always, his gloves. The ones Raven bought him. I wish I had thought of them. I wish I’d been the one to give them to him. Still, they’re convenient, especially for not leaving fingerprints.
“Hey,” I say, my heart racing as usual. He looks dressed for the lacrosse pitch, and a memory of watching him—years of watching his graceful, athletic body run around the field—floods my vision. “Fancy seeing you here.”
