“You don’t strike me as a student.”
His lips quirk. “What do I strike you as?”
“A criminal.”
“And criminals aren’t allowed to be educated?”
Did he just admit to being a criminal? “You’re not contesting my assessment?”
He shrugs.
I take a small step back.
“Relax. It’s not like I’m an axe murderer. Criminals come in all forms.” He simpers at my expression. “So? The shamrock aisle?”
Once I get over the shock of his confession, I cross my arms. “This library is for students and faculty only. I’ll need proof that you’re attending the university before I can direct you toward any book.”
His knuckles tighten, his large ring or wart . . . or maybe it’s some sort of egg-shaped swelling from punching someone . . . straining the leather.
“Such a stickler for the rules, Cadence.” He sighs, then digs something out of the inside breast pocket of his tailored coat. “Will this do?” He unfolds a piece of paper and dangles it in front of me.
I make out the logo of the school—a gothic U speared through a B, then quickly scan the sheet. It’s a letter of acceptance signed by the dean, aka Papa. Sure enough, it’s addressed to Slate Ardoin.
He folds it back up and slides it into his pocket. “Is my proof satisfactory?”
I nod, making a mental note to ask Papa about this boy later, about why he arrived mid school year. “By shamrock, you mean the Quatrefoil?”
“Yeah.That.”
“We don’t have an aisle for it, but we do have some books. However, they’re kept in the archives, which is a cold room—”
“Good thing I’m wearing a coat and gloves.”
“—with extremely restricted access.”
“I’m imagining you have access to it.”
“I do.”
“I have a pair of sapphire earrings that would complement your eyes.”
“Are you trying to bribe me with stolen goods?”
“Who said anything about them being stolen?”
“Do you usually carry around women’s jewelry in your coat?”
He drags his hand through his tousled black curls. “What you saw last night . . . I was getting pieces repaired. That’s what I do. I’m a middleman. I pick up jewelry from customers, bring them to professionals, then drop the fixed pieces back with their rightful owners.”
I squeeze one of my eyes shut a little.
The nerve at his temple pulses. He’s definitely lying.
He clears his throat. “You reallyshouldbe a cop. Not a librarian. Then again, if you were a cop, I suspect the crime rate would escalate in these parts.”
My arms loosen, and my hands land on my hipbones. “That’s not nice.”
“Not nice?”
