Page 1 of Witch Please

Chapter 1

As a kid, I always had a book in my hand. I was captain of the Battle of the Books team, theBook It“Reader Leader,” and was on a first name basis with all of the librarians at my local library. By the conclusion of sixth grade, I’d gotten lost in the pages ofPersuasion,The Hobbit,The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,andA Christmas Carol. One could say that it was thanks to Mr. Fisher, my sixth-grade teacher, that a kid from North Umberland, New Hampshire would become a near-obsessive anglophile.

That kid morphed into a collegian with a fascination for rakish Brits. Naturally the most appropriate place for her to land would be Dartmouth. Where I couldn’t get enough of studying the Brits in four years, so I stayed for my Masters, and upon furthering my studies at Oxford, returned to Dartmouth for post grad and never left.

“Geenie, stop faffing about. I need you at the theater at half past.”

Sebastian Doyle. His name should be an expletive. The Academic Director of the Dartmouth Literary Society, and also responsible for the semi-annual Shakespearean festivals held on campus which includeMacbethin the fall andMidsummer’s Night Dreamin the spring. As the highest-ranking member of the library who also had a background and specialization in the British romantics as well as Shakespeare, it was me who got to bear the exhausting responsibility of stage managing the two productions.

“You’ve been in America since junior high, surely you’ve learned some American phraseology by now. And I don’t know how many times I need to tell you my name is eee mo gen not emo jean. Therefore a nickname,ifI had one, would be Ginny not Geenie.”

He flit around my office picking up trinkets to examine, half listening to my correction. My interaction with Sebastian tended to be limited to the two productions. The rest of the school year other than the occasional email, he and I somehow managed to orbit in different solar systems. That six-month separation also somehow wiped my memory of his penetrating gaze and misanthropic scowl.

“Except it’s the rakish Brits you have a thing for isn’t it?”

He leaned against the edge of my desk. Close enough I could smell the juniper notes of his overpriced English cologne and see the delicate creases of his neatly pressed bespoke shirt fresh from the streets of Saville Row. I heard from others in the department he went home to England every summer. Maybe it was three months of showering in British water—but he returned from his vacation looking dashing in a veryLords of Londonsort of way.

“Oh, you’re a rake now are you?”

I tried to keep my tone light and unaffected. He didn’t need to know that his sudden appearance in my office had made my blood start to vibrate.

“Did you see a lot of corseted duchesses of theton,desperate to become a wedded pair while on your summer holidays? Or is this rakish persona a result of marathoningBridgertonover break?”

He continued to invade my space, despite his original request that I stop working to be at the theater by three thirty. Instead, he chose to flip through my latest issue ofBookmarksmagazine watching me watch him. With each page flip he’d run his tongue along the pad of his thumb, assessing me while he did so. Despite him running his tongue on his own digit, my pulse jumped and fluttered as if his tongue were running along my jugular.

“What’s this?” He tired of flipping through the magazine and switched focus to my computer.

“These are notes on theMacbethscript for the festival. Rather than present the play in its entirety from beginning to end, I’m making some suggestions on a few scenes that we could present from different realities or interpretations.”

I’d spent most of the summer putting it together. In the last few years with Dr. Krane as director, attendance had been down and there were rumblings in the alumni office that the event was barely breaking even. Something needed to be done to infuse some energy back into the production.

“You did all of this without even running it by me first?”

There’d been a smile on my face until I turned to look at him looking down at me. Whatever congenial tete a tete we’d just been engaged in, froze as the room turned arctic.

“At least you went for a knife in the gut instead of the back, Brutus.” He pushed from my desk, gathering himself to his full height. “Imogen, the last time I checked, I was the director of this production, and you were a stage manager. Is there something you’d like to tell me? Am I no longer the director?”

“Of course not!” I could feel a flush heat my cheeks. “I thought since this is your first year as chair, maybe it’s time to pivot away from the era of Asher Krane and create a legacy of your own.”

In normal interactions, his ever-present scowl and general disdain for the necessity of exchanging pleasantries could send my confidence into a tailspin. Throw in the fact that he was now none too thrilled, and I could barely form a coherent sentence or keep my thoughts from disappearing before they could be voiced.

“You think after twenty years of focused study, suffering for seven years under Krane’s thumb that I wouldn’t have thoughts or ideas of my own?”

“I’m sure you have, I was just—”

“You were just what? Hoping that this little power play at my expense would get you promoted out of academic Siberia?”

“I’m the Shakespeare expert.”

The words were out of my mouth in a jumble and not intended how they clearly were received. Sebastian didn’t give me even a breath to explain before he was turning on his fancy, shiny, loafer and storming out of my office.

“Fifteen minutes, Dr. Pilar. Expert or not, if you can’t tell time, you have no business managing the production.”

His tone broadcast his displeasure. That didn’t stop my body from shivering at the way his tongue caressed my name. Whether it was his accent or the careful way he rounded the vowels of Pilar, his pronunciation seemed like a sigh instead of the dagger his parting phrase suggested.

What I meant was that as the Shakespeare expert I could have easily bested him any time over the last seven years. I didn’t because I had no interest in directing the production. I wanted to help him get out from under the mothball scented detritus that had been Dr. Krane’s staid interpretation ofMacbeth, not compete with him for any kind of recognition.

Instead, I kicked off my academic year by pissing off the director.

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