Page 25 of Saint Céline
She looked down at my hand, then up at me. “Let go.”
I did immediately. Her wrist lowered slowly to her side.
I said, “He will never protect you.”
A faint, humourless smile touched her mouth. “And you will?”
“No.”
That surprised her more than a lie would have. I leaned close enough that my voice did not need to travel far. “I would never insult you by pretending I am safe.”
Her eyes held mine. For one suspended moment, the courtyard disappeared around us. No students. No rain-dark stone. No memorial flowers rotting under the archway of Montgomery Hall. Only Céline Martin was standing before me with her borrowed name, borrowed future, borrowed work, and the one thing that was truly hers, hidden so carefully beneath all of it.
Hunger. For survival. For more. For everything.
Then Thad called from across the courtyard. “Babe?”
The word broke whatever had been stretching between us. Céline stepped back. When she turned toward him, she was already smiling. I watched her walk away. Thad slipped his arm around her waist when she reached him. His hand settled too low, possessive in a lazy way that required no imagination. He said something to her, and she tipped her face toward him with a practiced little expression of affection. Then she glanced back. Only once.
Good girl.
* * *
By Friday she came to orientation. The lab sat on the fourth floor of Westgrave behind two sets of access-controlled doors and a glass wall overlooking the eastern cliffs. On clear days the ocean turned blue enough to look artificial. Today, the water was slategrey and violent, the wind dragging spray off the rocks below. Four students were already seated around the conference table when Céline arrived. She was three minutes late.
I stood at the front of the room with Dr. Patel, my postdoctoral researcher, while the students reviewed their safety packets. Wendy Chen sat near the window. Julian Price, pre-med and painfully eager. Christina Bell, quiet and competent but ready to cry if she receives any criticism. Elias Hart, brilliant with data and nearly useless with people.
Then Céline entered. Everyone looked up. They could not help it. She wore dark Prada trousers and a pale silk blouse under a fitted cardigan, hair pulled back loosely enough to soften the line of her face. No jewellery except small earrings and the thin gold bracelet Thad had given her after the funeral, the one she disliked but wore because it signaled something useful. She looked like she belonged. That was her special gift.
“Miss Martin,” I said. “You found us.”
Her eyes met mine briefly. “I had directions.”
“Most people do. Fewer use them well. You’re still late.”
Wendy smiled faintly. Julian looked at Céline for half a second too long. Elias did not look up from his packet. Céline took the empty seat nearest the door.
I began orientation. I spoke about the project in broad terms first. Cellular repair pathways. Stress response. Tissue models. Repetition. Patience. Contamination risk. The fact that good science was not dramatic, no matter how much undergraduates wished it to be. Céline kept her eyes on the packet. She took notes. Not many, but just enough to appear engaged.
When I described the central hypothesis of her proposal, her pen stopped moving. “Repeated environmental stress does not merely damage epithelial systems,” I said, walking slowly along the edge of the table. “Under certain conditions, cells adapt their repair behaviors around survival rather than restoration. Theydo not return to what they were. They become organized around what harmed them.”
Her gaze lifted. For a second, the room seemed to narrow while she stared at me tensely. Then Julian raised his hand and asked a boring question about graduate school recommendation letters. I answered it, and Céline was back to feigning interest in her notes.
At the end of orientation, I assigned preliminary roles. Wendy to protein expression analysis. Elias to data modelling. Christina to imaging. Julian to sample preparation.
Céline, I left until last. She sat very still.
“Miss Martin,” I said, “you will work directly with me on proposal refinement and experimental design.”
“Professor,” she said carefully, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“No?”
“I’m sure I can start with something more basic.”
“I am sure you can.”
“Then maybe I should.”
