“It’s Wednesday,” Ares reminds her. “Everyone gets a free period in the morning block.”
“Wednesday!” she cries, shaking her head. “Next you’ll be telling me it’s October.”
I smile to myself, certain Miss Robin is aware that we’re well into October.
When I first met the librarian I thought she was shy and a bit standoffish. She rarely eats in the dining hall, even though plenty of other professors do, and I haven’t seen her at any school events.
The more I talk to her, the more I realize she’s actually quite warm and charming. She’s just wrapped up in her thesis on medieval monasteries. She’s never idle when I come in here, always busy scouring old maps and documents.
Even now, I can see traces of ink on her fingertips and a smudge on her cheek. Her dark red hair escapes from her bun in wild, frizzy strands. Her thick grandma glasses have slipped down to the tip of her nose. Because it’s perpetually chilly in the library, she’s wearing three or four knitted jumpers layered over each other, so she looks plump though I suspect she’s actually rather slim under it all.
Miss Robin is pretty, even without makeup, even with her awful orthopedic shoes. She has a low, husky voice. I like to hear her talk—though she never does for long, always heading right back to her own projects.
“I just made tea,” she says. “Do you two want some?”
“No,” Ares says, being polite.
“Yes please,” I say, because I’m not as polite, and if Miss Robin wants to sit with us, I’ll take her up on the offer.
She makes the long walk up the spiral to the topmost floor, where I hear a faint creak and thump as she pulls down the ladder that leads to her loft. By the time Ares and I have spread out our books and papers, she’s brought down two more delicate china cups and retrieved the steaming pot of tea from her desk.
“I don’t have sugar,” she says, apologetically. “I drink it plain.”
“That’s perfect,” I say.
She pours the rich, brown, heavily-steeped tea into our cups. It smells of cinnamon and cloves. The spices blend perfectly with the ancient air of the library.
Miss Robin lifts her own cup to her lips and takes a sip.
“How’s the thesis going?” I ask her.
“Terrible,” she says glumly. “I was so excited when I arrived here—the archives contain documents and schematics you wouldn’t find anywhere else in the world. And yet they’re uncategorized, unlabeled, unorganized. The sheer volume of materials is precisely what’s preventing me from finding the information I actually need. None of it is computerized. And quite frankly, much of it has been damaged by mold and mice.”
“The previous librarian was old, wasn’t she?” I say apologetically, as if the mess is my fault.
“Ancient—but it’s not her fault,” Miss Robin says. “The library has never been a high priority for those running Kingmakers. Why would it be? For most of its life, this school has been more of a military barracks than a proper university.”
“Is that how the current Chancellor runs it?” I ask curiously.
“I suppose not,” Miss Robin says. “After all, he hired me.”
“You’re his niece though, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Twice removed, or something like that,” Miss Robin laughs. “But yes, there’s nepotism at play. He’s very kind to me—other than the vague job description. It was a surprise to show up here and realize that . . . well, that some of my relatives most likely weren’t import-exporters after all.” She shakes her head ruefully.
That’s another reason Miss Robin might not be friendly with the other staff. Most of them have a violent history that would horrify a normal civilian. Professor Bruce was a mercenary, Professor Penmark a debt collector known for his brutality. Professor Lyons was called the Arsenic Witch for her skill at subtle poisoning when she used to take on contract kills for the Saudis. That’s just the stories everyone knows—I can hardly imagine what the professors chat about when they sit in their favorite corner of the dining hall.
Still, Miss Robin must be lonely up here.
“Do you spend much time with the Chancellor?” I ask.
“A little,” Miss Robin says. “He’s not always here, you know—he goes to Dubrovnik sometimes.”
“How does he do that?” Ares asks.
“I shouldn’t tell you,” Miss Robin says, with a mischievous smile. “I think they want everyone to believe that the only way on and off the island is the big barquantine that brought you, or the supply ship that goes back and forth every month.”
“What about the fishing boats?” I ask.
“They can’t make the crossing.” She shakes her head.
“What then?” Ares asks, his expression keen.
“He’s got a custom-built cruiser. Beautiful thing—I can’t imagine what it cost him. Luther’s rich as Solomon, though. The Hugos have always been wealthy. They don’t have a golden skull as their crest for nothing.”
“Not the Robins, though?” I tease her.
She laughs. “God, no. If we ever had a family crest, which we don’t, it would be a Robin pecking a breadcrumb.”
Ares doesn’t seem interested in any of that, returning to the point that piqued his curiosity.
“How do you know the Chancellor has a cruiser? I’ve never seen one.”
“I’m sure you haven’t. Because that’s how he likes it,” Miss Robin says, finishing the last of her tea. “Take your time,” she says, nodding toward our cups. “You can bring those to me later.”
As Miss Robin heads back to her desk, I say to Ares, “Can you imagine being that rich that you could just buy yachts or jets or anything you like?”
I’ve never had control over any substantial amount of money, and I know Ares’ family is one of the least-wealthy at the whole school.
“Money attracts trouble,” Ares says, turning back to his books. Then, after a moment, perhaps thinking that his comment was unnecessarily repressive, he gives me a small smile and admits, “I would like to see that cruiser, though. Bet it’s fast as fuck.”
I grin back at him. “If I were Hugo’s niece, I’d ask to borrow the keys.”
8
Miles
I know Rocco Prince won’t lay low for long. There’s no way he’ll just swallow the insult of me interfering with his abuse of his fiancée.
It’s impossible for us to avoid each other—we’re both Juniors and both Heirs, so at least half of our classes are shared.
We had a cordial relationship up to this point—not friendly, but he used to buy mushrooms off me, and once Ozzy sold him an old iPhone loaded with some pretty fucked up porn.
The iPhones are one of our most popular products. We buy old models super cheap, then pre-download them with music, movies, and pornography, and sell them to students for $500 a pop. We offer an exchange program to swap out your old phone for a fresh slate of content, but most of the time they have to buy a new one ‘cause some teacher has confiscated it.