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Then again, I really neverdidbelong anywhere.
It was getting late. I’d made a dent in my busywork, so it was finally time to do what I really wanted. Shoving everything into my bag, I made certain I had what I would need.
The temperature had dropped and the rain was coming down harder as I stepped outside. I rushed away from the street, hugging the buildings as much as possible because every puddle splash seemed to target my boots. Drops of water rolled down my nose and the back of my neck. The smart thing to do would be to run to my apartments and outfit myself more appropriately, but at the thought of diving deep into my research, excitement overcame any desire for comfort. I could find a spot near a heater and put my boots in front of it. Maybe that wasn’t the best manners, and I was trying to make a good impression…
But tenth century letters! And what if there were sketches? Forget comfort.
There was this thing that happened sometimes when I had an idea, or a theory, or was struck by a lightning bolt.
I got afraid.
Afraid I would lose the thread of my thoughts, or the one piece of evidence I needed.
It was why I kept things so locked down. Of course, my experience as a doctoral student—the controversy Dr. St. John hinted at—had cemented the lesson I learned about trusting the wrong people.
I ran into the library, feet squelching in my boots as I approached the librarian who could fetch my books. “Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems,” I told her. “The Al-Mas’udi Arabic version.” I crossed my fingers behind my back, hopeful no one else had asked to see the medieval Baghdadi’s book about his travels through the Middle and Far East. “And the nineteenth century French and English translations, by de Meynard and de Courteille, please.”
The older woman wrote my request on a slip of paper. She would put the paper in a tube that would go deep into the Bodleian where another librarian would find what I needed. Many of their rarer books were kept in climate controlled rooms. The nineteenth century translations weren’t really that old, but the tenth century reproduction? My fingers itched at the thought of touching those pages.
“Did you also want the Sprenger sketches?” she asked, referencing a series of lighthouse sketches supposedly made by an English man who had seen the original book—as in—the one actually written in the hand of Al-Mas’udi.
My entire body heated. “Those are supposed to be housed in Princeton.” And I’d begged to see them when I spoke there this summer.
“We requested them when you accepted the position with us, Dr. Ophidia.”
Oh, wow.
“Yes, please.” I hitched my bag higher onto my shoulder. “Thank you.” I paused, hoping she would fill in her name.
She did. “Linda Whitmore.”
“Thank you, Ms. Whitmore.” I held out my hand and she shook it.
“I’ll bring you the books and sketches. Will you be in the same spot?”
It took all my willpower to keep my jaw from dropping. Apparently I’d fallen into a routine without realizing it.
I’d found a desk among the stacks, where it was well-lit but also warm, as my wet boot problem of today was a pretty common occurrence. “Thank you,” I said again. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
She smiled, placed the paper in the tube, and turned her back, effectively dismissing me.
Standing a moment longer, I watched the tube disappear. The system the Bodleian used wasn’t so different than going through a drive-up bank. Pneumatic tubes ran all through the building, humming and racing with the varied requests of patrons.
I left before Ms. Whitmore could find me gaping to hurry to my now-obvious, usual spot. The library was busy, but I knew in a few hours it would be even busier. I’d arrived before dinner. Most students and researchers were leaving to meet friends at pubs, or their families at home.
Depressing thought, but I hadn’t made any friends here yet. For a split second, Pollux, with his green eyes and rugged face, popped into my head. Our exchange, though tense, had left me with a feeling like maybe, we could be friends.
No.I dismissed it. He was far too rude and hard to make sense of. I wasn’t good with subtlety. It took too much effort to decipher.
I thought back to my few, ultimately unsatisfying sexual experiences. One of which began with the oh-so-charming line, “So are we going to fuck or not?”
The answer should have been, “Absolutely not,” but it had been our fourth date, and I hadn’t realized yet that I could say no.
A chill ran down my spine that I blamed on being drenched by the rain.
“You should take what you can get.”
That had been my mother’s advice that night when she saw me dressed up.“Unbutton the top button at least. You’re not a nun.”
