Dawson showed no such difficulty.
I wanted to have the promised, frightening conversation about children, about what and where and how we might build a new home. But I didn’t know how overt Caleb and Dawson’s discussion had been, or how much she was willing to say to the rest of us. So we instead discussed history and myth, and practiced conjugation, and kept our thoughts hidden behind our eyes.
Nothing else of note happened on Sunday, save the tension of people trying to avoid events and conversations of note, well aware that they were unlikely to hold off for long.
*
That night I slept poorly once more, woke again and again persuaded that someone watched us. Neko did not stir. Eventually I curled around her sleeping form; she murmured wordlessly but did not wake. Lying beside her, unable to so much as doze without nightmare, I asked myself why that guard should come so strongly to mind now after almost three years.
Ressler had never treated the Nikkei girls as entertainment, or as perks to ease an isolated posting. He treated his duties as a guard, and the danger we presented to the outside world, with solemn confidence. He didn’t want us to feel free to conspire, or confident in any momentary privacy. If you woke and saw him in the doorway, he would continue to watch for a few minutes—no lasciviousness, no pleasure in our fear, simply the assertion of his absolute right to observe.
Barlow’s team didn’t seem nearly so pure in their intentions, but they were equally confident in their rights. Since Spector’s rescue, I’d been hiding from their sight. That choice might be comfortable, but it wasn’t safe. And hiding from Barlow acknowledged, implicitly, some rightful power. Though I was grateful to Spector for claiming us as “his” team, in truth the others were mine—save for Trumbull, they’d said as much—and it was as much my place as Spector’s to prove the legitimacy of our presence.
Tomorrow night, then, would not be another family dinner safe in Trumbull’s dining room. I needed to let Barlow’s team see me, see us—and I needed to speak to them like someone who wasn’t afraid.
I was afraid, but after making my decision I slept untroubled.
CHAPTER 19
With classes in session, the whole feel of the campus changed. Students hurried with greater purpose, toting stacks of textbooks. Professors donned suits and strode with a confidence born of the rightful order restored. Women reappeared, smartly dressed secretaries bearing packets and parcels. Lacking only Trumbull—on her way to a despised class—and Dawson—caught up in Skinner’s packets and parcels—we made our way to the library. As promised, the crowds were larger than before but not unmanageable.
The weekend had made one difference—several of us now sought specific texts from the collection. Caleb wanted more journals, Chulzh’th’s especially, while I asked for the Cth?at Aquadingen, an advanced text that discussed the workings of confluences. Quietly, I hoped to find more hints of mist-blooded children flown from Innsmouth before the raid. At Audrey’s request, I also recalled titles that might have something more or less reliable to say about the Mad Ones. They were not common manuscripts, and I was particularly proud of the query that successfully retrieved a ragged copy of A Report of the Trials of J. Pyre by an Admirer and Companion: Concerning the Peoples Underhill, Their Degenerate Worship, Their Violations of Natural Order and Wicked Practices Against Ordained Forms. With that to hand, along with Bishop’s anthology of shorter reports, Audrey was soon immersed in her studies—though she kept close by and occasionally brushed against me as she read.
The librarian seemed more relaxed about the five-book limit, but I doubted this would extend to direct storage room access. I watched through slitted eyes as he came and went from the shadowed hall behind the desk, but could only faintly discern the distance and direction of the building’s hidden heart.
Late in the morning Trumbull joined us. Her expression of contempt wasn’t surprising, but after she sat and plucked a journal from Caleb’s pile we learned that no mere undergraduates had roused her distaste.
“Virgil Peters,” she said, voice dripping disgust, and Spector looked up with a frown. “He claims to be auditing my geometry class. He has a note from the dean.” She glanced over the journal’s bookplate, opened her own notebook, and began scribbling in quick, neat Enochian. A grim smile passed briefly across her face. “Some of the students recognized him from the gate. They didn’t appreciate his inconveniencing their return. A few were quite outspoken on the matter; it does make me feel more kindly disposed to them.”
“What does Peters want from your class?” asked Spector.
“I dearly hope he doesn’t want to learn geometry. I’d rather he leave disappointed. And quickly.”
We returned to our studies, though the reminder of Spector’s unpleasant colleagues distracted me. That they thought overt surveillance of his team worthwhile wasn’t promising. Was it an attempt to investigate Skinner’s suspicions? A threat? Likely both.
My suspicions grew when, an hour later, Peters entered our reading room. He took in the table, and our various looks of displeasure, and smiled cheerfully at Spector. Their eyes danced a brief dominance contest. I shrank back in my chair, then remembered my resolve and forced myself upright.
“Let me guess,” said Spector, putting down the Book of Hidden Things. “You had no idea we were here.”
“I didn’t, in fact—hello, Professor Trumbull. George sent me to look up a few specific texts, and they told me I’d find them in the rare books collection. Which I gather is here.”
Spector waved his hand at the desk. “Go on then, don’t let us keep you.” Then added, as Peters took a step past, “You should know that they require professorial permission before they’ll grant access.”
Peters paused, glanced over his shoulder. “Since it’s a matter of national security, I’m sure they’ll be cooperative.”
Spector looked at his hands. “If only. They’ve already reminded me that this is a private library. Unless you happen to have a warrant…”
“Hm.” Peters’s eyes drifted first to the books on the table, then to Trumbull. “Professor, you could give me that permission.”
She didn’t look up from her notebook. “I could. But I won’t, because I hold grudges.”