Page 105 of A Taste of Gold
“You watched me with my parents?” he asked.
A shape moved. She stepped into the shaft of light: fair hair pinned as if it refused to behave, a blue dress that matched the quick glancehe’d caught from the quad, ink on the side of one finger.
His heart leapedonce—clean and startling.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” she said, chin up, eyes steady. “You’re right about that. What are you going to do about it?”
Three thoughts arrived at once. One, kiss her and keep the secret. Two, tell on her—nonsense. Three, say something clever—nothing came.
“I’m John,” he managed. “I’ll keep your secret if you…” He searched for terms and found honesty. “If you let me sit in this room sometimes. And if you don’t vanish before you tell me your name.”
A quick smile—gone almost at once. “Names travel. In here, we use subjects.”
“Then give me one.” He had grown up bickering with Deena, so this was a well-practiced game.
“Latin prose. And another: people who think titles outrank sense.” She tipped her chin toward the stairs. “And you?”
“Law,” he said. “And whether kindness is optional.”
“That will do.”
He moved a step closer to the desk, careful not to crowd. “You were watching.”
“Yes.” She glanced toward the window. “Your parents are the first I’ve seen to escort you with tears, hug you, and return to the carriage.”
He’d already shown that his family was different and hoped it wouldn’t matter at Oxford, but of course, it would. John’s mouth went tight, not from offense. From recognition. “That’s accurate.”
“You helped the boy with your trunk.” She nodded toward his cuff. “And got dust on your sleeve. The porter will hate that.”
John looked at the blot on his breeches and didn’t brush it off. “It was my heavy luggage. He could barely carry it. Why not help?”
“That question will not make you popular here.”
“That’s not what I’m here for. I’d rather be useful than popular.”
She considered him, then the empty chair. “Very well, Useful. Sit. Five minutes. The porter walks past the tower on the quarter.”
“You know his route?”
“I know every dull habit around here.” Her eyes warmed, then cooled again, practical. “If anyone asks, you didn’t see me.”
“Understood,” he said, meaning that he had seen her and it had done something to him he couldn’t quite name. “But I’d like to see you again.”
A small breath. Not quite a laugh.
“I watched you,” she said, as if it were the simplest answer. “From the window. You caught my attention.” She spoke as though she was so much more than a girl hiding in the library tower, and he was aching to find out who she was.
Heat moved through his chest; not the old ache. A quick, sure beat.
“Good,” she said, as if that settled something. “Then you’ll do.”
“Who are you?” The question slipped out. Why are you hiding here?
“Not today.” A small smile. “If you want to see me again, come when the bells strike the quarter.”
“I’ll keep your secret.”
“Come alone,” she said. “I’ll teach you one lesson—how to keep a secret when it hurts. Are you ready for everything Oxford has to offer?”
“I am.” John was ready to give his studies everything—time, energy, the long nights—and to give his cause the weight of his title and his steady support. Yet as the moment between them settled like a dream turned reality, he thought this girl—whatever her name—might be the one he was ready to give his first kiss, and perhaps his heart.
On the quarter, I’ll be here. I’ll do the work. And if she returns, I’ll ask her name—and, if she’ll let me… more.
Mind open. Heart awake. Ready for all of it.
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