Page 20 of The Library at Hellebore
As a collective, we weren’t old enough yet to have accumulated even fine lines, but there was something about how the skin hung on the boy’s bones that made me wonder if he’d ever had a day’s worth of joy in his life: it was around his mouth, the basset hound tilt of his eyes. His pale green gaze twitched between Rowan’s plate and the door to the kitchen. The boy cleared his throat and pointed a bony finger at the bastardized poutine.
“That.The meat’s, well”—he swallowed, blatantly nervous—“it’s not good, you see?”
“It’s rotten?” I said, squinting at my own plate and what little I could see of Rowan’s under its armor of gravy. I hadn’t taken any of the steak but if one entree had been allowed to spoil, the state of everything else was now in question.
“I heard that in haute circles, rotten steak’s kinda like a delicacy,” said Rowan with far too much glee. “Well, they don’t say it’s rotten. It’s dry-aged. But technically, it’s the same—”
“No, n-no, it’s not rotten.” Panic had usurped terror’s place in the boy’s expression. I realized then that while he had on one of Hellebore’s uniforms, his waist was aproned and his shirt was splotched with rust-colored patches of what I hopedwas grease but suspected was not. The humiliating pièce de résistance: a name tag identifying him as Eoan. He fumbled for Rowan’s plate. “Please. Just pass it over here. I’ll make you something else—”
“If it’s not rotten, why can’t I eat it?” demanded Rowan in a bright, happy voice, swooping his plate out of reach: he had five inches on Eoan but even if he hadn’t, Rowan had pendulously long arms and a reach that might have had the NBA knocking had he seemed remotely predisposed toward athleticism.
“Because it’snot for you.”
We all turned as a fourth voice boomed. We turned to see a man of considerable age, thin white hair slicked back over a skull conspicuously absent of liver spotting. His eyebrows were of identical color as was his neatly trimmed goatee, his flocked jacket, his pants (these were textured by gray pinstripes), and his shoes. He was an obnoxious sight: no one wore this much white unless they were convinced the world would turn itself inside out to avoid dirtying his ensemble. I’d have been more disdainful if not for the fact I couldn’t help but shudder each time his eyes grazed my skin.
“Professor Stone,” said the boy, nearly prostrating himself onto the floor. “I-I—”
Stone sucked his teeth at him, ignoring Rowan and I. “You put one of our meals in the wrong tray, didn’t you, Eoan?”
“No, no, it wasn’t—”
“Then who else could it be? Certainly, the servitors know better.”
“Servitors?” trilled Rowan, lowering his plate. “Tell me more.”
“There’s nothing to tell. They’re just automata that the school uses,” said Professor Stone, reaching over so he couldharpoon a piece of meat with the tip of an extraordinarily long fingernail. Gravy and other fluids dripped down a hand so bare of collagen, it was practically leather over bone. He fed it almost sensually between his teeth, chewing open-mouthed as he spoke. “I’m afraid the educational department’s budget is incredibly sparse.”
“Isn’t Hellebore a private institute?” I asked.
I had to repress the urge to run as Professor Stone’s attention reverted to me. His eyes weren’t white, per se, but they were close enough: not the pleasant milkiness of cataracts but something more artificial, almost like paint. His pupils swam in those eggshell pools, and I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or through me. Next to him, Eoan was making hushing motions.
“You have me there. We’re semiprivate, does that help?”
I would have said no if not for the fact there was Eoan, looking like he was about to collapse into tears, and the sight of his abject misery had every alarm bell in my limbic system clanging in panic. Rowan was backing toward a trove of cutlery, indifferent to the standoff. I met Eoan’s eyes again, saw him mouth,please, please.
“That does indeed,” I said, sweetening my voice. “Funny things, those presumptions, huh?”
“You could say that,” said Professor Stone as he took Rowan’s plate in both hands, just as the latter was preparing to dig in. “Like I said, though, I’m afraid this isn’t for you.” His tone raised in pitch, becoming fussy: it was the voice you’d use on an infant or a misbehaving puppy, nauseatingly saccharine. “Faculty only, I’m afraid.”
“I call this rank discrimination,” said Rowan, grinning, but there was something in his eyes now, a wary light cousinto Eoan’s terror. “But solving that is probably above your pay grade.”
Professor Stone only smiled, lowering his head over the plate and then, like a dog, began lapping chunks of meat and potato into his mouth, his tongue an ungodly red as it dragged over the mess.
“You know what? I’m not hungry anymore.” Rowan backed up, hands flung up in objection. “I’ll grab an espresso or something. What do you say, Alessa?”
“Way ahead of you.”
DAY ONE
Rowan looked at me as Adam’s laughter faded down the hallway. “Really?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think he has any cause to lie about the Librarian.”
“I meant the other thing,” said Rowan. “Feedingme to the faculty?”
His words would have elicited guilt in most people. All it got from me was exasperation. Rowan’s kicked-puppy expression offended me. It was sincere. He washurt.Deeply, truly, monstrously hurt; it said something about the magnitude of that pain that it cracked through his habitual smirk and something about who I was as a person that all his agony solicited was a faint worry it’d slow us down. With the Librarian up and moving, we couldn’t afford dramatics.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
