But minutes later, when he again glanced at his legal pad, he discovered that she’d managed to write a question there without him noticing, a question so simple he’d be churlish not to answer.
I should know my mentor’s name. What is it?
Dammit. He had to respond. The rules of politeness required it, as did a smoothly functioning mentor-mentee relationship.
Simon Burnham, he wrote on his paper.Chair of the Math Department.
At some point, she’d returned to her doodling. Now the ivy swept across the page, sliding through openings in the skull, the vines encroaching and ominous, edged and shadowed in black.
She wasn’t paying him a bit of attention anymore, and he stared at her profile for a moment, unable to reconcile her blend of cheer and macabre sensibilities, unable to determine why he suddenly wanted her eyes back on him.
His dignity wouldn’t allow him to poke her with his notebook, as she’d done to him. Instead, he lightly tapped her bare arm with his fingertips, just below where she’d pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan.
Her skin was warm and giving, even under such a tentative touch. When he withdrew his hand, he clenched it around an unexpected burn.
As she turned those bright eyes back to him, he pointed to his paper. She read his note, then contemplated him for a moment, smile absent, her scrutiny uncomfortably sharp.
Shall I call you Simon or Mr. Burnham?she finally wrote in her notebook.
He knew trouble when it nudged him in the arm.
If first impressions proved accurate, Ms. Wick was a problem with no clear solution, a human version of the Riemann Hypothesis, and he wanted none of it. None of her.
Mr. Burnham, he wrote, and determinedly ignored her for the rest of the faculty meeting.
When the lengthy meeting ended,Ms. Wick tucked her notebook beneath her arm, slung her purse over her shoulder, and raised a pale eyebrow. “Have I passed initial inspection, Mr. Burnham?”
Her voice was slightly hoarse, low and warm with amusement. It seemed expressly designed for sharing confidences and laughter. But Simon had never indulged in those sorts of dangerous intimacies, and he didn’t intend to start now. Especially with someone like her.
“I’ll meet you in your room shortly,” he said.
At that, she snorted. “I’ll take that as a no.”
The prospect didn’t seem to bother her. She left the table after a saucy salute in his direction, and within a dozen confident strides, she was linking arms with one of the other art teachers and whispering briefly before they both convulsed with mirth as they left the cafeteria.
Maybe she was laughing at him. His rigidity. His coldness.
Fortunately, he didn’t care about her good opinion. He cared about professionalism and hard work and creating an orderly, calm environment for himself and his students alike. As long as the personal lives and judgments of his colleagues didn’t affect job performance, they were irrelevant. Hell, he didn’t even know why Mildred had left, or why Candy was so happy to see the older woman gone. He didn’t need to know, and he didn’t want to.
Although Mildred, as of last year, hadn’t mentioned the prospect of leaving, and the customary ceremonies accompanying the retirement of such a longtime teacher hadn’t occurred. No announcement in a faculty meeting or presentation of flowers and a gift. No potluck in the library, which he visited only to offer a handshake before promptly departing once more.
Odd. Very odd.
Considering the matter, he slowly walked to the cafeteria door, only to find himself beside Candy and one of the newer English teachers—Greg? Griff? It didn’t matter.
“Ms. Albright.” Simon was speaking to her. Why was he speaking to her? “Please pardon the interruption. I was wondering—”
No, he wasn’t a gossip, and he didn’t care.
Her brows rose behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “Yes, Mr. Burnham?”
He wrestled with himself for a moment.
“Mildred. Mrs. Krackel.” There. That wasn’t a question. Thus, he wasn’t a gossip.
Greg-Griff-Whoever turned away to cough into his fist, shoulders shaking, while a tiny, evil smile curved Ms. Albright’s mouth.
“Mildred got what she deserved,” she declared. “Mary Shelley would be pleased.”
