Chapter 27 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
Iwalk into the rotunda classroom, finding it empty except for Professor Thatcher, who sits at his desk at the front of the room.
Today, he's dressed in a white button-down shirt and pressed navy-blue slacks, his loafers perched on his desk and a newspaper open in his lap.
There's a stack of books, his unlocked briefcase, and a steaming cup of coffee on the desk beside him.
As I walk toward him, morning light streams through the long windows on the exterior wall and dances across the climbing rows of wooden seats, stretching all the way to my feet.
"Good morning, Professor," I say to the back of his newspaper.
"Good morning, Avalynne," he replies, his voice as smooth as velvet.
He lowers the paper, exposing his face and a few inches of the herringbone waistcoat and matching tie he wears. As always, his dark hair is tucked neatly behind his ears. Thin metal reading glasses hang on his nose, and he looks over them at me, sending my heart ricocheting against my ribs.
With glasses, he looks even more distinguished, while I am a walking potato sack.
A frumpy, all-white walking potato sack.
I realize I've been staring at him and avert my gaze quickly to look at the blank chalkboard.
"Thank you for the journal," I say to him, holding the leather-bound book in one hand.
"Anything for my favorite student," he drawls.
Every inch of my skin electrifies beneath the strike of his words.
I hesitate for a moment, still blinking at the blank blackboard, and feel him looking at me.
"Do you see something interesting?" he asks, turning in his chair and craning his neck at the chalk-smeared board.
His gaze returns to me again, and I'll never believe he doesn't know what he's doing to me, what he probably does to every woman he meets.
My potato sack itches, and I swallow again, trying to shove away the memory blaring full tilt in my brain.
With every second, I remember him standing in the cave, both of us surrounded by the downpour as he stripped off his shirt, and the droplets clung to his skin and ran down the ridges of his stomach.
In that moment, everything about him was commanding, magnetic, and absolutely dominant. He still is now. It doesn't matter that he has hidden himself behind his pressed suit. No suit and tie can change what he truly is, a predator in gentleman's clothing.
"I'll return your shirt soon." I feel a blush creeping across my cheeks.
He waves a dismissive hand, dropping the newspaper onto his lap.
"Keep it, Immorier," he tells me. "It looks better on you anyway."
He thinks it looks good on me?
"When's our next run?" I deflect, finally looking at him again.
He shrugs. "Depends, probably Friday." Our gazes meet, and he narrows his eyes in suspicion. "Are you trying to get out of it?"
"I sort of liked it," I admit.
"It can be a kind of … release," he remarks, and maybe I imagine it, but I don't think I do, when his tongue flits over his top lip with his words.
That thing between us weaves even tighter, and deep in my middle there's a balloon that's ready to pop. Once more, I wonder if he feels it too, or if it's all a figment of my imagination.
"Maybe on our next run, you won't begin by imitating a snail," he quips, giving me a grin.
"Again, I'd like to see you try to run in this." I gesture down at my habit. "No one is fast in a nun's uniform."
He clucks his tongue and lifts his brow. "Well, it's a good thing you have my shirt then, isn't it? It should definitely improve your time. What was it you ran again? A sixty-five-minute mile?"
"I can run as fast as you." My words, to my delight, are much more confident than I am.
He eyes me over his glasses like he just did the math and calculated his significant height advantage.
"Sure," he agrees, only it doesn't sound like an agreement.
I cross my arms over my chest. "How about a friendly wager then?"
"And what do I get if I win?"
I shrug. "No clue. That's up to you, but when I win, I know what I want."
"And what is that?" Amusement glints in his gaze.
I think he enjoys toying with me. God, he has to know what he's doing, too.
The challenge threading through his deep words. The double meanings. The … innuendo.
I want you.
"Strawberry ice cream," I say with a swallow.
Much more practical, Avalynne.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. "Really, little troublemaker?"
"With sprinkles," I add. "And maybe chocolate syrup. Oh, and whipped cream."
He grins and shakes his head. "Would you like time to think about it? Perhaps you could prepare an entire grocery list for my impending trip to the mainland?"
"No need. I think that covers it."
"Fine," he agrees, still grinning. "Friday morning, we'll have our race. If you win, we'll have an ice cream party like we're in kindergarten again."
"And if you win?"
"I'm sure I'll think of something I'm just dying to try." His low words tumble out of him white-hot and charred.
Everything. Burns.
"Sounds perfect."
"Now get to work," he tells me, his tone mock-serious. "I can't have my very best student slacking off."
I turn to start toward my desk before Professor Thatcher raises a hand to stop me.
"Wait. Wait," he says. "I almost forgot."
He slides his coffee cup across his desk to me. "For you. With an absurd amount of cream and sugar, just as you prefer, if I recall."
"Thank you." I take the coffee, walk to my desk, and sit, the wooden chair creaking beneath me.
"Avalynne?" Professor calls from the front of the room.
"Yes?"
"There are books related to business acumen below your desk. Your grandfather expects you to add the courses to your studies. Begin with statistics and move forward at your own pace."
"Okay." I find a stack of books on the floor. I lift them to the table, flip open my new statistics book, and begin to read.
The hours slip away as sisters come and go as they please.
The classroom is filled with the quiet rustling of pages and the occasional murmur of nuns consulting notes.
As the day draws to a close, I gather my things and approach Professor Thatcher.
His eyes lift from the book he's reading, one eyebrow arched in curiosity.
"Yes, my eternal sunshine?" he drawls.
"I need a favor …" I begin.
Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should just leave.
"As always, I'm at your service." It's more sarcasm than syllables.
I fumble my question, trying to get the words out of my mouth. He blinks at me, unimpressed.
"Care to share the specifics with the rest of the class?" he prods.
I swallow. This feels like a mistake, but he helped me. He found my distant aunt's journal. He gave it to me. Maybe he could help me one more time.
"Could you ask my grandfather about my sister?" I finally blurt. "About Isabella?"
His eyes widen a fraction in surprise. "You have a sister?"
"Yes," I nod. "My twin. She's … I don't … I don't know where Grandpapa sent her."
My words rush out of me in a torrent.
"I see," he remarks after a long moment. "So he shipped her off to some far end of the continent as well?"
"Yes, or at least I think so."
"And you have no idea where?" His brow furrows.
"No, I don't." My voice splinters and nearly cracks.
He regards me for a moment before his expression softens. "I will find out what I can."
"Thank you." Then I leave the room quickly before I can crumble.
I miss Isabella more than I miss freedom, home, or Grandpapa. I miss her more than everything combined.
It hurts to think of her.
It hurts not to think of her.
I just need to know that she's all right.
As evening approaches, the nuns file into the dining hall, and I follow them.
The room is dimly lit, the flickering candles casting writhing shadows across the long wooden tables.
The air weighs heavy with the aroma of our evening meal.
Tonight, it's stew, bread, and fruit, and I fetch my tray from Sister Cordelia, who's manning the cafeteria line, and take a seat.
As always, the nuns mostly eat in silence, broken only by the occasional word, the clink of utensils, and the soft whisper of rustling robes.
I keep my head down, eager to avoid any more run-ins with Reverend Mother, but my ears strain to catch a hushed conversation at the end of the table between two sisters hunched over their trays.
I only catch snippets of their words, though.
Devil.
Haunted.
Evil.
My mind drifts back to the man I met in the courtyard, who fell to his knees and blessed me.
I'm not stupid enough to ask the nuns about him.
If I did, I'm sure Reverend Mother would have me sent to the baptismal chamber again, and I still visit it in my nightmares.
The way the water poured down my throat and choked me. It would kill me to go back there.
Even though I won't ask the sisters, I want to know more about him.
Who he is.
Why he's here.
And why he hides in the shadows.
I try to listen, but before I can figure out more, Reverend Mother arrives before me, her hands clasped in front of her black robes.
"Ms. Immorier." Her voice cuts through the murmured chatter. The dining hall quiets as her tall, thin frame casts a long shadow across the table and over me. "Your grandfather is satisfied with your recent progress, particularly Mr. Thatcher's inclusion of business studies."
"Thank you, Reverend Mother." My throat dries to sandpaper.
"I'm not so easily convinced," she continues.
"I understand your grandfather wishes you and Mr. Thatcher to spend the majority of your time together, immersed in professional pursuits.
However, you need to establish boundaries with him, child.
Remember, as Corinthians tells us, we shall honor God with our bodies. "
Her words sting, and my face flames with embarrassment.
Does she know about our run? Of course, she does. That's why she's in front of me, her judgmental gaze accosting and calling me names without uttering the words.
Whore.
Slut.
Harlot.
Heat spreads from my cheeks and down my neck, making my skin prickle as Father Ezra arrives beside her. He gives me a thin smile as he turns to the table.
"Good afternoon, Sisters," he says politely with a nod.
"Good afternoon, Father," they echo back before his attention slides to Reverend Mother.
"I couldn't help but overhear, Reverend Mother—your voice carries so well—but I can assure you, nothing untoward has happened between Ms. Immorier and Mr. Thatcher."
My cheeks burn even hotter, and I feel the tips of my ears turning red.
"Then let us make sure it remains that way," Reverend Mother replies with a huff.
"Of course," he says, and I sense an undercurrent of tension, a power struggle between them, before Father Ezra walks around the table, grabs a tray, and fills the empty seat beside me.
"How are you, Avalynne?" he asks me.
"Never better," I grumble as Reverend Mother leaves, and I dream of disappearing beneath the table.
"Good," he says before, thankfully, he lets me finish my meal in silence.
After dinner, Father Ezra escorts me back to my chambers.
"Are you sure it's okay if I skip prayer?" I ask him as we walk.
"Surely one skipped night of evening vespers won't damn your soul," he remarks with a slight smile. "We aren't in the medieval ages anymore, no matter what Georgina—er, Reverend Mother—may think."
"Thank you for rescuing me from her back there," I tell him.
"I told you, Avalynne, you will always have a safe place with me."
"But what about when you aren't around? You haven't been here." The words come out accusatory, and I wince, my hands wringing together in front of me.
His brow furrows. "Has something happened?"
"No." I shake my head quickly.
"Well, good." He clasps his hands behind his back as we turn at the end of the hall. "But I suppose in the event I am unavailable, you could always seek help from Xade—Professor Thatcher, that is."
"There's actually something I've been wanting to ask you," I say as we continue down the hall.
"Anything. What is it?"
"There was a man in the courtyard the other night."
"A man?"
"Yes, he, um, was tall, had dark hair, was dressed in a black hoodie, but Sister Cecilia …"
"Sister Cecilia, what?" he interrupts, reaching for his priest's collar and pulling it away from his throat.
"She was afraid of him."
He glances over at me, and I swear panic flits across his features before he looks away.
"Are you sure you're alright?" He chuckles dryly. "I think the long hours are getting to you, Avalynne."
"You think I'm crazy."
"Of course not."
"But you think I imagined him," I accuse.
His teeth are stark white in the dim hall. "That's not what I'm saying."
"I saw him! Sister Cecilia saw him!" I protest. "Who is he, and why do the nuns talk about him like he's the devil?"
"Avalynne!" he snaps, and it's the first time he's ever raised his voice to me, though he manages to get himself under control quickly.
He tugs on his collar again and peers down at me.
"The Devil of Saint Margaret's is a myth.
There's no demon, no evil, no shadow man roaming the hall ready to steal your soul. He's not real."
"But …" I begin, though I see it written across the firm edge of his clenched jaw.
He doesn't believe me.
I thought he was my friend, but he doesn't believe me.
"Nevermind." I look away from him.
He checks his watch. "I'm sorry. There are matters I have to attend to tonight. Come see me anytime, okay?"
I nod as his hand falls to my shoulder and stays there.
"Good night, Avalynne," he says as we arrive outside my room.
"Good night, Father," I reply as he starts away.
I open the door and trudge inside, closing it behind me before I cross the room to sit on the edge of my bed. The soft mattress sinks under my weight.
Of course, Father Ezra doesn't believe me.
Of course, he'd deny it.
I think my professor may be the only hope I have left in this damned place.