Chapter 13 #2
I blush, in spite of myself. “No,” I say fiercely. Although we’re supposed to be working as a team , I think, but I suppose that only applies to you if there’s a sword involved. Otherwise it’s every man for himself.
Instead, I chew the end of my pen, wishing I had something more substantial to eat, and study it.
My approach is more haphazard than Kingston’s. He’s writing straight across, copying out every word line for line. I write down columns, options for each word, and for where they could divide.
It’s fiendishly hard to tell. There’s no spaces between words, nothing at all but guesswork, so I draw slashes for various places they could fall in my transliteration, like solving a jigsaw puzzle in reverse.
My handwriting has always been terrible, and all I have is a crappy ballpoint on a drugstore notebook while Kingston, of course, has creamy perfect bound pages and what looks like an actual Montblanc fountain pen.
Well, fine. I don’t need expensive stationery to do this well.
I’ve translated Latin in classrooms with black mold and water-wrinkled textbooks.
Hell, I took the AP exam at the local public school that was later found out to have a radon leak. This, by comparison, is luxury.
No, not even by comparison , I think. I indulge myself in a pause and look around.
This is it, I think. Bookcases crammed with the full Loeb Classical Library of Cicero and Vergil and Ovid, fading posters of the Colosseum, of Mont-Saint-Michel, of the Bayeux Tapestry, the clanking radiator that’s not doing much to keep the room warm, the quiet murmuring, the eccentric professor, the smell of paper and distant woodsmoke.
It’s my dream. It’s what I wanted. And I’m here.
I will not let anyone take this from me, I vow. Not Elena, not Kingston, not even myself.
A rumble yanks me out of my daydream, a rumble I realize with horror is coming from my own stomach.
I press my forearm against the front of my sweater, trying to muffle it, but that does nothing, of course.
Kingston moves, but barely, like I startled him, but he’s instinctively too polite to acknowledge the audible bodily functions of anyone next to him, especially, I suppose, a girl.
I bite my lip and swallow my spit, as if that maybe is enough for my stomach to digest and stay quiet. I scratch more along the words, darting back. If the sentence ends here, which it would because that’s the verb, then that would mean…no, that doesn’t make any sense .
I scribble out an entire column of words and start again. Meanwhile, Kingston is writing elegantly, no scratch-outs, only lines neatly arranged like soldiers on the battlefield. I keep going, and again, a stomach rumble. Fainter this time, but still noticeable.
Behind me, someone snickers. I’m sure it’s hilarious, I think. If everyone on campus weren’t determined to make my mealtimes so difficult, maybe I wouldn’t be starving by the time my afternoon class rolled around.
This time, Kingston does move, and I flinch, ready for him to say something cutting, or to scooch further away from me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he dips down to his own leather bag and slips a hand inside retrieving something crinkly that he sets on the table between us.
It’s a plastic sleeve of almonds. Roasted. Unsalted. Unopened.
“Ah, the humble almond.” Dr. Emrys appears in front of our table. “Feeling a bit peckish, Mr. Pendragon?” He smiles. “Did it occur to you to ask for permission to eat in this class? I don’t like making a habit of it, even around facsimiles.”
“They’re not mine,” Kingston says. “They’re hers.”
Hers , I think. Like he can’t even say my name. And what is he trying to do? Pin this whole thing on me so that I get in trouble again for something completely trivial?
“In many medieval depictions of Jesus Christ,” Dr. Emrys says, hefting the package aloft, “the almond plays a critical role. Do you know what that is?”
Kingston shakes his head, even looks at me as if I’m supposed to know. I shake my head too.
“The risen savior is depicted within an oblong shaped aura of light,” Dr. Emrys goes on, “not a halo per se, but a whole body encasement with two pointed ends—like a narrow football, I suppose, although American football wouldn’t be invented for centuries.
” He opens the package, tips a nut into his hand, and holds it between his thumb and forefinger, pointy sides, up and down.
“You see? A mandorla, they call it. Italian for…”
“Almond,” I finish.
Dr. Emrys smiles broader. “Precisely.” He hands me the package. “No crumbs, Ms. Vale. And you’re not to make a habit of this.”
Stunned, not sure what to do, I just nod and accept the package from him like it had been mine all along.
I look at Kingston, wondering if I should thank him, but he has gone back to his work, eyes focused once more.
I sit there dumbly, not knowing what to do.
I don’t have any reason to think he’s being nice, but I don’t feel like I should trust him either.
Then again, the package was sealed. They’re Blue Diamond brand, nothing weird that I haven’t heard of. And if he’s trying to pull some shit…
My stomach growls again. Stupid human body , I think. I pour a small handful into my palm and crunch them away.
It’s not much, but it’s enough. And maybe it’s the infinitesimal rise in my blood sugar, or maybe it’s just the fact that Kingston did something wordless and arguably kind for me, despite giving me a literal cold shoulder sitting next to him.
But when I look back at our manuscript facsimile, I see it.
“It’s…” I whisper. I glance at Kingston, still trained on his notebook. “Kingston,” I say, realizing too late how strange it sounds to say his name aloud.
He snaps to look at me, almost eerily quickly, and…those eyes. There’s something about them. Not the color so much as the focus, the intensity. It’s not cruel or judgmental, just…singular.
Like once I’ve commanded his attention, he’ll take in nothing else until he’s satisfied I’ve said my piece.
I don’t like people seeing me like that.
Generally.
But I don’t mind this .
I swallow, the almond dust clinging to my throat. “It’s macaronic,” I whisper. “Look.” I trace my pen over the letters without writing on the facsimile: a cluster of letters, and then a little bit of ways, another. “It’s Latin and Greek. The whole thing’s a trick question.”
Kingston looks away from me, stares at the paper. Stares so hard I think he might be avoiding engaging with me until I realize he’s reading, without even having to transcribe it.
And then, at the corner of his mouth, the barest twitch of muscle. Satisfaction. Agreement.
“Of course it is,” he murmurs. And darts a look at the front of the room.
I lean forward, the excitement of discovery bubbling in my veins. Because it’s so clever . “Here.” I pull back my paper, scribble out my nonsense Latin, and redo the letters I’ve identified as Greek.
Kingston reaches over and adds the Latin from his own paper, transferring it to mine, his broad hand so close to mine and yet not touching, his muscle movements controlled even at that fine level.
And soon, we’ve filled it. A few wonky places, a few uncertainties, but it’s…
“In the beginning was the Word,” I read, “and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
I wait for Kingston to smile. To react , in any way, at all, to be even the least bit pleased that he—we—cracked the little code of it all.
But all he does is raise his hand.
“Professor?” he says. “We’ve finished.”
I don’t know why, but I’m…disappointed.
Dr. Emrys comes over, eyebrows raised with interest. “Have you now?” He inclines his head, looks down at the paper, traces with his finger, nods.
“Very clever,” he says. “Very, very clever.” But he looks not at Kingston, but at me.
“I don’t suppose those were some magic almonds, were they, Ms. Vale?
” His lips are quirked up, but the tone of his voice makes it sound like he’s almost serious.
I shake my head. “Just good old-fashioned scholarship,” I respond.
Dr. Emrys’s narrow face breaks into a broad smile.
“That’s what I like to hear,” he says, giving our table a little tap.
“Well done, Ms. Vale. And your accomplice,” he adds, nodding at Kingston.
He gives his hands a single clap. “All right, then. We do have a winner in our little competition here.” He smiles at our table as heads rise slightly and pens lower.
“Our very own Heloise D’Argenteuil here has cracked the code. ”
“What code?” someone else says.
“This isn’t anything. It’s just letters.”
“Ah, yes, but…” Dr. Emrys looks to me.
So, too, does Kingston. And the intensity of that stare, that focus, almost robs me of speech.
“It’s…macaronic,” I manage. “I mean. It’s written in Latin and Greek. Two languages. And once you figure that out, you can see that it’s?—”
“The Gospel of John,” Kingston finishes for me. Everyone falls silent. Everyone stares at me, and not with jealousy.
“A valuable lesson here,” Dr. Emrys says, folding his hands at the small of his back as he wanders around the classroom.
“You go in with a preconception of what you’ll be reading, you come out with only with what you expect to find.
But we mustn’t think like that. We must be open to all possibilities and broaden our knowledge, constant in our quest and pure in our spirit.
” He taps the side of his nose, and throws a sidelong glance at Kingston.
“That’s all for today, I’m afraid,” he says.
“Next time we start a conversation in earnest.” The class comes to life, the rest of the students packing up and leaving.
I sit there looking at Kingston and my joint efforts—a mess, really and mostly due to me.
My stomach hurts less, though, and that much I suppose I can credit him for.
I look up, turn to say thank you, but he’s already gone.
The only record he was ever here just some neat calligraphy letters on a page.