Classics building, top floor.
Kingston’s waiting when I get there, just outside Emrys’s classroom. I haven’t seen much of him since Easter, and he looks better—somewhat.
Especially, I can’t help but notice, now that he sees me.
I move for the door, but before I can enter, Kingston gently catches my elbow. I stop, and he lowers his hand, interlacing his fingers with mine.
“Do you mind?” he asks.
I flush a little, thinking of what Kai said the other day. “I don’t really think it’s a secret,” I mumble.
“I suppose not,” Kingston says, after a moment. “But that’s not what I asked.”
Right. I shake my head again. “No,” I confirm. “I don’t mind.”
I just want to get this over with.
When we come in, Dr. Emrys gets to his feet, the troubled crease in his brow melting into relief.
“It is good to see the two of you,” he says. “Very good indeed.”
Kingston nods, and Emrys’s eyes flick to our joined hands. Suddenly, an impulse seizes me, and I let go of Kingston and barrel forward to wrap my arms around our professor.
“Oh,” Emrys says. “My.” But there’s a smile in his voice.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling back. “I’m just glad to be alive, I guess.”
Emrys smiles. “That makes three of us, I’m sure.” He gestures for us to take our desks, which we do—although not before Kingston helps me out of my coat. It’s almost as thoughwe’re about to start a regular class: the same bookshelves of yellowing pages, the same faded posters, the same blackboard and creaky floors.
But we all know nothing is really the same.
“So, then,” Emrys says, looking between both of us. “I suppose one of you ought to fill me in.”
“I can,” Kingston says, and the gratitude I feel towards him is almost palpable.
Kingston tells the story, as quickly and briefly as possible, beginning with our arrival at St. Ignaty's. As Kingston speaks, Emrys's face is grave. I close my eyes, like I'm seasick, listening to just the edges of the details so I can know when it's over.
Mercifully, when Kingston gets to the very end, he keeps it all general. Broadest of broad strokes.They got her. Tried to kill her. We stopped them.
And then it’s over.
“Well.” Emrys has settled behind his desk, hands folded, staring into the middle distance, but he swiftly returns to Earth. “What do you propose we do?”
“You’re the teacher,” I mumble, almost sarcastically. “You tell us.”
I just want to be given an assignment, I think. Something normal, almostmundane. I am craving simple, human, low-stakes work.
“I’m theprofessor,” Emrys corrects. “And forgive me, but given all you’ve just told me, I’m disinclined to put anyone’s noses to the grindstone.” He exhales, thinking. “I should like to read something. Not study, for now. Just read. Wouldn’t you?”
I nod. Eagerly. Emrys smiles, and walks to the bookshelves, scanning past the historological texts, the broad volumes of facsimiles, the sourcebooks of transliterations, and to the smaller, more ordinary bindings. Terence, Vergil, Ovid. Comedies, poetry.
Kingston blinks. “But?—”
“Reading may be done for pleasure, you know, Mr. Pendragon,” Emrys interrupts, not eyes still fixed on the shelves as he picks out some offerings. “And contrary to what many seem to think, it’s wholly advisable to do so once in a while.”
We spendthat class on verse. Latin love poems, clever little things with the Roman equivalent of flirty wordplay. The next class, it’s theHeroides,Ovid’s poems of famous women. Then excerpts from Vergil’sEclogues, pastoral poems of bright green fields and grazing sheep.
“Thelocus amoenus,” Emrys remarks one class. “The pleasant place. A favorite topic of poets, and a welcome choice for days such as these.”
