“Do those idiots in that class of yours even know who Chidiock Tichborne is?”
“They do now,” she answered evenly while she pulled the lid off her pen. “And what do you know about him or his poetry?”
Carter heard the challenge in her voice. He focused on that and not the sensation of the heat coming from her knee near his, under the table.
“I know enough,” he replied, crossing his arms.
“Please,” she offered with an open palm, “regale me.”
“Regale you?” he mocked. He rubbed his chin. “He was born in Southampton, England, in 1558,” he started. “In 1586 he took part in the Babington Plot to murder Queen Elizabeth and replace her with the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots. But they were shit out of luck. He was arrested and eventually hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
Stifling a laugh at her shock, he said, “This poem is the one he wrote while he was awaiting his execution. Kind of inappropriate to be studying this in a prison, don’t you think, Miss Lane?”
“You like history.”
Carter shrugged. “It’s okay. I prefer English literature.” He allowed his loaded answer to settle between them.
She wet her lips. “So, tell me about the poem.”
“He uses paradox and antithesis.” He trailed his finger across the page in front of him. “Opposites and contradictions. He does it to highlight the tragedy of what he’s going through, which, when you think about it, is pretty stupid.”
“Why would you say that?”
Carter laughed. “He made his mistakes, so he has to pay the price. His debt.”
“You sound like you know something about that.”
Carter raised his eyebrows and glanced around the room with large, obvious eyes.
“I know you’re paying for your mistakes. But he was so young, too young to die. Don’t you sympathize with Tichborne in some way?”
“Sympathize? No,” he answered firmly. “Envy? Yes.”
“Why do you envy him?”
Carter kept his eyes on the table between them. “The fact he’s about to die,” he muttered. “He begins to see things much more clearly. He has focus, clarity. I envy him that.”
“You want clarity?”
Carter smiled. “Wanting and needing are two very different things, Miss Lane,” he answered. “I need clarity. I need focus.”
Then he stared at her, because Jesus if there was anything else he could do or say at that moment. Carter knew that finding out who she was was the first step to him having any kind of focus in his life for years. And even though he spoke about Tichborne like he knew what the fuck he was talking about, it was only with his Peaches sitting in front of him that he truly understood his own need for it.
“Peaches,” he whispered, taking in every inch of her face: the red hair that had engulfed him when he threw her to the ground and she’d fought against him to get back to her father, and the eyes that had cried heartbroken, terrified tears.
“What?” she asked quietly. “What did you say, Carter?”
And, just like that, the moment was gone.
As if he’d woken from a dream, Carter sat up straight, glaring at the guard before he slumped back in his seat.
“But, you know,” he mumbled, grabbing the cigarette Jack had given him out of his pocket, his barrier snapping right back up. “What the hell do I know, right? You’re the genius teacher.”
A small voice in the back of his head screamed and shouted at him for being such a dick as her face changed from calm to furious. But it was okay, he told himself. He could cope with her anger. It was hot. Her anger turned him on. It was all the other shit that scared him to death.
“Yeah,” she snapped in response. “I am, and I want you to do these activities.” She slammed another piece of paper in front of him covered in questions and tasks. “I’m sure with all your worldly knowledge you won’t have a problem, right?”
She flashed him a look that dared him to say something back, to refuse. He didn’t.
Instead he picked up the pen she’d dropped on the table between them and began doing what she’d asked because, as she sat staring at him in all her rage and loveliness, Carter knew he’d have done anything she’d asked of him.
Anything at all.
8
Kat set the collected notebooks and pens in neat little piles on her desk, glancing at her students as they were escorted out of the room back to their cells.
“Good work today,” Kat praised Riley as he approached with a timid smile. “Who knew Shakespeare would increase your enthusiasm for the written word?”
She was bursting with pride at the effort Riley had put into his writing. He was trying so hard and, although his dyslexia frustrated him, it was obvious that he was very smart.
Riley smirked, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah.” He shrugged as his index finger touched Kat’s copy of The Merchant of Venice. “I don’t care for that poetry bullshit, but I kinda like this Bill dude.”
Kat laughed and leaned against her desk, crossing her arms over her chest. “What can I do for you, Riley?”
He immediately seemed nervous and cracked his knuckles loudly. “You know it’s my parole board meeting next week, right?”