Chapter 8 Raven
Raven
She had beauty that endured, and a smile that was not forgotten. Somewhere her voice still lingered, and the memory of her words.
—Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca
Pippa, my coworker, is already gone for the day, the library is closing, and the only people left are the overachieving archivists setting the last of the books in place.
I pretend to be one of them, sorting through piles of old books, putting them on carts, staying busy while the library empties.
From the circulation desk, I see Aspen approaching, and I quickly lift the stack of books I’ve prepared, an inkwell balanced on top.
I plot a course that will run right into him, then I raise the books in front of my face, listening to his footsteps tapping on the old wood floors.
As we cross paths, I pretend to trip, and the inkwell tips, emptying its contents onto his jacket, the books sliding out of my hands, falling haphazardly onto the floor, and making a terrible racket.
“Oh!” I cry as Aspen lets out a surprised yelp. “I’m so sorry!”
Aspen raises his arms as I rush in, patting my hands frantically over the ink stain setting into the fabric of his jacket. In the chaos, I take note of the keys, which look heavy in the pocket of his jacket. “Let me help,” I say, real tears burning my eyes.
“It’s okay!” he says. “It’s all right!”
Aspen slips off his jacket, and I take it, swiping the keys from the pocket and putting them in mine as I fold his jacket over my arm. I fuss over the ink and try not to think about what I’ve just done. The keys feel heavier than they ought to, as if they’re made of lead, my guilt weighing me down.
“I’m so clumsy,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Aspen kneels, helping me pick up all of the books and setting them back into a pile.
“I don’t know what came over me,” I say, putting the books on the desk.
Aspen grasps me by the arms, capturing my gaze, and says earnestly, “It’s just ink, Raven.”
“I know, but your jacket is ruined. Let me try to clean it for you, please.”
“Don’t worry about it. I promise, it’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. I’ll take it to the dry cleaner’s for you and everything.”
But Aspen just smiles and presses his hand on the stain and murmurs an incantation in Latin, removing the ink from the fabric.
“Good as new,” he says, still smiling.
“Wow.” I’m genuinely impressed.
“This kind of thing happens all the time. Trust me, I spilled a dozen in my first year.”
I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “I guess I’m still getting used to working around magic.”
“We all start somewhere. No one’s holding it against you, especially not me.”
From the way he’s looking at me, the intensity in his eyes, I realize this is going to be easier than I dreamed.
“It won’t happen again.”
A small, charming smile appears on his lips, making him look even more like a Labrador, eager to please. “Maybe you can repay me by joining me for coffee. How’s tonight?”
“Oh,” I say, blinking. I didn’t even have to ask. His smile is warm and hopeful, and it makes me feel all the more wicked for using him. He truly has no idea that he’s doing the work for me. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Sure, I’d like that.”
“There’s this place, the Acroteria. Have you heard of it?”
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites.”
Aspen beams. “Then it’s perfect. Let me just pack up my things, and we’ll go.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
When he’s gone, I take the key to the Eastern Archive from the ring and stuff the rest of the keys back into his pocket.
And not a moment too soon.
“Ready?” He’s back, his messenger bag thrown over his shoulder and his eyes bright with expectation.
“Yeah!” I say, a little breathless.
I extend his jacket toward him, and he slips it back on, patting his pocket and checking that his keys are still there. My heart leaps into my throat, and I expect him to pull them out and check if any are missing, but he doesn’t.
Outside, the sky is clear but the air is cool, and my warm breath makes icy-white clouds drift from my lips.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my coat to keep them warm and finger the stolen key, trying to maintain my composure as Aspen and I walk down the stairs to the street.
At the bottom, there’s a small group of people with handmade signs sitting on the sidewalk.
They don’t look like Sibylline students; they’re wearing puffy parkas, not student robes, and when they see us, one woman rushes forward, brandishing a cardboard sign.
She stops me at the bottom of the stairs, blocking my path.
“Do the right thing!” she says, a wild look in her eye. Her placard says the words Blood on Your Hands. “Please, you have to listen to us before—”
“That’s enough,” a deep voice says from down the sidewalk.
A group of glowering security guards are marching toward us. Leading them is Warden Stone. He was the one who had spoken. His icy blue eyes are narrow as he glares at the woman. They glint with an otherworldly glow.
The woman’s eyes widen, and her mouth closes.
Panic creeps across her stiffened face. She lets out a kind of wail behind her closed lips, and I take a step back, suddenly fearful.
Growing up in New York, I’m used to people acting strangely on the street, on the subway.
It’s just a part of living in a big city.
But there’s something about the look on her face that makes my blood freeze.
The woman moans, gripping her head in her hands, and her friends hurry to her side, asking her if she’s okay as the guards rush in and break them up and Warden Stone’s gaze turns to us, eyes cold.
“Come on,” says Aspen, touching my arm. “We should go.”
I hesitate, watching as the woman and the other protesters are forcefully led away by the guards.
It doesn’t feel right at all. I want to speak up, to say something, but Aspen is adamant.
“We’re not allowed to talk to them,” he says.
“It’s policy. They could fire us if they see us engaging with them. ”
“Fired?” I ask, stunned. “For having a conversation?”
Warden Stone calls out instructions to the guards to escort them from campus as he gathers up the protesters’ signs. His gaze moves toward us, his features hardening.
“Come on,” Aspen says again. “There’s nothing we can do.”
I follow him down the street, remembering how the woman looked at me, the unnatural way her mouth was snapped shut, the effort she made trying to open it.
“What was that back there?” I ask as I catch up to Aspen. “Was that magic?”
He cringes uncomfortably. “A simple spell. It’s not permanent. Warden Stone silenced them. I’ve seen him do it once or twice.”
“So this has happened before? Why haven’t I heard anything about these protests?”
“That’s the point. Sibylline is good at keeping things quiet.”
Literally, I think. I glance over my shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the protesters again, but they’re gone.
What was that all about? I can’t shake the image of the woman’s face, frozen in fear, her mouth held closed by magic.
Aspen and I barely talk. I hardly notice him when he stops at the Acroteria, where he buys us drinks to go.
He offers me tea, and we walk, strolling the campus green.
By the time we loop back to the Rosette, there’s no sign of the protesters or the guards or Stone.
The sidewalk is empty, illuminated by squares of orange light from the nearby buildings.
My tea is too hot, and I haven’t taken a sip.
“What are they protesting?” I ask. “Why did her sign say ‘blood on your hands’?”
His lips pull back from his teeth as he winces. He seems to be uncomfortable about what we saw, too. “There are people who think the books in the Rosette were stolen.”
It’s like I’ve been punched in the gut. “What?”
“Yeah. Since its founding, Sibylline has made it their top priority to preserve magical texts. In places all over the world where there is war, or unrest, or even natural disasters, Sibylline has rescued thousands of texts and brought them here for safekeeping. Some people, however, think they stole the texts, or otherwise acquired them illegally, and that the university is hoarding them for their own gain. Certain spells and rituals can only be found in those books, so it makes them priceless. And by working at the archive, we’re complicit. ”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I remember reading about some scandal with some stolen scrolls that Egyptian magicians demanded back. I heard it was resolved, though. I thought they were returned.”
“Lots of people think so. There was an investigation some years ago. The government got involved and everything, lots of hearings—it was a big deal at the time, but people moved on. Or forgot. Stone does a really good job at keeping these kinds of things out of the news as much as he can.”
“What about the hearings? What did they find?”
“They just sort of fizzled out, I guess. The board ruled that all of the acquisitions were legal, so…nothing happened.”
“But people are still protesting. Everyone hasn’t forgotten,” I say.
“We see a few pop up now and again, but Warden Stone is quick to shut them down. I don’t like the way he treats them, but I guess there’s really nothing we can do about it. We’re just employees, right? We’re not the ones calling the shots.”
“No, I guess not. But is that a good excuse?”
Aspen shrugs. “I like my job. I think we do good work. Whatever happened in the past, right or wrong, I know I’m at least keeping the books safe. I’m doing them justice, and that’s what matters to me.”
“But I mean, why would Sibylline ever rule against its own self-interest? Just because the board says something’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s right.”
Aspen studies me for a moment, a curious curve in his brow. “I mean, yeah. You’re not wrong. You’ve got spirit, I like that.” He laughs.
I blush. I should keep quiet. I shouldn’t draw attention to myself, but then again, does that make me complicit in Sibylline’s corruption, like that woman’s sign said?
“Hey,” Aspen says, making me look up. He stops me on the sidewalk with a gentle touch on my wrist. I notice we’re in front of the Benoist Museum, situated near a small row of ornate potted plants leading up to the entrance.
Dorian should be getting out any moment.
I tuck my hand into my coat pocket, as if staving off the cold, but my fingers curl around the key.
Aspen steps in closer to me and dips his head a little to even our gazes. “I mean it,” he says. “I really like you.”
“Thanks.” I’m still blushing. I don’t know what else to say.
“You can say no if you want, but I’d kick myself if I didn’t ask. Can I kiss you?”
It’s such an earnest question, it catches me off guard. The key in my pocket feels even heavier now.
Behind Aspen, the front doors to the museum swing open, and I catch sight of Dorian leaving.
He pops the collar of his coat to shield his neck from the chilly autumn air, and then his eyebrows rise when he notices me.
There’s an ache in his gaze I can’t ignore, a longing I know all too well.
None of us in our little trio is in love with the right person.
We are each an arrow pointing the wrong way.
My gaze snaps back to Aspen. He’s close, soft-eyed and smiling. He’s waiting for an answer.
Without a word, I lean in, pressing my lips to his.
He’s warm and soft, tasting like blackberry tea.
It’d be a nice kiss if my heart were in it.
My mission is more important. I palm the key and take my hand out of my pocket to wrap my arms around Aspen’s shoulders, pulling him closer to me.
He lets out a pleased little sigh, and I raise the key behind his head to show Dorian that I have it.
Then, without Aspen being any the wiser, I drop the key into an ornate planter. Our date is only just beginning.