Chapter 15
Quill
Only This One Life
The Remsen
Carlos Rafael Rivera
Sitting in the law library and – in order not to attract attention – writing my already fifty-page-long book between dozens of open law tomes had the amusing side effect of causing the rumor to spread that I was determined to become not only the best in my class, but also the best student Maplecrest had ever produced.
I knew that this ridiculous assumption put me in the line of fire, especially because Lucas and Zach seemed to have a problem with it, which the former signaled with scornful glances, while the latter eyed me as if I were a thorn in his side.
But I ignored both of them, as well as all the whispering whenever I passed groups of men.
If I ended up anywhere, it would be at the bottom of the list of all students who had ever visited this place, because my qualifications for this degree were limited to a fake enrollment. Nothing more.
I could barely keep up with the notes, understood almost nothing of the legal terminology that Professor Arnold Fitzek used as if it were a foreign language that was better to learn.
I already had stomach pains from the amount of homework we were given to take home, even though I had no intention of studying.
And all the theories, which I would never be able to get into my head, even if I hammered them in, completely put me off.
On day three, I tripped on the main campus and spilled the entire contents of my coffee cup on my pants, which earned me laughter from Lucas's guys. On top of that, in the heat of my writing rampage, ink stains got on my face, which earned me the nickname Smudge.
Law students, as I quickly learned, were ambitious. No matter what semester they were in, everyone here was already hunting for internships at law firms for the summer, which often led to arguments because the number of places was limited.
On top of that, although there was a lot of talk here about tradition and a community to which all aspiring lawyers belonged, there seemed to be a general tension. Everyone greeted each other and smiled, but behind their backs they were stuffing wads of cash into their pockets.
If death glances could leave marks, I was sure that some suit jackets, especially my blue knit sweater, would be soaked with envy and hatred.
I would only get involved in this game over my dead body, which was why I spent most of my time in the large, still almost empty library.
A rectangular hall filled with books, consisting of three open levels, where oak table groups with vintage lamps were scattered along the railings and long table groups stood in the middle of the lowest levels.
Why I used this week to get as much writing of this book done as possible?
Well, since it was the first week and the main lectures by many professors didn't start until next week, the seminars, exercises, and tutorials associated with the modules were also not held, so I only had five other classes to attend.
An exciting introductory lecture on legal history with Professor Berger, a tense seminar on constitutional law with Professor Arnold Fitzek, two sluggish related exercises with tutors and assistant professors, and a relaxed introductory lecture on international law with my brother.
Anthony didn't like me being here. He had already spoken to me three times as soon as we had gotten home, rubbing it in my face that he only wanted the best for me, and I had assured him that I would leave Maplecrest in a month.
He was satisfied with that, but it also made him visibly uneasy. Father was putting pressure on him. I could hear it clearly late at night from their loud voices filling the entire estate. Although Anthony was no longer involved.
I had survived two more of my father's tantrums so far, even if grandfather's crystal glass collection had not, and his glances whenever I unexpectedly ran into him on campus or in the hallway put my entire body on alert.
He hated me. He wanted me to get out of Virginia.
At least that's what he had yelled at my door last night after he had hammered on it in his drunken rage and woken me from my sleep with my heart hammering. The door had been locked, but I hadn't been able to sleep a wink for the rest of that night.
I drove him crazy. Made him even more unpredictable.
That's why I avoided every family dinner, even the ones Tony had always forced me to attend.
Brittany punished me with her glares while her mother had grabbed me by the wrist yesterday afternoon and dragged me into a room where she had presented me with a suitcase full of money that I would get if I disappeared.
I could have used the money, but I didn't want to make a deal with my father's wife, who, after I had refused, had blamed me for her husband's alcohol addiction reaching a new peak this week.
The mere memory of all the screaming arguments and flying objects in the madhouse Tony had brought me to a month and a half ago was ugly.
The fact that I didn't go crazy was thanks to the ever-growing manuscript in which I lost myself and perhaps sympathized a little too much with my escaped psychopath.
I had given him a violent father who worked as a judge in his case and took out all my frustration on this fictional character.
It was supposed to feel healing, but there was too much chaos inside me.
Too many scars that would be visible forever, even if they might eventually close completely and no more ink would leak out.
Borgov I
Carlos Rafael Rivera
As I left the library and walked down the hallway of the building, I tried to focus on the things that had gone sort of well this week.
Professor Berger really did her best to make me feel guilty, because she came to me every morning, asked me about my impressions, and immediately gave me new lists of tips and helpful advice, even references to suitable literature.
All that effort for nothing. But how could I tell her the truth?
Professor Arnold Fitzek's seminar had been held in an atmosphere of hazardous tension among all those present, and, admittedly, it was uncomfortable when this man slowly and deliberately walked through the rows with his pointed walking stick and eagle-eyed gaze, looking over your shoulder as you worked.
No one dared to say anything. No one looked him in the eye.
He had asked a student who had frequently raised his hand and given correct answers without exception to come to him in front of the entire seminar and had cornered him in a debate.
Those who, like me, had not submitted their prepared arguments on time were not put on a tally list, as his son would have done, but were simply ignored.
Unlike Fitzek Junior, this man did not waste his time on those who, I quote, “do not have the potential to become part of the elite and will sooner or later be selected out by the system.”
It was Friday afternoon, which meant that classes were over for the week and I could devote my weekend entirely to writing.
In twenty minutes, I would meet Lara and Thomas, who had told me all the new rumors that were circulating about me, even in other departments.
I was just about to turn the corner when a warm hand wrapped around my wrist and, before I knew what was happening, someone pulled me through a door into a room where daylight barely filtered through the large windows covered with ivy vines onto the dust-covered oak tables.
My captor closed the door and I spun around, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, prepared for another threat from Fitzek Junior, but my breath caught in my throat.
The Green Pills
Carlos Rafael Rivera
“Davian...” I pursed my lips. “Professor...” I corrected myself, but that felt wrong too.
Resignedly, I closed my lips and looked at the navy-blue V-neck sweater he wore over a blue shirt, under which the dark brown leather belt with the silver buckle peeked out from the waistband of his black pants.
It didn't take long for my eyes to wander back to his defined masculine face and my thoughts to the traitorous memory of my fingers on his stubble.
Warmth flooded my cheeks.
“Believe me,” he began, tension in his voice as he approached me. “I've been trying to get used to Miss Veritas, and it feels so wrong.”
He snorted softly, looked down briefly, and there they were again. The moths.
“But it seems…” He looked up, pursed his lips, then raised both eyebrows and stopped three feet in front of me. “That there's more than one reason for that.”
A dull throbbing stirred in my chest. Traitorous. Loud.
“Quillon Veritas?”
Another snort. He hesitated, scrutinizing my cheeks.
“I should have known.”
Shaking his head, he stepped closer, and a pleasant coffee aroma mingled with that of pine.
Was it sinful that this smell made me want to be close to him? That I wanted to smell him, as I had done with his suit jacket, from which the scent had vanished days ago?
“That name is pure provocation.”
Only three hands’ widths separated our faces. His gaze was challenging, and I forgot how to think.
“Whoever you are.” He sucked in air in a low, audible way and his nostrils quivered, as did my stomach. “You’re not who you claim to be.”
He had figured it out.
I should have been panicking, but something inside me knew that I didn’t have to fear Davian’s next move. And it had nothing to do with predictability.
“I don't even know who I am myself.” It was his fault that I smiled tentatively. “...except when I write.”
Maintaining eye contact drove the moths into despair. Their wings fluttered against my stomach as if they were vibrating.
“Is that your pen name?”
A strand of hair slipped onto his forehead, then another.
“I don’t publish.”
Which didn’t rule out the possibility that I had a pen name, but I certainly wasn’t going to reveal it on a silver platter.
Davian's gaze rested on me. Or rather, it sank into my eyes, searching for answers I shouldn't give him.