“Miss Vale,” Emrys explains, “thought it might be beneficial to expand the scope of our inquiry.”
“They’re all Christians,” I say. “For what it’s worth. These aren’t alchemical texts or romances or anything. It’s theology.”
“I know who Hildegard von Bingen is,” Kingston says.
“Good.” I pull the topmost book off the stack and all but shove it into his hands. “Then you can start with her.”
I’m not sure where all the forcefulness is coming from. Maybe it’s spillover from the Candlemas Ball, from giving back to Elena, to Kingston, toKai,even. Maybe
Either way, Kingston doesn’t protest. He doesn’t say anything, actually, simply gets to work on the first lines of Hildegard’sScivias, his fountain pen in hand.
It’s…surprising.
And even more surprising when he speaks up toward the end of class.
“Gwenna.”
The sound of my name almost startles me, and I nearly stab my pen through a page of Mechthild’s. I have to blink a few times to refocus my vision.
“What,” I say, distracted and almost confused. I look at the papers on my desk and his. “Did I take something you need? These aren't very well organized, and…”
“May I ask you a question?” Kingston says. “I'm sorry to interrupt.”
I press my lips together.You just did, I think, but there's no point in being sassy. “Fire away,” I say instead.
“Have you been eating anything?”
I don't know how to finish the sentence. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “Here and there. Morgan and I keep snacks in her room.”
A movement passes over Kingston's face that could almost be called a sneer, but he quashes it away too fast for me to tell. “I've seen the way she eats,” he says. “I wouldn't call it food.”
“Ha,” I say. “Well…” I chew my lip.
“You never go to the dining hall,” Kingston goes on. “I asked the other three.”
“I do,” I insist. “I mean, I did. Once or twice.”
“Once or twice,” Kingston repeats. “You’ve been for a few weeks now.”
I grimace. “Yeah, well, it's kind of…awkward,” I say, frustration seeping into my tone despite my resolution to be neutral. “I have no friends, and if Morgan's not there, which she usually isn’t, I’m just walking around looking for a place to sit with my bodyguard, who isn't eating because he's got everything waiting for him back at Camlann. And so I have people looking at me and looking at the person looking at me, who is also looking at me. It doesn't…” I exhale sharply. “It kills my appetite, I guess. I don't like doing it. I don't like being watched.”
“I understand,” Kingston says after a moment. “We'll figure something out.”
The next day, when Callahan drops me in class and I sit at my workstation, there's something new alongside all the stacks of papers and my scribbled notebook.
A brown paper bag. Like a literal lunch sack from a cartoon.
I throw a glance sideways at Kingston. His eyes are trained on the work in front of him, one broad hand holding down the facsimile as he transcribes in longhand, fountain pen in the other. I look back at the paper bag, then back at him.
“Is this…” I trail off.
“You said you didn't like people watching you,” he says evenly. “So I'm just going to keep working here.”
The back of my neck and my cheeks get hot. Ididsay that, didn’t I? I blow out a breath and uncurl the top, reach inside, and retrieve a small glass container with neatly cut carrot sticks and something wrapped in wax paper that I peel back gingerly. A sandwich, whole grain bread, and what looks like almond butter. And a carton of whole milk.
I look at Kingston again. He's still focused. And there’s a band-aid wrapped around the knuckle of his left index finger, I notice.
“I wasn't sure what you'd like,” he says, “or if you had any allergies, but?—“
