Page 80 of Kingmakers, Year Four

I’ve never spoken to her. Her low, husky voice, has that same quality as Ares’—the ability to thrill, to slide over your skin like a physical touch.

I get the sense that she’s examining me as I’m examining her. Each of us curious for our own reasons.

I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I’m glad she can’t read my mind.

I’m remembering a rumor I heard once, that there was some kind of romantic connection between Miss Robin and Ares . . .

I thought it was funny at the time—just one of those things people say, jokes and speculation to enliven a boring school day. Miss Robin is in her forties at least, maybe even fifty.

Seeing her now, it doesn’t seem as ridiculous. She has a powerful presence at odds with her loose, knobby cardigans and thick stockings.

Not to mention the fact that Ares seems distinctly uncomfortable, glancing back and forth between us.

“We’ll let you get back to work,” he says, dismissing Miss Robin with little of his usual politeness.

Miss Robin only smiles. “No rest for the wicked,” she says.

She strolls past us, carrying the scrolls to the upper level of the library.

“Was she helping you?” I ask Ares.

“Helping me what?”

“Look for the ‘Ndrangheta chart.”

“No. They didn’t have it,” Ares says shortly.

A strange tension hangs in the air. I always know when something’s off—even if I don’t know what, exactly, is wrong.

I fucking hate that sense of misalignment. I hate words unspoken.

So I say to Ares, “Are you friends with Miss Robin?”

He looks at me, eyes narrowed. “Why would you ask that?”

“Some people said . . . that you might like her.”

“Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head. “No. I don’t have a crush on Miss Robin.”

“Alright.” I shrug. “Just wondering.”

“I’m sick of people speculating about me,” Ares hisses through his teeth. “This school is a fucking fishbowl. Everybody watching, everybody talking.”

“Hey,” I say, laying my hand lightly on his forearm. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

Ares gives his head a shake, as if to throw off his annoyance.

“It’s not your fault,” he says.

Trying to change the subject in my usual awkward way, I venture, “I wonder what color her hair is really?”

“What?” Ares says, startled.

“Miss Robin—I don’t think it’s red.”

Now he’s looking at me like I’ve got two heads.

“You don’t think her hair looks natural?” he says.

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