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“This is the first time Lacie has come to a Dean’s Dinner. Strange, I thought I’d invited you before.”

“I thought it was better to get along in my studies, Dean Shea,” I murmur, eyes to the floor. And it’s true. But then I was never invited again. I never got the memo on how to socialize, how to network and climb the ladder. I thought if I just got good enough enrollment, it would be enough. But turns out, you have to impress people—the old guard at the top.

I was never good at that: following these invisible cues. Masking only extended so far and never covered quite all of my failings. I’ll never forget the awkward silences of my peers in undergrad. Somehow, as I’ve gotten older, it’s only grown worse.

Dean Shea laughs, a horrid booming that quiets the room a moment. When the conversation picks back up, the bodies pressing in so they can hear him, he lowers his voice. “The goal is for you to be both learned and liked, Lacie darling.”

“Like Marcella is,” Dr. Davies muses, his eyes still wandering over her body. I’m seized with the terrible impulse to rip his eyes out.

“Marcella is adept,” I agree, my words careful, “but she’s new. She has energy. She hasn’t been dragging the entire undergraduate 101 core behind her.”

“And that’s exactly what the department needs. Fresh blood.”

I fight the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose and wish I’d taken a glass of wine. “I suppose you’re right.”

“And it’ll do you good to have some competition in your area now that Laurel is gone, isn’t that right?” Dean Shea’s watching me like I’m some kind of anthropology project. “And I expect Arjun to ride you hard these last two weeks of the semester.”

I blink at Dean Shea, at the stifled laughter of the men behind him.

“Oh, pardon me, that came out wrong, didn’t it. But the boy is vital, isn’t he?”

“I saw him with a senior the other day,” Dr. Sims quips. “Pretty girl. Blond thing. Not unlike you, Lacie.”

“Younger, though, less tired.”

I bite my lips bloody as I turn my gaze to the shelves. They could go on like this, couldn’t they, for hours? Objectifying all of us.

Marcella meets my eyes across the packed room, and her expression stills. She holds up a hand to Lyle, then cuts through the crowd like a knife. People part for her even without looking, like she’s got some sort of magic.

They never move for me. I’m a house cat, and she’s a panther, and that’s that.

“Good evening,” she says, her voice a soft timbre that severs the cackling around us. She puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing, but only briefly.

It says, I’m here now.

I don’t want to be rescued, but my throat closes up anyway.

“Marcella, Marcella, it’s so good to have you under my roof again,” Dean Shea says, draining the last of his glass. He chews on the ice and grins. He doesn’t seem to notice that it’s sliced his gum, red leaking between his yellowing teeth.

“Pleasure to be here,” she says, her words like quicksilver. “And how are you, Doctors Davies and Sims? I look forward to your lecture series this weekend, Dr. Sims.”

They fairly glow under her attentions and I tighten my fists. Why can’t I do that? The answer comes quick and easy: I never wanted to be an object of desire. I only wanted to learn.

It’s not enough, is it?

“Ah, lovely to meet you in person, finally. I read your recommendation from U of S. Alex Hansen certainly thought highly of you, rest his soul.”

Marcella’s toothsome smile widens, hardens.

“Marcella,” I say softly, “is quite driven. I often see her coming and going from the library.”

Marcella tips her gaze to mine. “It’s lovely to be noticed by a fellow academic.”

Dean Shea bats the air, holding his glass out to one of the circulating servers. It’s refilled, the honeylike liquid sparkling. He takes a sip and sighs contentedly. “Lacie, you’d do well to echo Marcella’s process. She has a waitlist for next semester’s class already.”

“But I—”

Marcella rolls over my words, “And Dr. Davies, while Latin is not my field, I would so dearly love to grab you for a coffee sometime. While Norse and Latin have never been easy bedfellows, I’m interested in the trade route between Iceland and Italy, how they shared stories.”