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“Precisely.” I sit with a flip of my hem across from Dean Shea. “And to be frank, who wouldn’t want to look at something with fresh eyes after so long laboring over Greek.”

Evan reddens. “There is enough sex and gore in The Odyssey to make anyone blush.”

“Quite,” Madame Kehane says in her hoity-toity French accent as she taps her chin thoughtfully. “But I would venture a guess, Mr. Miller, that Marcella’s appeal is that newness factor we’ve so needed here at Preston.”

“One of the reasons we brought her on, indeed.” Dean Shea settles back in his chair, accepting a lighter from one of the men next to him. He puffs his pipe, spilling blue smoke through the close air of his office. “Marcella, you haven’t met our alumni, both professors emeritus. They’ll be teaching next semester alongside you. This is William Quiggley, distinguished professor of Latin,” he says, motioning to a rather tall, thin man with Coke-bottle spectacles and a handlebar moustache above sharp yellow teeth, “and this is Morris Whittaker, Fulbright scholar and distinguished professor of Norse history.” The latter man cannot be quite as old as Quiggley. With sharp gray eyes and an impeccably cut blazer to match, he’s not older than sixty-five. A Fulbright scholar, and distinguished professor emeritus? How?

But I know exactly how, don’t I?

Despite my reservations, I offer them a sparkling smile that only Quiggley returns. “Charmed.” Settling my hands in my lap like a good schoolgirl, I smile up at Dean Shea. “Had you already met quorum? I’m sorry if I intruded. I was busy gathering materials at the library for next semester.”

Dean Shea waves a dismissing hand, even as Evan’s glare darkens. Ever the gatekeeper, I suppose. And to think he seemed so jocular when I met him on the quad only a week or two ago. Perhaps he’s stung I prefer Lacie’s company over his.

“You young things,” Quiggley says. “I remember when I was a mite of an academic and cared so much.” He guffaws. “But those students will eat up whatever you put in front of them. A word of advice: simply reuse this coming semester’s syllabus.”

He’s all yellowed teeth and jaundiced eyeballs, but I smile at him like he’s just the most perfect man I’ve ever seen. “Wonderful idea, thank you so much, Dr. Quiggley. Or,” I murmur, “do you prefer William?”

He grins at me like a little boy. “Will is fine for you.”

“Wow, first-name basis,” Evan mutters, picking up and putting down the same pen over and over.

Whittaker settles on the edge of Dean Shea’s desk, looking me over. “You seem a touch old for an assistant professor, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Asshole. “No offense taken. I sowed my wild oats in Europe for a spell.” I rub my fingers together. “Made some money. Decided I liked knowledge more than I did a high-powered job in New York. Surely some others come to the profession late.”

He’s still studying me in a way that worries me: if he can see what I am now, paired with Evan’s restlessness over my feelings for Lacie, it could spell disaster. If they cast enough doubt, there’s every reason to eliminate me—and I’m not talking about program expulsion. Better to be sweet than sour.

Changing the subject, I say, “But, Dr. Whittaker, Norse history? I expect we’ll be crossing paths many a time in the Rare Book Room. And to that end”—I turn to Dean Shea—“I noticed it was closed when I went to do some research earlier today. I hope the collection is alright?”

A vein jumps in Madame Kehane’s jaw. She looks genuinely concerned. Interesting.

I’m going to put her down as a human for now, I think. Merely a thrall.

“There was … an incident. Some drunk idiots pulled the fire alarm in the library adjacent, and the sprinkler system malfunctioned.” She pinches the bridge of her nose with a surly affectation only the French seem to be able to muster. “They are working on repairing the damage now.”

“Juliette is right. The Rare Book Room must be treated to prevent rot. Regrettably, we currently lack the funding to address the issues in full. Until we do, I’m afraid it’s librarian and need-to-know access only.”

I’m sure that’s a lie, but Lyle will tell us for sure.

I look at Shea, smug across his desk as he takes a puff of his pipe. Damned fool, sitting in a study like this, with towering books and a heady view of campus, not worried in the least about his control on this place. He can’t know that we’re onto him.

“Shouldn’t the endowment be quite enough to cover that?” I ask. I know it’s an overstep, but something isn’t quite sitting right with me. It seems too … pat. The timing is suspicious. Dean Shea doesn’t seem worried enough to me. “Surely Preston has a sizable fortune and an insurance policy that—”

“Unfortunately,” Dean Shea interrupts, “the endowment fund is paid out slowly, an amortized amount rather than in single large remittances.”

Inwardly, I take note of this. If that’s the case, Preston operates unlike every other university I’ve ever studied at. Most places like this have a big old bank account to draw from. Yes, it needs board approval, but something like the rare book collection should be worth saving. I shrug a little, keeping my thoughts to myself. “What a shame. I hope we don’t lose the collections. I’ve been told they’re vast.”

“They are, my dear, they are.” Dean Shea strikes the desk with his fist, tobacco ash flittering from his pipe. “And now let us bring this meeting to order.” He glances around, suddenly hesitant. “Has anyone seen Sims?”

In the corner of my eye, Evan shrugs. “Not since the dance.”

Madame Kehane hums. “Odd, oui, I saw him there as well. He was with you, wasn’t he, Marcella?”

All the eyes in the room turn on me. I have hundreds of years of experience in lying. The trick is in the balance: say only as much as you need to.

“I did see him there.” I rub my chin thoughtfully. “But unfortunately, Lacie wasn’t feeling so well—too much punch—so I offered to bring her back to Preston’s campus.”

“How odd, indeed.” Whittaker’s still looking at me; I can feel his eyes boring holes into the side of my head.