Alistair's POV
The stinging sensation in my palm was gone when I got to the school gates in the morning, but the psychological impact was still there.
I felt so fragile, just like a piece of thin paper that would break if you touch it. I hardly spoke with Claire at breakfast, there was only the sound of the kettle whistling and the sharp, rhythmic clicking of her heels as she left for her office.
By the time it was five o'clock, the idea of going back to that cottage seemed like a punishment.
I was back in the North Wing library. It was my refuge, a place where the air didn't demand a reaction from me. I was at the extreme end of the Victorian section, sorting out the scattered Brontë novels that a Year 10 class had left in a mess.
"You're late tonight, Mr. Howard." I didn't flinch. I could almost tell that silence each time before Elara Vance appeared was a sort of quiet that felt deliberate. I glanced back and saw her sitting in the corner, a pile of books next to her that resembled a graduate, level literature course syllabus to me.
"And you are still here, " I remarked, propping my shoulder against the oak shelf. "Is the boarding house not providing enough entertainment? I hear Saffron is hosting a 'pre gala' manicure session in the common room."
Elara grimaced, a faint touch of her nose wrinkling in a way so human it was surprising.
"I'd rather have my teeth pulled without anesthesia. Besides, I like it here. It's the only place in the school that doesn't feel like it's trying to sell me something."
"Oh come on. It's a library, Elara. It's trying to sell you the past."
"Well, the past, at least, is honest about being dead, " she said, raising her eyes from a copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and slowly gazed at my hand, the one I'd slammed on the table the previous night, with a tilt of the head. I instinctively reacted by making a fist with my hand.
"You look exhausted. Even more than usual, " she remarked.
"Being a grown, up with responsibilities is just wonderful, " I replied sarcastically, giving a dry smile. "It's one never, ending cycle of marking papers and feeling miserable."
"Why don't you try being a 'troubled student', '" she suggested, switching to that informal, conspiratorial tone of voice. "Expectations are far below normal. People just assume that you'll be staring out of windows and being vaguely disturbing."
I couldn't help a short, barked laugh.
"You're doing an excellent job. But I have a feeling that you're a lot more aware of things than you pretend to be."
"Being able to observe your surroundings is a survival skill, " she replied, getting and dusting her skirt. She came closer, and I found out she smelled of old paper and something cold, like peppermint or winter air.
"Is that what you do, Alistair? Observe? Or do you actually participate in your own life occasionally?"
My heart skipped a beat at the very mention of my name. It was a rude gesture that I should have reprimanded. I was the teacher, she was the student. But the hierarchy seemed so ridiculous in the gloomy light of the library, with the ghosts of better men all around.
"I participate in the ways that are required of me, " I told her, my voice a bit more controlled than how I really felt.
"That sounds very tiring, " she whispered.
She reached out, her fingers hovering just an inch away from the books I had been shelving. "You should read this one. If you haven't. The Mayor of Casterbridge. Its about a guy who tries to get away from his own nature. He fails, of course."
"Hardy, again. You really do have a taste for the gloomy."
"I have a taste for the truth, " she said, correcting me. Then she looked at me, her eyes asking mine for something so intensely that it felt like a question to which I was not ready to give an answer to. "Gloominess is just the result of being honest with yourself."
"Is that what we're doing?" I asked with a hint of my own dry humor. "A spontaneous philosophy seminar at six o'clock in the evening?"
"It beats talking about the weather, " she said. She leaned against the shelf next to me, her arm almost touching mine. "You're a good man, Mr. Howard. Responsible. Mature. But I think you're, very, very bored."
I should have walked away. I should have told her to go to her dorm. Instead, I stayed. "And what if I am? Most people are."
"Most people don't have a fire inside them that they're trying to put out with lukewarm tea and history lectures." She smiled, a small, shy thing that didn't quite match the seriousness of her words. "Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me."
She took her books up and was heading out the door when halfway there she stopped, turned, and looked at me. "Oh, and you should wear the blue tie tomorrow. The silk one. It suits you better than the grey."
Before I could say anything she disappeared into the faint light of the corridor.
I remained standing for ages, the quiet of the library suddenly feeling less like a haven and more like emptiness. I looked at my hand. The red was gone, but the skin was still tight.
I wasn't sure whether I was more irritated or thrilled. But for the first time in years, I didn't glance at my watch to see if I was still on schedule.