Page 23 of Saint Céline
I waited until she turned toward Westgrave. She saw me almost right away. Her expression changed with satisfying speed. She shifted from exhaustion to alertness, from that soft social mask back to guarded poise.
“Professor Moreau,” she said.
“Miss Martin.”
The wind lifted loose strands of hair from around her face. She had dressed carefully today, a beige Ralph Lauren sweater,black skirt, knee-high boots, small gold hoops that looked tasteful. A grieving girl stepping back into ordinary life one polished detail at a time.
“How is Chad?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “Thad.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You know his name.”
“I know many things I don’t find worth repeating accurately.”
A student from my morning lecture walked past us and smiled. “Hi, Professor Moreau.”
“Good afternoon, Emily.”
Céline waited until the girl moved out of earshot.
“That was rude.”
“Was it?”
“He hasn’t done anything to you.”
“No.” I glanced toward the path Thad had taken. “That is part of his problem.”
She looked at me for a moment, trying to decide whether to feel offended.
“Is there something you need, Professor?”
“Several things.” Her jaw tightened. I held out the folder. “But for now, your orientation materials.”
She stared at it like I had offered her something alive.
“I told you I can’t do the lab.”
“You told me you withdrew. I told you I ignored it. We have already had this conversation.”
“I’m not qualified.”
“No,” I said.
Her eyes snapped to mine. There. Anger. Clean and immediate. Much better than the careful sadness she rewarded everybody else with.
I smiled a little. “Not yet.”
She took the folder with stiff fingers. “I don’t appreciate being forced into this.”
“You are not being forced.”
“That’s what you call ignoring my withdrawal?”
“You can fail to attend orientation. You can refuse the placement. You can walk away from the lab entirely.”
