Isla might’ve laughed if she weren’t so utterly overwhelmed and drained. Of course Juliette would find a way to turn a near-death encounter into the opening scene of a gothic romance.
“I’m hardly built like Hercules,” Andrew muttered.
Juliette gave his lean frame a once-over and seemed to concede the point with a slight tilt of her head. Andrew looked back, annoyed. Isla wasn’t sure whether to be offended that Andrew couldn’t carry her or to simply agree with Juliette’s unspoken conclusion that it had been a long walk to the libraryand Andrew wasn’t exactly the dashing-hero type. Handsome, definitely, but he was more the academic sort, inclined to spend all day working on a project or deep in his studies than to be lifting weights.
Still, when he slid his arms gently beneath her knees and shoulders—lifting her off the inexplicable floating slab of ice with surprising care, Isla found herself oddly reluctant to leave his arms, as absurd as that thought was. He made her feel infuriatingly secure, even if he did struggle to carry her.
He lowered her with care, only wobbling a little, onto a worn sofa near the fire, and she was grateful for the space—she needed to gain control over her spiraling thoughts about being in Andrew’s arms and about the awful events that had displayed a complete betrayal of everything science had ever taught her.
She shivered, and Andrew shrugged off his jacket and laid it over her. Great. Now he was being gallant. Not in the least helping her gain control over her analytical brain. His scent of sandalwood curled around her—even that was smug—and she tried to remind herself she was a scientist. A rational adult. A professor. She blinked up at him. He stood there in his high-waisted trousers, neatly tucked-in shirt, and suspenders.
Her levelheaded, sound-minded brain—the one that had read every scientific journal she could find on neurology, biology, and chemistry—had absolutely no explanation for why looking at him gave her the feeling of butterflies in her stomach. The man was infuriating.
She was not someone who got flustered by aftershave and a well-timed rescue. She blamed the trauma. And the hypothermia. And possibly the suspenders.
Andrew waved his hand, and the slab of ice that had started to drip onto the rug dispersed. Isla stared, horrified.
“You look pale; here, suck on this.”
Juliette pulled one of her precious rhubarb-and-custard boiled sweets from a paper bag and, without asking, shoved it into Isla’s mouth. She must be truly worried if she was willing to share, as sweets were hard to come by during the war. Juliette popped one into her own mouth, pushing it to the side and giving her cheek a slight hamster-pouch effect on her slender features. The sugar did seem to help—Isla felt a flicker of herself return.
“What happened?”
Andrew and Isla exchanged a look. Neither seemed eager to be the one to explain.
“Juliette, go and fetch Harold. I think he needs to explain this.”
Juliette nodded and took off at a canter.
Harold Wentworth. The vice chancellor, the head of the whole university. Isla wasn’t so sure that was a good idea—he’d think she was insane.
“Andrew, no—I don’t think I want him to know about this.”
Andrew met her gaze. Those eyes, usually full of smugness and the will to irritate, now looked soft. Sincere.
“It will be okay, Isla. I promise. I know what just happened was awful”—his face hardened, anger flickering in his eyes at the memory of what she’d been through—“but I’ve been waiting a long time for this day to come.”
Isla just stared, her methodical brain working hard to make sense of his words. Nope, she couldn’t make sense of a thing he’d just said.
“You’ve waited a long time for me to be attacked by some creepy shadows and then to carry me on a slab of ice?”
“Well ... no, not exactly.”
“Have you waited a long time to somehow do that thing where you’re able to wave your hands”—she twirled her hand dramatically to encompass him—“so ice just vanishes into thin air? Is that what you’ve been waiting for?”
“No, that’s not what ...” He stumbled his words but didn’t finish his sentence. He seemed to want to take a step back and address her theory. “I didn’t look like that when I did it, and the ice didn’t just disappear. It sublimated—that’s when solid ice turns directly into water vapor without becoming liquid first. The moisture is still in the air around us.”
“I know what sublimation means,” she grumbled under her breath, trying to gain back a feeling of control with things she thought she knew about.
He gave her a wry look and lifted an eyebrow at her interruption. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I’ve waited a long time for you to receive your Sigil mark. I’ve wanted to tell you ...”
His words were cut off as Harold swooped into the room, his long strides forcing Juliette to skip in order to keep up. The vice chancellor’s salt-and-pepper hair was swept back, his beard neatly trimmed. His presence was commanding, yet as he loomed over Isla, he smiled at her kindly with a dignified charm.
“I hear you have had quite the evening, my dear.”
Isla straightened quickly, wincing as she did. Andrew and Juliette both leapt to help her, one on either side, until she was settled. Harold pulled up a chair in front of her, while Juliette and Andrew—who was annoying in a way she couldn’t quite define—stayed close, flanking her on the sofa.
The man beside her lifted his palm and a block of ice materialized, which he wrapped in his handkerchief and offered to her. She looked at him, at a loss for words.
