Dylan watched him walk away, and Aaron didn’t have to see him to know he smiled. Nothing made a college kid as happy as making an overbearing adult toe the line.
As Aaron walked, he glanced at the security cameras, located them, then picked out a dark, empty, un-surveyed corner and made his way there. Standing quietly among the stacks, he perused the books, made sure he was alone . . . then dissolved into a dark mist that disappeared into the shadows.
Next, he did what he did best.
He made his way unseen to the antiquities department. He located Rosamund’s worn leather notebook, stuffed with papers. He surrounded it with himself, making it as much a part of the shadows as he himself was. Then the dark mist that was Aaron wafted like smoke through the cracks in the doors, down the corridors, and when he knew himself to be safe, out of the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library.
“Rosamund.” Aaron’s warm, deep voice spoke close to her ear. “I have your notebook for you.”
She turned her head. Her neck popped. Her eyes felt square, like they’d shaped themselves into pages. Aaron’s face swam before her tired gaze, and she said the first thing that came to her head. “Do you realize it is a crime that Irving hasn’t allowed these manuscripts to be scanned and uploaded to the public domain?”
He straightened. “You’re welcome.”IT
“Oh.” She looked down at the notebook he had handed her. “Thank you. They didn’t give you trouble about going down to the antiquities when I wasn’t there?”
“Since I’d been there earlier . . .”
“Good.” She’d been sitting for too long. She needed to get up, stretch, go to the bathroom. “This will be very helpful. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” She pushed away from the table and scrambled to her feet.
“When you come back, I’ll have a glass of warm milk ready for you.” Martha stood up out of Irving’s big leather easy chair. “That will help relax you so you can sleep.”
“That would be lovely, but I really need to—” Horrified remembrance flashed through Rosamund. She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, no . I forgot my date with Lance Mathews!”
“Oh, dear,” Martha said.
“What time is it?” Rosamund looked around wildly. A clock. She needed a clock. Irving had jars of teeth in here, but he didn’t have a clock?
Aaron glanced at his watch. “Ten twenty.”
“I need to call him, to explain. . . .” She felt sick.
“If he works from eight to five, it’s a little late. You might wake him up.” Martha’s voice was low and gravelly, as if she smoked when she could sneak away. Cigarettes or maybe, as rough as she looked, cigars.
“But I . . . He was supposed to pick me up and take me to dinner!” Rosamund flushed hot and then cold as she imagined Lance Mathews standing on her doorstep, dressed in a suit like Aaron’s—no, in casual clothes like the ones he had worn earlier—and thinking she had stood him up.
Charisma wandered through the door, her black and purple hair in Pippi Longstocking braids. She wore pajamas, huge fluffy slippers, and a tattered robe, and was unwrapping an ice-cream sandwich and holding another one. “Hey, Rosamund, I thought about saying something to you about that date, but you were so absorbed I thought you must have cancelled.”
“I never have dates that aren’t blind dates, and then the guys never call back. The one time I actually have a guy look at me and like me and ask me out—and he’s gorgeous —and I forgot. How big a loser am I? I want to jump off a cliff.”
“I don’t care how gorgeous he is. He isn’t worth that,” Aaron said.
“It’s okay, Rosamund. A real man . . .” Charisma began. Then she bit into the ice-cream sandwich, and her face lit up. “Good,” she said. “Better than good.”
With some vaguely deep meaning in his voice, Aaron asked, “What were you saying before you started eating, Charisma?”
“Oh! Right.”
As Aaron walked, he glanced at the security cameras, located them, then picked out a dark, empty, un-surveyed corner and made his way there. Standing quietly among the stacks, he perused the books, made sure he was alone . . . then dissolved into a dark mist that disappeared into the shadows.
Next, he did what he did best.
He made his way unseen to the antiquities department. He located Rosamund’s worn leather notebook, stuffed with papers. He surrounded it with himself, making it as much a part of the shadows as he himself was. Then the dark mist that was Aaron wafted like smoke through the cracks in the doors, down the corridors, and when he knew himself to be safe, out of the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library.
“Rosamund.” Aaron’s warm, deep voice spoke close to her ear. “I have your notebook for you.”
She turned her head. Her neck popped. Her eyes felt square, like they’d shaped themselves into pages. Aaron’s face swam before her tired gaze, and she said the first thing that came to her head. “Do you realize it is a crime that Irving hasn’t allowed these manuscripts to be scanned and uploaded to the public domain?”
He straightened. “You’re welcome.”IT
“Oh.” She looked down at the notebook he had handed her. “Thank you. They didn’t give you trouble about going down to the antiquities when I wasn’t there?”
“Since I’d been there earlier . . .”
“Good.” She’d been sitting for too long. She needed to get up, stretch, go to the bathroom. “This will be very helpful. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” She pushed away from the table and scrambled to her feet.
“When you come back, I’ll have a glass of warm milk ready for you.” Martha stood up out of Irving’s big leather easy chair. “That will help relax you so you can sleep.”
“That would be lovely, but I really need to—” Horrified remembrance flashed through Rosamund. She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, no . I forgot my date with Lance Mathews!”
“Oh, dear,” Martha said.
“What time is it?” Rosamund looked around wildly. A clock. She needed a clock. Irving had jars of teeth in here, but he didn’t have a clock?
Aaron glanced at his watch. “Ten twenty.”
“I need to call him, to explain. . . .” She felt sick.
“If he works from eight to five, it’s a little late. You might wake him up.” Martha’s voice was low and gravelly, as if she smoked when she could sneak away. Cigarettes or maybe, as rough as she looked, cigars.
“But I . . . He was supposed to pick me up and take me to dinner!” Rosamund flushed hot and then cold as she imagined Lance Mathews standing on her doorstep, dressed in a suit like Aaron’s—no, in casual clothes like the ones he had worn earlier—and thinking she had stood him up.
Charisma wandered through the door, her black and purple hair in Pippi Longstocking braids. She wore pajamas, huge fluffy slippers, and a tattered robe, and was unwrapping an ice-cream sandwich and holding another one. “Hey, Rosamund, I thought about saying something to you about that date, but you were so absorbed I thought you must have cancelled.”
“I never have dates that aren’t blind dates, and then the guys never call back. The one time I actually have a guy look at me and like me and ask me out—and he’s gorgeous —and I forgot. How big a loser am I? I want to jump off a cliff.”
“I don’t care how gorgeous he is. He isn’t worth that,” Aaron said.
“It’s okay, Rosamund. A real man . . .” Charisma began. Then she bit into the ice-cream sandwich, and her face lit up. “Good,” she said. “Better than good.”
With some vaguely deep meaning in his voice, Aaron asked, “What were you saying before you started eating, Charisma?”
“Oh! Right.”
Similar Books
