“Nothing.” Kai exhales. “Just, I never thought you looked that much like him, you know? Your dad.” He breathes in sharply, chews on his damn lip piercing because he knows it'll drive me crazy, and turns to look at me properly.
“Anyway. That's that, I guess." He stares down at the scapular in my hand. "So now what?"
TWENTY-SIX
GWENNA
“Scuse me,”I say, trying to thread my way through the handful of people standing near the entrance to Porter’s. “Sorry, I just?—”
“You’re excused.”
Elena Shalott’s voice is entirely neutral. I swallow hard and duck my head, praying to God I didn’t step on her toes or something by accident. She’s there with a few friends, it seems, clustered by the door and not especially dressed up—afternoon beers to chat and catch up, not a big spangled social outing.
“Oh,” I say. “Hi. Um, how are you doing, Elena?”
Anytime, Morgan,I think desperately.Anytime you wanted to show up…
“Oh, you know.” Elena gives me a tight smile. “Trying to make it to the end of the semester. Just getting over that flu that’s going around.”
She shrugs, and I realize: that’s it. Small talk. A peace offering.
It’s honestly a relief.
“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” I say. And I mean it—I really do.
“Thanks,” she says, and it sounds like she means it too. She nods toward the back of the bar. “I think Morgan’s looking for you.”
When I asked Morgan if she could meet up, and she suggested Porter’s, of all places, I was surprised, but not opposed. I hadn't actually been to the campus bar since the disastrous first cap of my fall semester. And now, in late afternoon fading to early evening, it actually appears quite cozy: the snugs’ warm wood lit by faux oil lamps on the walls, a fireplace flickering, the walls hung with sepia-tinted photographs of Caliburn University past.
Sure enough, Elena was right. "You look like someone who needs a drink,” calls a familiar voice. Morgan waves me from one of the snugs—not like it’s hard to see her, though, since besides Elena and her friends, there are barely ten other people in here. "Fortunately, I saved you my favorite booth.”
“You have a favorite booth?”
“Is that a surprise?” Morgan says. "I do have a social life outside of lending you clothes and helping my idiot stepbrother stop the apocalypse or whatever, you know.”
"Oh yeah, of course," I say, and feel slightly guilty, as I do. Because, honestly, I've been leaning on Morgan so much—in general, and especially in the past few weeks, that it's hardnotto feel bad, especially since I'm literally here to ask her yet another favor. I duck my head as I pull off my jacket, then slide into the booth across from her. “Um, what’s so great about it?”
"Oh, I think that's obvious," Morgan says slyly, and rolls her eyes cartoonishly at the photo on the wall inside the booth.
I look at it: a sort of class photograph from the mid-19th century. Men in jackets with beards, a women with her long hair scooped into a Gibson Girl poufs. "Classics and Medieval Studies Department" reads a spidery hand across the bottom.
"Oh," I say. “Very on-theme.”
"Well, sure.” Morgan clicks her tongue. “But look closer."
I do, and my eyes immediately fall on the lone woman, her white, ankle-length gown standing out amongst the suits. The recognition clicks physically before I can even put words to what I'm seeing, but when I do…
"Oh my God," I gasp. “It's her."
She stands at the very edge of the group, her dark hair, white gown, and faint smirk a stark contrast to the kind-eyed man in a long white beard and waistcoat next to her. She is proud, fully human, defiantly alive.
Vivian Thorne.
Morgan grins. "I know." She tilts her head at the photo and winks. "Hey Viv. How's it going, girl?"
"That's nuts," I say. I mean, I guess it isn't because she did study here, but still, the idea that the dark-haired coed in a photo taken when photographs had barely been invented and mystical ghost-like woman who appeared twenty feet tall over the surface of the lake are the same person is just…wild. I stare at her, amazed at hownormalshe looks. Although, I think, normal is all relative—being a woman in that group, at that time in history, would have to have been a novelty, at least judging by the look of sheer wonder the old bearded guy on her right is giving her. Like he’s astonished to have ever met such a creature.
"Time flies," Morgan says, her voice warm with nostalgia.
