Page 152 of Coveted

The deeper I progress into the building, the quieter the corridors become. Here and there, people make out in corners. A few students drink with their backs against the wall, alone and still in costume.

I’m returning home early for Halloween. With everyone out, my dorm will be blessedly peaceful.

Near the staircase to Wayfarer Hall, I stop.

In semi-darkness, someone crouches to collect books and papers from the floor. Splattered eggs cover the person, their belongings, and the wall.

Groaning, the person holds up a hardcover book, shaking off the yolk.

Pity stabs at me. “Hey, are you alright?”

Professor Worthington gives a start, his wide eyes searching for me from behind his crooked glasses.

I hold up my hands. “I come in peace.”

His shoulders sag. “Oh, thank goodness. Sadie. Hello there.”

He’s not wearing a costume, just his usual tweed, which will probably need professional cleaning to save.

I grimace. “Trick-or-treaters get you, huh?”

The professor’s face breaks into a good-natured grin. “I’m glad they’re letting off steam. I am. I know they need it after exams.” He shows me the book cover. “I only wish poor Oscar Wilde wasn’t caught in the crossfire.”

“Let me help you.” I shove my phone in my pocket and collect the remaining egg-soaked items. “You’re brave to carry on like an adult tonight.”

He stands, the stack of books teetering in his arms. “I was finished for the evening, I swear. I was on my way back from the library to drop these things off before retiring for the night. I was unlucky, that’s all.”

“Lead the way,” I say, my hands full of sticky papers. “You can’t carry all this yourself.”

His brows knit. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. My night’s well and truly over.”

“You’re not with your friends?” He glances left and right theatrically. “No Prince of Darkbloom?”

I smile politely. “Er, no. It’s just me.”

He bows his head. “Well, I’m much obliged. I’ll show you to my office.”

“Oh, I know where your office is.”

“This is a different office. It’s where I do my deep reading.”

“Then lead the way.”

Professor Worthington takes me to a quiet part of the university near the Lost Library.

“Nearly there,” he says.

He veers into a nondescript corridor of abandoned offices, where a single bulb on the ceiling fizzes and glows.

“You must really like solitude,” I say, peeking into the dusty interiors of the rooms.

“As a rule, yes,” says the professor, reaching for a key to unlock a door. “Easier to get things done.”

When he pushes the door open, the sudden rush of air from inside makes my head spin.

“That’s weird,” I mutter, unable to pinpoint why the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end.