Page 4 of Lover
“If something’s wrong, I’ll shout and then you can come running.”
The urgent clip he adopted out into the hallway didn’t settle me. Left standing alone, useless, I resumed my incessant pacing, filled with the volatile energy of a man accustomed to being the first to take action, to handle difficult situations, the manothers turned to in a catastrophe—the first one Millie had always reached for.
The many clocks lining the shelves with their intricate mechanisms and glass domes kept horrible time that seemed to stall and skip backward.
I’d no idea how long it had been, but I couldn’t take being impotently patient, and I stalked toward the hall, Dr. Hannigan’s instructions be damned.
As I reached for the handle, Ms. Dillard’s muffled voice, more clipped than usual, reached my ears, headed to the library. Presented with the realization that our meeting was about to happen, I adjusted my vest one more time, fidgeted with my collar, then at the last moment noticed I was standing far too close to the door. In a few quick bounds I was at the desk, rifling through papers as though I’d been doing it for hours. I felt ridiculous. I wasn’t a playactor. Yet here I was about to put on the show of the century, and for her welfare I couldn’t fail.
There were three sharp knocks before the latch clicked open and Ms. Dillard came in.
“Professor, Miss Foxboro has arrived.”
“Show her in,” I replied, finding it a miracle my voice was even. I took up a paper from the desk, examined it without seeing, then shuffled it into a nearby stack.
“Professor Hughes.” It was her voice. Her warm voice, sweet as honey. I shut my eyes against the onslaught of relief. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Miss Foxboro,” I replied, her maiden name strange in my mouth. Discovering I didn’t have the strength to turn and face her without breaking, I took another sheet of paper and tossed it with disgust onto one of the piles on the floor. I had to say something else, not just her name, which hung in the air, awkward and peculiar. Racking my brain for something, anything, I found the words.
“Mé Líadain, rocarus-sa Cuirithir: is fírithir adfiadar.”
We’d translated this poem together as a lark shortly after meeting.
“Sir?” she asked.
Christ, I’d already confused her. Blessedly, I knew how to recover.
“Translate it,” I demanded, sounding bad-tempered even to my own ears.
“Ehm, I am Líadain, who loved Curithir. It is true, as they say.”
“Identify the origin.”
“The seventh-century poetess, Líadain. She’s writing about her love.”
“Fluent?” I asked, knowing full well the answer.
“Not at all, sir. I studied at school, and it was merely a pursuit of interest. I didn’t think I’d ever have need of it.”
Though she’d wanted to need it, had searched for a reason to use her knowledge in a meaningful way. It had led her to me those years ago.
“Hm,” I managed, then fell silent. I had nothing else. Once more I tried to turn, to look upon her beloved face, and still couldn’t.
Ms. Dillard cleared her throat, bringing my attention to how long the silence had stretched on, and I sighed, looking up to gaze out into the darkening landscape, hoping to find a lifeline there. Already the night was heavy.
“Fear gorta. What is it?”
“A starving ghost appearing especially during times of famine. It—” she began. If I let her continue, if I allowed her to talk about the things we had researched together, side by side, I would fracture.
“And theAbhartach?” I interrupted.
“A sort of”—she stumbled—“vampire creature.”
This gave me pause, the ghost of a smile on my lips. “Sort of?”
“There’s differing lore. It doesn’t always drink blood.”
A delicate bloom of hope opened in my heart. She remembered these things, stories she hadn’t known before coming to Willowfield. This emotion was one too many, and my eyes stung with the threat of tears. I couldn’t continue.
