“I really don’t give a shit,” Miss Robin says. “Now get out before I make you mop up this mess with that fancy little blouse you’re wearing.”
Lola is white with anger, her expression venomous.
The usually shy and gentle Miss Robin faces her unafraid, her hazel eyes snapping and her arms crossed over her chest.
Lola is wise enough not to argue further. She and Dixie skulk off down the ramp, while Rakel tries to gather up the sodden textbooks.
“Sorry about that,” I say to Miss Robin.
I really do feel awful about soaking the table and rug in milk, even though it wasn’t exactly voluntary.
I’m still dripping milk right now, which makes it difficult to help clean up. Also, my soaked white shirt is now transparent, a fact the boys at the neighboring table have not failed to notice. Corbin Castro mutters something to Thomas York and they both laugh. My face burns.
“There’s paper towels over by my desk,” Miss Robin tells Rakel kindly. “Cat, why don’t you come upstairs with me. I’ve got a sink; you can clean up. You can borrow a cardigan, too.”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully.
I follow Miss Robin up the spiraling ramp to the topmost level, trying unsuccessfully not to leave a trail of droplets along the rug.
The library is always chilly, which is probably why Miss Robin wears three or four sweaters layered over top of each other, the sleeves long enough to hang down over her hands. The milk was fresh out of the dining hall fridge, and I’m shivering.
Miss Robin stretches up on tiptoe to pull down the ladder that leads to her private loft.
I feel a little awkward following her up. I’ve never been inside a teacher’s quarters before.
The compact, circular space sits directly under the pointed roof. I notice at once how tidy and organized she is, not a single cup or book out of place. Despite the fact that the library is stuffed with thousands of books, Miss Robin keeps dozens more upon her personal shelves. A low couch, a narrow bed, and a hot plate all share the same space.
No art hangs upon the walls—instead, I see dozens of the weathered maps and schematics upon which Miss Robin labors in pursuit of her doctoral thesis on ancient monasteries. She has them pinned up all around, several marked with post-it notes.
“Don’t tell the Chancellor about those,” Miss Robin says with a conspiratorial smile. “I don’t think you’re supposed to stick a post-it to a seven-hundred-year-old document, but to be frank, they were hardly in pristine condition when I got them. The archives are an absolute mess. Half those charts were soaked in mouse urine and god knows what else.”
She opens a hobbit-sized door leading to her bathroom.
“Watch your head,” she laughs. “I think they expected all the librarians to be pocket-sized.”
“I am, so I’ll be fine,” I assure her.
I head into the bathroom, which is just as scrupulously clean as the rest of Miss Robin’s space. A fresh pat of soap sits upon a pristine dish, and the hand-towels are freshly laundered, folded neatly over their bar.
I can smell Miss Robin’s perfume. I can’t resist locating the glass bottle sitting on the toiletry shelf. Givenchy L’Interdit—orange blossom, jasmine, and dark vetiver. Exotic and rather thrilling for a librarian. But of course, I’ve long suspected that Miss Robin has hidden stores of adventurousness inside of her. After all, she came to this lonely island to work, and she certainly had no trouble telling Lola to fuck off.
I grin, remembering Lola’s livid face, as I carefully set the bottle back on its shelf.
Then I strip off my sodden shirt and rinse it out at the sink. Wringing it dry as best I can, I hang it over the rack and then wash the milk from my hair and face.
I hope Miss Robin doesn’t mind me using all her towels.
As I straighten up, I see something that even Miss Robin’s careful cleaning must have missed—a splash of red on the tiles behind the faucet.
It looks like blood.
I rub my fingertip across the spot. It stains the skin red. I inhale a faint chemical scent.
Frowning, I wash my hands again.
A faint patch of red remains on my fingertip.
I don’t mean to be so nosy. Whether it’s my Spy training or whether I had this incessant curiosity inside of me all along, I can’t help feeling that I’m missing something here. Something tantalizing, just out of reach . . .
I don’t want to be suspicious of Miss Robin. She’s always been kind to me. In fact, she saved me from Rocco just last year. I don’t think it was any coincidence that she snatched my bookbag out of Dax Volker’s hands right when Rocco was about to discover me hiding in the shelves.
Quickly, I carry my damp shirt and the used towels out to Miss Robin.
“Better?” She smiles.
“Yeah, thank you,” I say, standing there shyly in my bra.
Miss Robin doesn’t make me feel weird about it. Instead, she passes me a soft, warm cardigan that smells as freshly laundered as the towels.
“Keep it as long as you need,” she says, smiling. “As you can tell, I have quite a few of them.”
“Really, thank you so much,” I say. “You always look out for me.”
“Well, I liked Zoe. And I’m glad to see you following in her footsteps.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Zoe wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted,” Miss Robin says. “I see that in you, too.”
I have the distinctly uncomfortable sensation that for all I guess about Miss Robin, she sees far more about me.
“Right . . .” I say hesitantly.
“How is Zoe, by the way?”
“Very happy. She moved to Los Angeles with Miles.”
“Good.” Miss Robin smiles. “I’m glad Rocco is no longer an impediment.”
Now I feel a distinct chill. Miss Robin looks as sweet as ever, but there can be no doubt that she feels not the slightest particle of sympathy for the untimely demise of Rocco Prince.
“Well,” she says, “I’d better get back to work. I’ll walk you down, Cat.”
I follow Miss Robin back down the ladder, uncertain how much I’ve enjoyed the added intimacy between us.
When I meet Dean that evening in the Bell Tower, he confronts me at once.
“What the fuck is this I hear from Corbin Castro that Lola Fischer dumped a bottle of milk on your head?”
“Yeah, she sucks.” I shrug, not really wanting to discuss it.
“Does she have a problem with you?” Dean demands.
I hadn’t told him that Lola was harassing me. Since Dean and I don’t share any classes, he hadn’t witnessed her aggression firsthand.
“She a little bit hates my guts,” I admit.
“Why?” Dean says.
I sigh. “No good reason.”
Dean’s eyes glint with that electric gleam I know so well. He says, in his deadliest voice, “I’ll deal with her.”
“No!” I beg. “Seriously Dean, please don’t. She’s just an asshole. I don’t want it to turn into a whole thing.”
Dean looks at me, stern and unsmiling. He grabs the ring of my collar and pulls me close, so I’m pressed against his furnace-like chest, having to tilt my chin all the way up to look into his face.