Page 44

“You can grab me anytime,” Dr. Davies says, his cheeks glowing, “especially about bedfellows.”

I redden in a secondhand embarrassment. She must know what she’s doing. But she’s so … so direct. It makes me shudder.

Dean Shea’s smile turns unreadable. “Speaking of, Marcella, where is Arjun? He told me he would be here with you tonight, but I didn’t see him arrive.”

Marcella shrugs an elegant shoulder, but her smile turns unsteady and she grabs a bookshelf. Her fingers slide along the wood, knocking into a reprinting of Pythagoras. I can’t tell if she’s having a sinking spell or something, or if she’s just hemming and hawing.

When she straightens again, eyes sharpening, I decide the latter.

“Unfortunately, Arjun never reached out to me.”

“What? But he told me—”

“The changeable will of men, I suppose,” I say, placing a hand on Marcella’s wrist. “Perhaps he was more hurt by Laurel’s passing than we knew.”

Dean Shea rolls his eyes. “A wolf does not concern himself with the passing of a pup.” My heart skips an odd beat. Why does no one seem to care about her?

“I think Lacie might be correct,” Marcella says. Her arm slips from my grip, but her fingertips graze my hip deliberately.

I scan her face and see that she’s still off-kilter: sweat beads at her temples, her smile just a mite forced. I’ve never seen her this way, and something about it turns my stomach.

“In any case,” she continues, “I hope he’s alright.”

Dean Shea slips his phone from his pocket, skimming through his messages. “Here, though—” He holds out the messages to us. “He told me he was coming. With you.”

Marcella reads them over and stills a moment. My heart beats heavy, too heavy, inside me. What the fuck is happening? Then she turns … something on, her lips curving into a broad, catlike smile. “Arjun told me he was studying hard for his courses. He has an oral to judge next week, isn’t that right? Perhaps he fell asleep in his library carrel. I’ll give him a stern talking-to when I see him next, if so.”

My eyes dash between Dean Shea, whose expression has gone calculating, and Marcella. Drs. Sims and Davies eye us nervously, hiding in their drinks. The orals are posted on our intranet, so if this is a lie, it’s poorly laid. But then Dean Shea’s eyes narrow in an approximation of a smile.

“Yes, you’re right, aren’t you. He does. Well, then, that’s solved.” He slips his phone back into his pocket but doesn’t take his eyes from Marcella. “Perhaps he did have a soft spot for Laurel, and now he’s become overwhelmed by work. It’s possible I don’t know him as well as I thought.”

The concession of the point takes something out of him, and he struggles to recover.

“Now, Lacie.” Dean Shea turns back to me, assessing and cool. He takes another sip of his drink as he studies me. “Good as it is to see you, I don’t recall asking for your presence.”

“Ah, that’s my fault.” Marcella gives him a simpering little curtsey.

“Now, now,” he says, wagging his finger like she’s a dog who deigned to steal a bite of food from the countertop, “these events are exclusive, and only I may issue invitations.”

“Apologies. Of course, I thought a faculty member as stellar as Lacie would receive an invitation.” Marcella’s smile hardens, but her hands knit together, knuckles whitening.

“There are other fine member of Classics, though, aren’t there?” Dean Shea snaps his fingers, and the sharp sound quiets the din. “Lyle! Come here, boy.”

Lyle’s eyes shadow but he cuts through the crowd. There’s a tightness around his lips, his brow buckling even as he stops in front of us. Therese trails behind, her moon-colored dress billowing gently around her. She’s as distrustful as Lyle, and I don’t blame her. But we have to bend the knee, all of us, don’t we?

“Sir?” Lyle grinds out, and Dean Shea smiles.

“Well, Arjun isn’t here, and this has turned into quite a hen party”—he gestures at me, Marcella, and Therese—“so I thought some testosterone would do us good.”

“Always good, sir, to have other men around,” Lyle says, uncertain, the words sounding foreign in his mouth.

Sims, Davies, and Dean Shea laugh, their screeching sharp as nails in my ears.

“You are a sharp one, the poor quality of your work notwithstanding,” Dean Shea says, and Therese bares her teeth.

She begins, “Excuse me—”

Lyle puts a sick smile on his lips and makes concurring sounds, his fingertips pressing soothingly against Therese’s back.