My heart skipped at the sound of his voice. I licked my lips and swallowed hard before pushing into his office. A subtle tilt of the world sent me forward, and the air changed, thick and heavy, wrapping me up like a warm blanket on a cold day. The smell of leather and sweet pipe tobacco welcomed me, but it was the state of the office that halted me just inside the door.
Professor Quinn’s office was a study in organized chaos. A high-backed chair sat behind a massive mahogany desk; shelves climbed almost every wall in an indulgence of historical records, paperbacks, and folios; low lighting from a vintage green glass banker’s lamp painted the room in a cozy, gentle glow. A worn leather loveseat adorned the corner, bearing an overspill of books rather than people.
There were so, so many books that seemed to have been placed with a sort of careless deliberation. The breadth of history contained in one room made my heart palpitate.
Professor Quinn had his back to me, re-shelving a thick book with a faded jade-green cover. I was staring at his shirtsleevesrolled to his elbows when he turned to me. My eyes snapped up to meet his gaze, and the world shrunk to the distance between us.
“Good morning, Miss Ashcroft,” he greeted. An aura of authority clung to him like a second skin, and every cell in my body wanted to submit.
“Right, good morning,” I managed, voice breathier than intended.
His jaw tensed before he turned his head, indicating the small chair across from his desk. “Sit.”
My legs obeyed his polite command, and my breathing refused to return to normal. He sat behind the desk without looking up, which was a slight relief. I struggled to control my expressions at the best of times.
Professor Quinn unfolded a black leather binder with a rehearsed flourish that spoke of experience. He had done this a hundred times before, and the memory of his actions were engraved into his muscles.
“You’re available for five hours a week, correct? Two of those during office hours, the rest for grading and one tutoring session.”
“Ye–yes sir.” My reply was stuttered but carefully neutral. The part of my brain that dealt with logistics kicked in and saved me from further mortification. “I’ve organized my schedule so I can be present during your office hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
He nodded once, then allowed his eyes to drift across the desk as if he were confirming that I wasn’t plotting my escape. There was a pause long enough for me to wonder if I’d missed something crucial in the silence, long enough for the air to stifle.
“You’re efficient,” he said finally, the assessment not entirely complimentary and not entirely impartial either.
“Practicality is needed in thesis season,” I replied, using a small smile as a mask.
“Indeed.” He tapped his pen against his lower lip. As if I needed another reason to blatantly stare at his mouth. “Are you sure you can handle the disruption this role will bring to your coursework?”
“I can handle disruption,” I assured. But I was lying. I loathed it.
“You say that now.”
“After my family’s public scandal, not much rattles me.” My statement rose between us as a shield meant to keep him from seeing the dark bruises under my eyes from sleepless nights, the stress of my personal life, and school, clashing with what I presumed to be delusions.
He studied me. “Are you sure? You sound tired, Miss Ashcroft.”
My hand curled into a fist on my lap. “I get my sleep when I can.”
“You’re going to need it.” His mouth quirked at the corner. “Kilbride has a way of overwhelming its inhabitants.”
Images of news articles about a dead student flashed like a warning in the back of my head. “It’s been doing a good job,” I muttered.
He watched intently, ocean eyes as wild as a storm swelling all around me. One look would drown the weak, and I got the feeling he liked it that way. But I couldn’t drown, not now when I had come so close to achieving academic success. He rose from the tide as a challenge, and I needed to keep my head above water.
The conversation turned to logistics. All the deadlines, grading scales, and the rubric he insisted on almost went over my head. The professor’s no-nonsense temperament whilediscussing syllabi made me believe he could turn anything into a matter of fact if he voiced it into existence.
A bubble of something warm and illicit rose in my throat at the thought of being the gatekeeper to his classroom. It was intoxicating in a practical way, as if I’d been offered a backstage pass to a world I’d idolized from afar.
My short attention span got the best of me, and my gaze drifted up to a shelf behind him. Among the expected tomes Byron, Herodotus, and dusty volumes on philology was a narrow book bound in blackened leather. Its spine bore a series of symbols that I didn’t recognize, little gilt sigils inlaid that looked like nonsense. They were geometric and sharp, with triangles overlapping circles in a repeated motif.
It certainly wasn’t a historical text.
I wanted to lean forward and trace those symbols with a fingertip. To know what they meant when translated. But my nightmares had left me skittish, leading to parts of my curiosity deserving to starve.
Professor Quinn followed my line of sight, and a shadow crossed his face. For a heartbeat, I thought he might tell me to ignore it. Instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.
“Ah,” he said, “you noticed that one.”
