Dorian
There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions. Everything tends directly to the catastrophe.
—Horace Walpole, preface to the first edition, The Castle of Otranto
I rush throughthe doors of the museum, straightening my hair and readjusting my tie to look somewhat presentable. It’s been a week since the Halloween party, and I haven’t slept well since. I think of how Atticus’s day-old scruff brushed against my skin, his face so different from a girl’s, and the way the memories flowed out of him, letting me see his life through his eyes. I became him. I saw his childhood, and his mom, and the drawings he taped on his bedroom walls. I felt eraser dust under his fingers as he sketched a new building’s façade, smelled the cinnamon rolls he always ate at the Acroteria, heard the sound of Raven’s laughter after he told her a joke. And I saw myself, and how he looks at me, sees me. How much he’s wanted me for years. Kissing him unlocked something inside me I never knew was really there. I’ve cared for Raven for so long, probably before I really even knew what love was, and Atticus was just a friend. But now all I can think about is him. I think about him when I wake up, when I brush my teeth, and on my way to work.
Raven and Atticus.
I’m being pulled in two different directions.
What the hell?
I find Professor Evander in his office, a room full to bursting with souvenirs and knickknacks he’s picked up over his travels across the world. He’s sitting with one of the other curators, an old man with Coke-bottle glasses and a frizzy white beard. Reams of paper, parchment that’s so old it’s yellow and cracked, sit in tall stacks. The office, usually pristine, is crowded with boxes haphazardly stacked in every corner of the room.
“There’s tardiness and then there’s truancy,” the professor says gruffly.
“It won’t happen again,” I say.
“That’s what you said yesterday and the day before. Come with a peace offering?”
I’m holding a paper tray from the Acroteria. A to-go latte and four pastries of differing varieties. I set it down on his desk.
“Hm,” he says. His mouth is pressed into a thin, flat line. He looks me up and down, as if he’s trying to see through me. “At least you knew enough not to arrive empty-handed.”
I suppress a smile. I learned that from Atticus, who always takes care of us. “If I’d known you had company, I would have brought more.”
The other archivist, whose name escapes me, picks one of the papers up and sniffles as he reads the elegant penmanship. He doesn’t even seem to notice the coffee. He’s muttering to himself and peering through his glasses as if he’s looking into a telescope, lost in the beyond.
“No bother,” Professor Evander says. Without getting up from his desk, he points to a large binder situated on one of the guest chairs in the office. “The gala is almost upon us, so it’s all hands on deck. There’s a list of all of the donors and their addresses. I need you to write and mail thank-you letters to each and every one.”
The binder is heavy when I pick it up. There are a ton of namesin here. It’ll take me ages. I keep the groan to myself. “Can I work on this at home?”
“Of course. I hope your penmanship is as good as these look.” He takes a croissant and a sip of his coffee before saying, “Oh, and I need you to gather a collection of admissions essays from famous alums, so you are to go to the Rosette to fetch them.”
The Rosette. Raven will be there. I haven’t seen her since the party. I’ve avoided both of them while I try to sort myself out. It’s been too long. I miss them. I miss her.
“Be sure that you deliver the essays to meon time, by the end of the day,” the professor says. “No more distractions.”
—
With Professor Evander’sheavy binder tucked beneath my arm, I stride through the doors of the Rosette. Passing beneath the restored stained-glass windows, I make my way past the long rows of oaken tables and carved wooden chairs. Everything is back in its place, every piece of vintage furniture restored. Students and staff move about the library carrying stacks of books or studying at long rows of tables, hunched over candlelit texts. It’s as if the disaster never happened. There isn’t a single scratch on the floor or a bit of broken glass hiding in some corner. The library is pristine, immaculate in every way, and I find myself feeling envious once again of the students and teachers. Truly, there are marvelous things that can be learned at a place like this, and I still want to know all of them.
I need an archivist to let me into the records room, so I search for Raven, scanning the stacks, walking up and down the long rows. When I come up short, I make my way to the circulation desk, where I find a blond girl twirling a lock of her hair as she stares off into the distance.
“Hi,” I say, smiling as the girl’s eyes slide to me. “I’m looking for Raven.”
“She’s not here,” she says, inspecting me. She must be wondering how I know Raven’s name. “Can I help you? She’s with Aspen.”
At the mention of his name, a stab of jealousy shoots through me. After I left Atticus in that study, I went looking for Raven—to confess? I don’t know. I found her, even though I wished I hadn’t. She was making out with Aspen in a corner. Seeing the two of them together like that, I wasn’t even shocked, just numb. So I guess they’re together now.
I brush it off as best I can. This must be Pippa, the girl that Raven has talked about. “I need to get into the archive,” I say. “I have to see some records.”
Pippa’s nose actually crinkles, as if I’m bothering her by asking. “That’s restricted.”
I flash her my badge. “It’s for Old Bones.”
Pippa’s eyes linger on it. “Oh,” she says. “Sure.”
