The library at Thornefield Academy was Vera's favorite location on campus.
Not that she would ever admit this. Not that it mattered. But if forced to rank every space in the building by strategic value, the library would rank highest for reasons that had nothing to do with sight lines or exit routes.
The library was quiet. Peaceful. And most importantly, it was where Adrian was happiest.
He'd claimed his usual table in the back corner—away from the main reading area, surrounded by shelves of economic and historical texts. His books were already spreading across the surface like an invading army: treaties on mercantile policy, census records from the 1790s, three different analyses of the Regency period's labor movements.
Vera took up her position by the nearby window. From here, she could monitor the entrance, watch Adrian, and remain unobtrusive.
Adrian worked in focused silence for approximately twelve minutes before the first interruption.
"Mr. Whitmore?"
A small first-year boy had appeared, clutching a book to his chest like a shield. He looked terrified.
Adrian glanced up, and his entire demeanor shifted immediately—from concentrated scholar to approachable older student.
"Hello," he said gently. "Can I help you with something?"
"I—I'm sorry to bother you, sir. I know you're busy. But I'm having trouble with this mathematics problem, and Professor Wickham said you might..." The boy trailed off, looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor.
"Of course. Come, sit." Adrian immediately cleared a space, pushing his own work aside. "What's the problem?"
The boy sat hesitantly and opened his book. "It's this equation. I've tried solving it four times and I keep getting different answers."
Adrian studied the problem, then smiled. "Ah. I see what's happening. You're forgetting to account for the variable change in the third step. Here—may I?"
He took the boy's pencil and began writing out the solution, explaining each step with patience and clarity. The boy listened with rapt attention, nodding along.
Vera watched from her position by the window. This happened at least three times a week. Students—usually younger ones, usually struggling—would approach Adrian for help. And Adrian, without fail, would stop whatever he was doing to assist them.
"Does that make sense?" Adrian asked after walking through the entire problem.
"Yes! Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you so much." The boy was practically glowing with relief. "I was so worried I'd fail the examination."
"You won't fail. You have a good grasp of the fundamentals. You just need to slow down and check your work." Adrian handed back the book. "If you get stuck again, feel free to ask."
"Really? You don't mind?"
"Not at all. I'm happy to help."
The boy thanked him three more times before scurrying away.
Adrian returned to his thesis with the same focused intensity, like the interruption had never happened.
Ten minutes later, it happened again.
This time, a second-year girl with tear-stained cheeks and a letter clutched in her hands.
"Mr. Whitmore? I'm so sorry, but—" Her voice cracked. "I don't know who else to ask."
Adrian was on his feet immediately. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
"No, I—my grandmother passed away. Last night. I just received the letter." Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "And I don't know what to do. I need to go home, but the headmaster said I have examinations this week, and if I miss them I'll fail the term, but I can't—I can't just stay here like nothing happened—"
"Sit down," Adrian said gently, guiding her to a chair. "Breathe. It's going to be alright."
"It's not alright. Nothing is alright."
"I know. I'm sorry." Adrian pulled out his handkerchief—always carried, always clean—and handed it to her. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
The girl took the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. "What do I do?"
"First, you give yourself permission to grieve. This is important. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." Adrian's voice was steady, calm. "Second, I'll speak to the headmaster. There are provisions for family emergencies. Your examinations can be rescheduled."
"He won't listen. He said—"
"He'll listen," Adrian said with quiet certainty. "I'll make sure of it. You focus on your family. I'll handle the administrative matters."
"You'd do that? For me?"
"Of course."
"But you don't even know me."
"That doesn't matter," Adrian said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're hurting. If I can help, I should help. That's all there is to it."
The girl stared at him like he'd performed a miracle. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
She left still crying, but with something like hope on her face.
Adrian sat back down and made a note on a separate piece of paper: Speak to headmaster re: Miss Thornbury. Family emergency. Exam rescheduling.
Then he returned to his thesis.
Vera hadn't moved from her position by the window, but something in her chest had gone tight.
This was Adrian. This was who he was when no one was performing for him or trying to manipulate him or expecting something in return. Just genuinely, reflexively kind.
It was going to get him hurt someday. Vera was certain of it.
People like Adrian—people who helped without question, who gave without counting the cost—they were targets. They were vulnerable. They were—
"Stop looking at me like that," Adrian said without glancing up from his notes.
Vera's eyes refocused. "Like what?"
"Like I'm about to be attacked by wild dogs." He set down his pen and looked at her. "I could feel your disapproval from across the room."
"I wasn't disapproving."
"Then what were you doing?"
Cataloguing the seventeen ways your kindness could be exploited, Vera thought. Preparing contingencies for when someone inevitably takes advantage of your good nature. Trying not to think about how much I admire you for being exactly this way.
"Observing," she said.
"You're always observing." Adrian leaned back in his chair. "Do you ever stop?"
"No."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's necessary."
"Is it?" Adrian studied her with that thoughtful expression he got sometimes. "You know, people talk about you."
Vera's attention sharpened. "I'm aware."
"They say you're frightening. Dangerous. That you never smile, never relax, never let your guard down for even a moment." He paused. "They're not entirely wrong."
"I'm employed to be vigilant."
"You're employed to keep me safe. That doesn't require you to be a statue."
"It requires me to be professional."
"Professional, yes. But not... distant." Adrian seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Sometimes I worry that you've forgotten how to be anything else."
The observation hit closer than Vera would have liked. She kept her expression neutral. "My personal comfort is not a priority."
"It should be," Adrian said quietly. "You matter too, Vera."
He used her first name again. He almost never did that at school, where everything was formal and proper and observed by dozens of eyes.
Vera's hands tightened behind her back. "We should focus on your work. You have limited time before your next class."
"I have forty-five minutes. That's plenty of time." Adrian wasn't backing down. "Talk to me. As a person, not as an employee."
"I don't think that's appropriate—"
"I'm asking you to. Please."
The 'please' was unfair. Adrian's 'please' always was—soft and genuine and impossible to refuse.
"What would you like to discuss?" Vera asked carefully.
"Anything. Everything. What do you think about when you're not thinking about threats and schedules and security protocols?"
You, Vera thought. I think about you. About how you look when you're reading and forget to be self-conscious. About the way you laugh at Charles's terrible jokes. About how your hair falls across your forehead when you're tired. About how I would burn down this entire academy if it meant keeping you safe.
"I think about my duties," she said.
Adrian's face fell. "That's all?"
"It's enough."
"No. It's not." He stood abruptly, gathering his books. "You're seventeen years old, Vera. You should have dreams. Ambitions. Things that matter beyond protecting someone else."
"I have everything I need."
"You have a job. That's not the same thing." He was frustrated now, actually frustrated—another rare state for Adrian. "Don't you ever want something for yourself? Something that has nothing to do with me or my family or your responsibilities?"
Vera looked at him. At this boy who'd saved her life with chocolate and kindness. Who'd given her a home when she had nothing. Who made her heart race with a single smile and broke it with every casual touch.
Who had absolutely no idea what he was asking.
"No," she lied. "I don't."
Adrian stared at her for a long moment, and something in his expression cracked. Disappointment, maybe. Or sadness. He looked away.
"Right," he said. "Of course. How foolish of me."
"Mr. Whitmore—"
"We should go. I have Advanced Literature in twenty minutes." His voice had gone flat. Professional. "I need to stop by my locker first."
"Of course."
They left the library in silence. Adrian walked ahead, his shoulders stiff. Vera followed, two paces behind, one pace to the left.
The distance between them felt wider than usual.
In the faculty lounge, Professor Caldwell was having tea with Professor Hendricks and Madame Rothschild.
"Did you hear?" Hendricks said, setting down his cup. "Young Whitmore sorted out the Thornbury situation. Came to see the headmaster personally. Very respectfully argued his case. The girl's been granted leave to attend her grandmother's funeral."
"That boy," Caldwell said with obvious affection. "He has the kindest heart I've ever encountered in forty years of teaching."
"Perhaps too kind," Madame Rothschild observed. "Kindness without discernment can be dangerous."
"He has discernment," Hendricks protested. "He's one of the brightest students we've ever had."
"Intelligence and discernment are different things, Professor. The boy helps everyone who asks. He gives without questioning. That sort of nature..." She stirred her tea thoughtfully. "That sort of nature attracts predators."
"He has Miss Ashton," Caldwell pointed out. "She seems quite capable of managing threats."
"Physical threats, yes. But what about emotional ones?" Madame Rothschild glanced between her colleagues. "You've both seen how the girls circle him. Lady Helena, Lady Caroline, now this new Ashford girl. They sense his gentleness and mistake it for weakness."
"It's not weakness," Hendricks said firmly. "It's character."
"I agree. But not everyone will see it that way." Madame Rothschild set down her cup. "Mark my words—that boy's kind heart is going to cause him significant trouble before he graduates."
"Or save him," Caldwell said quietly. "Kindness has a way of returning when you need it most."
"Let's hope you're right," Madame Rothschild said. "For his sake."
Adrian spent his Advanced Literature class in unusual silence. Normally he was one of the most engaged students—answering questions, offering insights, debating interpretations with enthusiasm. Today he stared at his book and said nothing.
Vera, positioned by the door as always, noticed.
She noticed everything about Adrian. The tension in his shoulders. The way he kept adjusting his collar like it was too tight. The fact that he hadn't turned a single page in twenty minutes.
She'd upset him. She knew she had. The conversation in the library had crossed some invisible line, and now there was a gap between them that hadn't existed before.
It was for the best, Vera told herself. Distance was safer. Professional. Appropriate.
It felt terrible.
When class ended, Adrian gathered his things slowly. Students filed past them—some greeting Adrian, most avoiding Vera's gaze entirely.
"Mr. Whitmore," Vera said as they exited the classroom.
"Hm?"
"I apologize if I was... abrupt. Earlier."
Adrian looked at her, surprised. "You're apologizing?"
"If I gave offense, it was unintentional."
"You didn't offend me, Vera. You just..." He paused in the middle of the corridor, students flowing around them like water around stones. "You made me sad."
The honesty of it stole Vera's breath.
"Sad?" she managed.
"Yes. Because I think about you as a friend. As family, even. But sometimes I wonder if you think about me at all, beyond your duties." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And then I remember that of course you don't. Because I'm your job. And that's all I'll ever be."
He walked away before she could respond.
Vera stood frozen in the corridor, something cracking open in her chest.
You'rewrong, she wanted to say. You're everything. You're the first person who ever saw me as human. You're the reason I wake up in the morning and the last thought I have before sleep. You're not my job—you're my entire world and you don't even know it.
But she didn't say any of that.
She just followed him, two paces behind and one pace to the left, carrying words she could never speak.