5. Chapter 5
Torin
Highlands
Translation: A mountainous region in northern Scotland
Usage: To describe the vast and beautiful territory north and west of the Highland Boundary Fault, where Gaelic heritage runs deep
I’ve forgotten what Edinburgh looks like. All I know is the inside of this library. The wooden desk that never seems large enough to hold all my materials, the brass lamp that’s older than my parents, and the small window with a narrow view of the stone courtyard are my constant companions.
Midterms are approaching, and no one seems particularly eager to explain how they work.
I know it will be almost entirely writing—in addition to the papers we have due—but beyond that, it’s suspiciously vague.
So I arrive when the library opens. I read, I outline, I chase references through footnotes and track down whatever resources I can find.
Then I go to lectures, take more notes, come back and repeat.
The only interruptions are quick breaks to eat something before the next wave of reading.
Socializing has fallen by the wayside—not that I ever did much anyway.
Most evenings I exchange a few messages with Freya or call my family.
My flatmates and I pass each other like ships in the night, floating along in the fog of graduate studies, and my classmates have formed their own social orbit in the shared office.
I could join them if I wanted to; it might behoove me to be more friendly with my colleagues in the future, but until midterms are over, I am one hundred percent committed to my studies.
And the long days are already paying off. I’m basically untouchable in class discussions, consistently more prepared than my classmates, especially Beau.
He’s my only competition for the research assistantship with Professor Drummond, and I intend to get that position. If that means stepping over a handsome American on the way, so be it.
It’s not that I dislike him, it’s that everything about him seems easy.
Even when he isn’t as prepared for class as the rest of us, the faculty still love him.
I should be accustomed to that. James was often even less prepared than Beau, and our professors fawned over him, too, ultimately giving him an award, one that should’ve been mine.
I stare at the page in front of me, read the same sentence for the fourth time and still have no idea what it says. It would help if my mind didn’t keep wandering back to Beau. Specifically to what he might look like shirtless. Or in the shower. It’s not at all conducive to studying.
Also—are Beau and Maeve dating? They’re practically inseparable, and she always seems to be touching him. A hand on his arm. Fingers on his shoulder. Leaning close to show him something in her notes.
A warmth rolls over me as my mind shifts to my hands on him instead.
But no. Even if he were gay, he wouldn’t be into me. He’s too good-looking. Perfect hair, bronzed skin, incredible build. Those eyes. Those dimples.
I sigh and check my watch. It’s almost time to meet with my advisor about my thesis proposal.
I close the book, shove my notes into my bag, and sling it over my shoulder.
Beau invades my thoughts again as I walk.
I hate how often it happens. But we are classmates, and he does look like a god. I’m only human.
He’s also just… nice. Even when I pick at his contributions in class, he listens, takes notes, and thanks me for the information.
I thought I might be getting under his skin at one point and wondered if I should back off.
I don’t want the guy to hate me. I just want to prove that I’m the better historian.
He’d stopped me after class the next day.
“Hey,” he’d said, falling into step beside me. “Don’t hold back in there. The feedback’s really helping.” His beautiful blue eyes had sparkled. Which was really annoying.
I might look like the more intelligent one, but it’s making him look like the mature adult in our relationship.
Not that we have a relationship. He’s in a relationship with Maeve. We’re colleagues. Nothing more.
I arrive at Professor Moreau’s office and knock on the open door. She’s writing something but lifts a hand, calling me inside without looking up.
I step into an oak-paneled room with shelves full of books on either side of the window behind her.
An antique rug softens the floor, fresh flowers sit in crystal vases, and two cream-colored high-backed chairs face her wide, ornate desk.
Sunlight spills across the room, catching the glow of several lamps.
It feels more like a lounge than an office.
She finishes what she’s doing, her reading glasses low on her nose, then sets her notebook aside and gestures to one of the chairs. “Please, sit.”
She looks up at me over the rims of her half-moons as I take my seat, her hands folded in front of her. She’s just as hard to read now as she is in class. “You’ve been doing well in my course,” she says.
“Thank you, Professor,” I say. My chest puffs up.
“Though I do worry about your relationships with your classmates.”
I instantly deflate.
“My… my classmates?” Or one classmate in particular?
“Yes, I think it would benefit you to consider how you phrase your responses during our discussions. Your insights are brilliant, but they are sometimes lost on your peers because of the way you provide them.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Professor.” I actually think I do understand, but I’m not ready to admit that just yet. My mind flashes to Beau’s long fingers taking notes on my critique.
The corner of her mouth lifts. “I received this feedback during my graduate studies. I recognized the same competitive fire in you the moment I met you, and it will do great things for you if you use it the right way, but it could be disastrous if not controlled.”
“Yes, Professor,” I say, struggling to swallow the lump in my throat.
“Some of the best guidance my advisor ever gave me is something I will now pass on to you: Be tough on the history but gentle with the historian.”
Heat creeps up my neck as I nod. I should have seen this coming. I can sometimes tell when I’ve stepped over the line, but it’s usually not until hours later, replaying the conversation, coming up with a dozen better ways I could’ve phrased something more delicately.
“Thank you, Professor,” I say, trying hard not to squirm in my seat. I’m grateful she cares enough to say something.
She watches me for another moment before pulling her notepad back in front of her. “Now, I believe you’re here to discuss your thesis proposal. Do you have a list of topics to review?”
“No, Professor,” I say as I fumble to pick up my bag.
“No?” she asks, one eyebrow lifting. “You want to brainstorm topics?”
“No, Professor. I have a topic.” I pull out the draft of my proposal. “I don’t have a list because this is the only thing I want to do.”
I glance once more at the title before handing it to her.
“From Clan to Clearance: The Transformation of Highland Social Structures Under British Rule”
“Ah,” she says, taking the small stack of papers and slipping off the paperclip before scanning through the pages.
I sit forward, suddenly aware of my heartbeat. Maybe I should mention why I want to pursue this topic, explain its importance to me. If she doesn’t approve it, then I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s what I came here to study. I want to explain, but she’s already turning the pages.
I pull out a notebook and uncap my pen just to have something to do.
My leg bounces as she reads. The room is so quiet, I can hear the scratch of paper against paper as she stacks the pages neatly and returns the paperclip to its place.
Then she slides off her glasses, folding the thin arms, one then the other, before setting them carefully on her desk. Slowly, she looks up.
Fuck, she hates it.
“I like it,” she says. “Especially for you.” Relief washes over me so quickly, I almost laugh.
“Especially for me, Professor?”
“Yes.” She taps the proposal. “Even a cursory review shows this topic aligns with your knowledge and interests. You’ve explained well why your specific research is important and groundbreaking. You are off to a good start.”
“Thank you, Professor.” I grip my pen tighter to stop me from whooping, jumping up and down, taking a victory lap around the room.
“I will review it in more depth later this week and make some additional recommendations, but I have two pieces of feedback for now.”
I nod and lower the pen to the page.
“First,” she says, “you will likely need to consult more primary sources than you currently have listed. I will confer with Professor Drummond and provide further guidance soon. Until then, continue to make full use of the library’s collections.”
I jot this down and look up again.
“Also, another first-year student has mentioned a similar topic.”
My blood runs cold, my elation snuffed out in an instant. What does that mean, someone else has a similar topic? “How similar exactly?” The question slips out.
“Similar enough,” she says. I bristle at the vague response.
“While it is unusual, it is not unheard of. I do not see them as overlapping so much as to be problematic, but please keep me updated as your proposal progresses. I want to make sure that each scholar in the department is producing distinct research.”
“Of course, Professor,” I say, but my hands are shaking. Someone is pursuing something similar enough to my research to merit a warning from my advisor.
“I’m glad you understand,” she says, setting my proposal to the side and folding her hands in front of her again.
I slide my notebook and pen back into my bag, thinking I’m dismissed, and am halfway to standing when she says, “I assume you’ll be pursuing the graduate research position with Professor Drummond.” It’s not a question.
I sit back down and pull my bag into my lap. “Yes, Professor. I think I would be a great asset to his research and that I could learn a lot in the process.”
“So do I,” she says with a rare, small smile. My heart soars. This meeting has been a rollercoaster of emotions. I hope they aren’t all like this.
“Though it is not up to me,” she says, schooling her expression. “You will need to continue to perform well in class, especially Professor Drummond’s.”
“Of course, Professor,” I say, trying not to sound too excited.
She nods, and I know I’m dismissed this time. I rise and stride toward the door.
“And Torin.” I turn back. “Remember what I said about your classmates.” Her gaze holds mine. “You will need them more than you know.”
I nod and step into the hallway. You will need them more than you know. I sigh and stroll toward the shared graduate history office.
I’ve mostly avoided the space. It’s not as quiet as my stall in the library, plus Beau is almost always in there.
My desk is a couple down from his, facing directly toward him.
Which makes it difficult not to look. Not that not looking helps either.
He seems to eat constantly. Fruit, protein bars, almonds.
No clue how he got those abs with as many snacks as he consumes.
I stop dead in my tracks…
Beau. He must be the one who’s also writing about cultural genocide in the Highlands.
I set a determined pace toward the shared office, but it’s not for congeniality’s sake. It’s for reconnaissance. I need to know exactly what he’s doing. It’s going to be even harder to stand out for the assistantship with Professor Drummond now.
Be tough on the history but gentle with the historian.
Gentle, my ass.