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Meet Me in the Margins

Page 12

by Melissa Ferguson

There’s a long pause.

“Chaucer,” he repeats.

His lips twitch. Is he trying not to smile?

“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin a millimeter. “I adore Chaucer. Chaucer’s . . .” I scour the crevices of my brain for that new Word of the Day I learned recently for just such an occasion. “. . . phantasmagorical.” I wave my hand around. “I can read Chaucer’s tales for hours.”

And believe it or not, there it is again. The lip twitch.

“Really. And which tale is your favorite?”

Shoot, Savannah, now you’ve done it. But I know this. I read Chaucer in English Lit my freshman year. Or part of it. Or at least what I could understand through all the “ful ofte tyme he hadde” and “gentil knights.” Now, which tales . . . which tales . . .

At last, like a blessed dove from above, a tale comes to mind, and I snatch for it. “Well, if pressed, I’d have to say ‘The Miller’s Tale.’ Excellent message.”

His work frown has apparently lost the battle against amusement entirely now, because the twitch gives up and finally concedes to a grin. “The drunken miller’s fabliau about a carpenter and the two men who want to sleep with the wife. That message?”

For a moment, our eyes are locked. He’s daring me to answer.

“Yes,” I say, trying hard not to grind my teeth. “Yes, that’s the one. Positively riveting stuff. And, of course, there are my other passions as well, like those books on”—my eyes dart to Oswald—“landscaping.”

“Well, of course.” William’s eyes turn to Oswald as he puts out a hand. “Landscaping. So. Chaucer and . . . landscaping. You must have a sizable yard, then. For all that gardening.”

“Not at the moment,” I hedge. “But I do have a window box that’s very inviting.”

For the birds, who have built a nest on last year’s dead pansies.

“Oh, right. Yes. I have seen some rather elaborate ones. There’s really an art there.” But for all his polite words, William’s temples are crinkling, his eyes looking dangerously close to being outright mirthful. “I commend you for your efforts to educate yourself. Pity, though. I’m a bit of a Green fan myself. Would’ve been nice to meet another.”

I can see the challenge in his gaze. He’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to crack.

Now it’s my turn to pull an Oswald and be wary of the conversational traps.

“What’s the name of the one he put out last year?” He frowns as though talking to himself, trying to remember. “Treacherous Games?”

Lies. The book is Treacherous Lies, and he knows it.

I narrow my eyes.

For all I know, this is a test, and William Pennington is even more insane about the evils of commercial fiction than his mother is. After all, he was brought in to be the hangman. He is here to save Pennington and make the hard choices. I’m one of the newest employees to the company after all the others have been cut. First he sees me smuggling in romance on the job. Now, perhaps, he’s gathering final evidence before the kill. Playing a little good cop before slamming the cell door.

“Anyway,” I say loudly, “we’ve got a big day ahead of us, Oswald. We’d better be off.”

For a moment William surveys me, looking as though he’s working out whether he wants to pursue the conversation some more or let it go. But then he blinks, and with it, his expression vanishes. He turns his attention to Oswald.

“I look forward to hearing about it tonight,” William says and gives Mr. Makers one final shake of the hand.

Oswald and I have just taken our first steps toward the door when William adds, “And Savannah?”

I pause and turn my head.

“I am particularly intrigued to hear how your experience goes in the pod today. Please be sure to update me. Perhaps it’ll be something for the company to consider adding as a benefit in our health plan.”

And there it is again. The merest twinkle in his corporate eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d even call it a dare.

I plaster my smile firmly in place, partly because I refuse to admit a dare from my boss and the CEO’s son could even exist, partly because the mere thought of adding float tanks to the corporate health plan is so revolting it threatens to make me nauseous. “Of course. I’ll be looking forward to it.”

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