“Everything,” she sighed. “Poetry, novels, history, phil—” She stopped suddenly. If she referenced Descartes, he might make the connection between her and the strange, unpleasant girl in the library. She knew their interaction had been full ofsomethings wrong.If he knew the real Fern, he would not want to see her again. And she had to see him again.
“Poetry, you say?” Alexander seemed not to notice her silence. “Whose work do you enjoy?”
“Byron, of course, and Blake, but I love the Americans as well. Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman, and Dickinson, the woman from New England. She’s brilliant.”
He nodded at her as if in approval, and warmth spread through her. She was unaccustomed to this sort of attention, this unspoken praise, but she wanted more of it. Especially if it came from him.
Alexander held up a thin volume of poetry he had pulled from the shelf. It was well worn, the leather cracked and the bindings separated from frequent use. “I assume Tennyson as well? I am not as fond of his work, to be honest.”
Fern had spent hours with the pages, devouring the words again and again, until their rhythm and cadence became a part of her. “Quite a bit of it can be pedantic, butThe Princessspeaks to my heart.”
Again, Alexander seemed surprised. “Really? I wouldn’t have thought…”
But Fern was lost. Just saying the title had spurred her memory and words began pouring into her mind.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more:
thy fate and mine are seal’d:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.
Fern did not realize she had been speaking the words aloud until she looked at Alexander. His mouth opened in an O of surprise, his blue eyes wide as he took her in. She winced then bit her lip. Clearly, she had done something terribly wrong for him to look at her like that.Rose would never do such a thing, Rose would—
“You memorized the passage?”
She looked down at her feet, unsure what answer would earn his approval. Finally, she told the truth. “I’ve memorized the entire poem.”
He gaped at her. “All seven parts?”
She nodded. “And the conclusion.”
Alexander ran his fingers through his auburn hair and chuckled. “You are certainly not what I expected you to be.”
Fern’s stomach dropped. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carroway, I—”
Alexander took her hands in his, interlocking his fingers with hers until they were linked, woven together. Warmth rushed through her, spreading from her fingertips down to her toes, making them curl in her silk slippers. “You’re much more than I expected. You truly are remarkable.” He gave her a bashful smile. “Will you call me Alex, or is that too forward?”
His praise made her heart sing. She was soaring, his words filling her with inexplicable pride. “It’s not,” she whispered.
Alex dropped his eyes then and put the poetry book back on the shelf, and Fern saw a blush creeping up his neck. “I suppose we should go back to the party.”
“But must we? There’s so much…nonsense out there,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
