Page 105 of The Villains of Winter

Finch spoke on Elliott’s behalf when Elliott couldn’t think of anything. “He’s speechless and honored. Nice work, Elliott. Congratulations.”

His words were fine enough to earn modest applause, and Elliott nodded, now stricken with fear at the prospect of speaking in front of everyone. How could he perform a winter recitation?

He couldn’t speak well in front of crowds. Not to mention, half of the student body despised him.

The libations began once Elliott stuttered through his thank you to Professor Ilaria, who grandly accepted the praise and credit for the banquet.

“Well, I orchestrated it all for you, dearest Erôs. I spared no expense for my finest student.”

“We spared no expense of our time and effort,” a junior mumbled into their chalice of Aegean wine. “The preparation took us all month.”

Finch rasped a cough. He fought back a hacking sound, not wanting to appear as sick as he was, grasping for some of the baklava. It was flaky and warm, and Elliott ate more than he should have as Professor Ilaria plied him with plates of ram until he built a thirst.

She presented him with refills of wine.

Elliott washed down the last of James’s replenished chalice. Then he reached for his own, but Finch grasped Elliott’s chalice.

He whispered, “Can I drink yours? I can’t consume alcohol with my medications.” Professor Ilaria had plentifully supplied wine to all those who were twenty-one and older. However, she had endowed Elliott with his own chalice of a medley of foraged fruits.

“Sure. I think it’s pomegranate extract mainly.” The extract appeared darkened, far more tenebrous than the wine, and therefore Elliott couldn’t distinguish which distinct bounty of fruits it was. “Maybe cranberry extract?”

A bearded senior slid into the seat on the other side of Elliott as everyone chatted and devoured the provisions. “How did you get the part?”

I almost died and Professor Ilaria took pity on me. Elliott wanted to tell the truth, but he figured he couldn’t. “I…um…I made an impassioned speech.”

“Speech? You mean you performed a monologue or a soliloquy?” A junior interrogated, as though they didn’t believe him. “James Wilde put in a word for you, didn’t he? I see you with him all the time.”

The senior cross-examined bluntly, “What theater productions have you acted in before?”

“Do you have any experience in the theater?”

His peers mumbled to each other, craning their necks to take a look at Elliott.

“He doesn’t even look like he’s acted before. He carries himself as though he’s afraid of himself.”

“Has he even read a script?”

Elliott kept his head down, hoping they’d lose interest and stop staring at him, questioning his every movement.

“He hasn’t been trained in antiquity.”

“He eats with his left hand. Is he messing with us?”

“I heard he didn’t even know the name Erôs.”

“He probably knew Erôs only as Cupid.”

“Why is he the lead again?”

Elliott felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m really proud of you, Elliott.” Finch smiled at him, his pallid skin was wan. He dried it with a cloth. “When I first saw you in the rapids, you had bruises all over. You never backed down from a scrimmage on the ice in front of the coach. I’m glad you still have that fight in you to take on something like this.”

“Thanks, Finch, but I didn’t pick any of this. It all sort of happened.” Elliott grinned back at him. “Regardless, you were one of the best hockey players on the team. That means a lot coming from you.”

Finch socked him in the arm. “Don’t get sentimental on me now. Are you going to sketch the banquet as a memory keepsake?” He posed, and they fell into a moment of passing the time, flipping over Elliott’s sketches.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Finch asked quietly.