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No further word was spoken, and Felicity dipped her head and hurried away, Ms. Dillard watching until she was out of sight. When she finally regarded me, she studied my ensemble and my hair, the corners of her lips turned down, aging her.
“Don’t you look nice, Miss Foxboro,” she said. My skin prickled at her odd tone. “The professor will be ready to meet you after lunch. He’ll not join you, as he often wishes to dine privately.”
“All right,” I barely managed as she whisked away, leaving me on my own again.
Chapter 7
I redressed in my old skirt and white flannel blouse. Ms. Dillard had seen the impropriety in accepting gifts from an employer, no matter how practical, and I should have too. I chose, however, to leave my hair as it was since Felicity had been so kind to do it.
As expected, there was only one place setting in the dining room. I ate cold sandwiches in silence, an insignificant presence at the expansive table, and didn’t linger. The library door was slightly ajar when I arrived, warm light pooling on the carpets. Hoping to understand what I was walking into, I peeked cautiously through the crack.
Professor Hughes towered over his desk, heaps of papers, books, and journals surrounding him. His face was clean-shaven, his dark hair tamed into the sleek, smooth style so popular now. He didn’t look as dangerous as he had in the moonlit halls, but his beauty still irked me. Men like this got everything they wanted, behaved however they pleased without repercussion or reprimand. Nature had made it a law.
A pang of guilt followed my unkind thoughts. The man had lost his wife, and here I was, skulking and judging him for being handsome.
“Isn’t it unsuitable for a lady to lurk in doorways?” Professor Hughes said, not looking up. I’d been caught.
I rolled my eyes then plastered a warm smile on my face and entered.
“Afternoon,” I said, refusing to acknowledge my sneaking.
He made a harsh noise in return and regarded me.
“Did the clothes I had delivered not fit you?” he asked.
“I brought my own clothes, Professor Hughes.”
He returned to the book he’d been examining. “There’s a tear in your skirt.”
I glanced down, finding he was right. A rip tattered my hem, the fabric hanging lopsided. I cursed it to hell for its betrayal.
“Consider the clothes a benefit,” he continued, closing the book with a vigorous flip of the hand.
As I suspected, he believed he’d have his way.
“I’d prefer a higher salary, sir,” I said, my abruptness forcing a short, genuine laugh from him.
“Is the wage not agreeable to you?”
“It’s satisfactory,” I lied. It was excessive.
“Well, prove your salt in this jungle of research, and perhaps it can be negotiated. Hannigan told me you have extensive knowledge of Celtic folklore.” He shuffled papers, looking for something lost in the mayhem, and I groaned inwardly.
“Sufficientknowledge,” I corrected him. “I told Dr. Hannigan many times that my interest is personal, not academic.”
“You simply enjoy fairy stories.”
It came across as a judgment.
“Well, I don’t—”
“My mother loved them as well,” Professor Hughes remarked, halting my defense. “It’s why I bothered with the whole doctorate mess. She obsessed over their mischief, and every particle of her believed the Sidhe had blessed our family. I wanted to study that belief, all the peculiar things humans invent to explain both the horrific and ecstatic mysteries of life.”
The way he spoke, he might have been starting a lecture at the head of a class. Against my wishes, I found it endearing.
“It sounds fascinating,” I ventured, too timid to share that I read purely for pleasure: for the romance of the warriors, the devilment of the fae, and the thrill monsters of myth could inspire. I enjoyed the excitement of facing a beast on the safe side of the page, where defeating it meant only closing the cover. “What are you hoping to gain from this research?”
He considered for a moment.
