“Of course I do,” she said without thinking, then considered that perhaps she should have doubts about an admitted killer. About giving an admitted killer the key to unlocking more power than he’d ever had.
It was true, though. On a purely instinctive level, she did trust him.
What a mess.
She rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. “Do either of you have misgivings?”
They both shook their heads.
“Well, then.” She took a calming breath. “Let’s get everything back in the trunk, and Bernie can take it from there.”
When the last piece of paper was plucked off the floor and the men left, she went to bed, physically and mentally worn out. Was she making a mistake, a huge mistake, by letting Hartgrave have Vintner’s research?
She couldn’t rely on a feeling. That was no better than the jumping-to-conclusions he’d taken her to task for. She needed something solidly factual to reassure herself he wouldn’t slide back into old habits—she had to do what she’d vowed she wouldn’t and sift through all her memories of him.
So she did. And realized, finally, how revealing some of his words were, considering that he had usually aimed for the reverse.
Seemingly offhand comments transformed, as she remembered them, into expressions of remorse. “You eventually get over dreadful things, assuming they weren’t your own fault.” And his angry “don’t ever promise that” when she’d said she would do anything if only he would fix her so she could cast spells. And his toast in Mexican Foo: “To Daggett—may she forgive my many sins.”
She didn’t believe he would repeat those sins, not when he was continually dwelling on what he’d done. He could have Vintner’s trunk.
It wasn’t a long mental leap from there to wondering if that meant she could havehim.
She pressed her cheek against her pillow, embarrassed by this treacherous line of thought. Mass murder was beyond the pale. Even accepting that he was very, very sorry, she couldn’t in good conscience skip back to him with open arms. What he had done would haunt her.
Or it wouldn’t. And that would be worse.
. . . . .
She was deep into microfiche of old newspapers when a cleared throat pulled her from her research trance.
Fletcher, the history department chair, stood over her. “Feeling better, I hope?”
“Yes,” Emily said automatically, realizing it was mostly true. The cast was off her arm, the boot offher foot, and she could walk clear across campus without a cane if necessary.
Fletcher sat, glancing at the microfiche. “I suppose you’re working on a paper.”
“Well,” Emily said, then opted to subtly shift the subject. “I know a paper isn’t going to get me a job offer here. Not with one unremarkable semester of teaching to my name.”
“The act of teaching five courses in one semester would strike many of our faculty as remarkable.” Fletcher leaned in. “It’s true I can’t convince the college to hire you permanently on the strength of a single semester, even with published research, but I’ve got an alternative for you.”
“An—an alternative?”
“The tourism board is launching a ‘Paranormal Iowa’ campaign—don’t ask me why—and they’re short on places with a supernatural pedigree,” Fletcher said. “Tourists will visit only so many ghost towns, especially when they notice the towns have no actual ghosts.”
Impossible to hold back a snort at this. Fletcher offered a conspiratorial grin.
“The board has already locked itself into this campaign, and it’s desperate for a few more destinations,” she said. “It’s offering grants to institutions that—by the end of the week, mind you—suggest sites with some demonstrable connection to the odd and unexplained. Andvoilà: Your specialty in the history of magic suddenly pays off.”
Emily stared at her, heart racing, unable to manage a reply. The Inferno room. The Inferno room would fit the bill perfectly.
“So, as I said, I can’t wrangle a decent job for you,” Fletcher continued blithely as if a career wasn’t hanging in the balance, “but should you come up with any locations at Ashburn the tourism geniuses would like, I’m confident I could persuade the powers-that-be to let you come back as a lecturer for one more year to prove yourself. So—got anything?”
Emily was about to shout “yes,” library rules be damned, when a horrible thought struck. Encouraging tourists to visit Vintner’s room—after informing them it was intended for practicing magic—was the best way to get more people to start spontaneouslydoingmagic. Just stepping into the room with no knowledge of its purpose was enough for Bernie.
It didn’t matter if she presented her research as an example of an administrator’s foolish flight of fancy. The room did its job well, and she couldn’t shine a light on it without a real risk the secret of magic would unravel.
She didn’t want to find out if Kincaid was right about what would happen next. She couldn’t be responsible for setting that in motion.
