Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
GWENNA
I half-expect Kingston to say something in Latin class.
Hell, I fully expect it. The situation is too unusual, too weird for him not to say something.
And yet…he doesn’t.
Not to me or about me or even in my vicinity, despite the fact that we are once again sitting next to each other, the only two people no one else wants to be nearby, albeit for wildly different reasons.
The fact that I’m in real clothes again—a deep purple crewneck sweater and a black corduroy skirt that had the tags demurely sliced in half to omit the price—doesn’t make it any more comfortable to be near him, either.
Especially with no recognition from him.
Instead, I get a solid forty-five minutes of lecture on variations in orthography across England, Ireland, and France, the lights dim so Dr. Emrys can slide transparencies onto an overhead projector, blow up quill-scratched letters and phrases onto the pull-down screen and explain in detail what they mean.
“And this one?”
Emrys removes the transparency with a flourish and replaces it with a new one: a pretzel-looking squiggle from, according to its footnote, an 11th century book of hours.
“That’s an ampersand,” someone calls from the back.
“Mm, indeed,” says Emrys, his face lit up in eerily harsh orange light from the old-school projector. “And its name means?”
“Um…that’s just what it’s called?”
“ Et per se et ,” comes the deep voice to my left. Kingston. “It’s a combination of the letters in the Latin word for and: E T. Et per se et. Hence the word ampersand.” I turn imperceptibly, but can’t make out any of his features, let alone his expression.
“Exactly,” Emrys cries. “Et. You see how it forms the letters E and T?” He points. “Such a familiar little flourish, just a piece of Latin hiding in plain sight even to this day.”
I’m fascinated, of course, because I’m a hopeless geek. Who would have thought that Latin is hiding in our iPhone keyboards?
Kingston, though, does not seem as tickled by the trivia, despite the fact that he’s literally the one who pointed it out. He doesn’t seem affected by anything, really.
Even his new housemate being a girl.
It’s spooky. Almost supernatural.
Emrys switches off the projector, its humming sound rattling to silence, and restores the overhead lights.
“Well, that’s enough tedium for today, I suppose.
Review the photocopies I’ve made for you and perhaps I’ll give you a quiz next time.
” He shrugs, as if he hasn’t really decided yet.
“Ah, and—Mr. Pendragon, Ms. Vale? If you don’t mind… ”
He gestures towards his desk. The rest of the room packs up, shuffling papers and muttering about coffee, while Kingston slides his single elegant notebook into his leather satchel and I shove together all of my various belongings.
Even standing at Emrys’s desk, Kingston only acknowledges my presence with the barest of glances. And this time, for some reason, it pisses me off.
So you’ll help me, but not show me any human emotion?
“You wanted to see us, professor?” Kingston says.
Us. Despite my pissed-offedness, something about the plural pronoun makes me shiver a little.
Like we’re a team.
A unit.
An…anything.
“Ah, yes, yes, my illustrious champions.” Emrys pushes his reading glasses further up his face and cranes his neck as the last two stragglers depart the classroom.
Once they’ve definitively disappeared, footsteps barely audible, he turns back to us and procures a fat leather folder from within his desk drawers.
“For you two,” he says. “Your prize.”
I stare at the folder. Stare at Emrys. Stare—or glance—at Kingston.
No one says anything.
Fine. I will.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A text, of course,” Emrys says. He gives the top a little pat. “A new project for you two to tackle.”
“Our prize is more work?”
Kingston’s words are blunt, even if his tone is polite. And I have to say, I agree. It’s not like we don’t already have loads of homework for this class—not to mention all the others.
“The finest prize there is.” Emrys nods. “More to read.”
Kingston’s jaw ticks. I bite my lip—intrigued, but confused.
“So what are we supposed to do with it, exactly?”
“Why, transliterate,” Emrys says. “Same as it ever was. We’ve just gotten a true treasure trove of new manuscript material—I’m sure your father has told you, Mr. Pendragon?—”
Kingston’s grip on his bag tightens imperceptibly .
“—and now the fun begins.” Emrys nods. “As you two are my bright stars, I’ve awarded you the chance to take on this sizable chunk. And you’ll have until Monday to complete it.”
“Monday?” The stiffness drops from Kingston’s voice, replaced by genuine disbelief. “We fence Sainte-Odile this weekend.”
“Good thing you have a colleague, then,” Emrys says. “Many hands make light work.”
“I need more time,” Kingston insists.
“And yet there is none to be had.” Emrys’s voice takes on the slightest edge, the tiniest bit of firmness, and it’s enough—somehow, it’s enough to cow even Kingston Pendragon.
“What is human life if not one giant, immovable deadline? Best to learn to work efficiently.” He claps Kingston on the shoulder and all but shoves the folder of papers into his chest. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.
I’ve been told there are biscuits in the faculty lounge. ”
With that, Emrys sweeps out, coat over his arm and briefcase in hand, leaving just me and Kingston alone.
I wait for him to move. He doesn’t.
“So…”
“I won’t be able to work on this until Saturday,” Kingston says. “Night. Before then, I need to focus.”
“O…kay,” I say. “We can start then, I guess.” I eye the thick stack of papers in the folder—it’d be tough to get through all of them even with a full three days. But I’m not about to contradict Kingston.
“Good. We can meet in the library.” He slides the folder into his bag—not without some difficulty, given how thick and unevenly stuffed it is—and heads for the door.
“Kingston, wait.”
Once again, I’m struck by how strange it feels to say his name out loud—to him. And maybe he realizes, too, because he stops immediately short, his eyes instantly locked on mine .
“Yes,” he says. And then adds: “Gwenna.”
Direct. Decorous. And…firm.
The sound of my own name has never given me butterflies before.
“I just…” Where do I even start? I pluck at the hem of my skirt—my new skirt, the one he bought me. “You had Callahan bring me to Camlann House. To…live with you?”
His mouth hardens to a line.
“Do you have anywhere else to live at Caliburn?” he asks at last.
“No,” I admit. “But?—”
“Is there something wrong with your room?”
I bite back a groan of frustration. “ No , but?—”
“Then there’s nothing to discuss.” He buttons the front of his overcoat, those golden-brown eyes right on mine. “Don’t miss the meet tonight.”