Page 46 of Kingmakers, Year Two

As we ascend, my shoelace slaps against the stone steps and I stoop to tie my oxfords so I don’t trip myself. Ares continues on, not noticing that I’ve fallen behind.

Shoelace tied, I hurry to catch up with him. I hear Miss Robin’s cheerful greeting of, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” She pauses as I rush up next to Ares, then says, “Zoe too! I should have guessed. I don’t think anyone spends more time in here than you two.”

“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 drinkit plain.”

“That’s perfect.”

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. 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?”

“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?”

“A little,” Miss Robin says. “He’s not always here, you know—he goes to Dubrovnik sometimes.”

“How does he do that?” Ares asks.

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