Elara's POV
The air in St. Jude's always had a slight smell of damp wool mixed with the smell of some very expensive floor wax.
It was a rather strong and stifling odor which seemed as if it was definitely trying to squeeze the air out of my lungs. I was okay with it. At least, it was better than the nauseating antiseptic smell of the apartment in Zurich.
I basically kept my mind and body in a kind of trance for the rest of the afternoon.
In Chemistry, Saffron Leith wanted to knock me over in the aisle. It was a very clumsy and amateur attempt. I didn't fall, of course. I only stepped over her foot and kept walking without even looking at her.
Girls like Saffron are best handled by not giving them direct resistance, instead, you make them feel that they are not even worth arguing with.
After the last bell, I didn't join others in the common room. I was not interested in knowing who was dating whom, or which horse somebody had bought for the weekend. I picked the library.
The North Wing was the oldest part of the school, a place of high ceilings and rows of books that nobody had touched since the eighties.
I didn't have a particular book in mind for the time being. I was just craving to be in the place where my mother had been most complete.
I dropped into the restricted section, the floorboards complaining under my boots.
I assumed that I was the only one there until I spotted a light flickering at the end of the aisle.
That was Mr. Howard. He was freed from his jacket and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing his forearms that seemed pretty strong for a history teacher.
He was on a step, ladder, holding a dusty copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray.
"The library is technically closed to students after five, Miss Vance, " he reminded me. He didn't lower his eyes to me. He just kept sliding the book into a tightly shut slot on the shelf.
"The door was unlocked, " I murmured. My voice sounded insignificant in the big room. I suddenly felt a wave of shyness coming over me. It was simple to be a blank slate in the classroom. Here, in the low light, I felt as if I had been exposed.
He carefully and slowly climbed down the ladder. It was the first time he really looked at me, like really looked at me. The professional mask he had worn in class was slightly crooked.
"Looking for something special? Or just dodging the social niceties of the Great Hall?"
"Dodging, " I said. I rested my back against the shelf, my fingertips sliding over a Thomas Hardy book's spine. "I don't think I'm very good at the 'St. Judes' sort of conversation."
Alistair. No. Mr. Howard, made a dry, short noise which was almost a laugh. "It's mainly a competition to see who can mention their summer home the most times in sixty seconds. You're not really missing out on anything."
"I like those who have been dead for a hundred years better, " I said, tapping the spine of a book. "They're less demanding."
He rested his back on the ladder and folded his arms. "Hardy? Or are you more a Dickens fan?"
"Hardy, " I said. "Everything seems so grim and unavoidable. It's like being truthful."
"A bit cynical for someone your age, don't you think?" he observed, but his voice was not mocking. It even had a hint of kindness in it.
"Most girls in Year 13 get so caught up in contemporary romance that they don't even realize that not everyone actually lives a happily ever after like in those books."
"In literature, happiness is often just the writer's inability to imagine things differently, " I said.
He smiled at that. Not a teacher's grin, but a small, private smile. "I used to say the same thing to my professors. They told me I was being a 'pretentious realist'. I told them I was just paying attention."
I glanced down at my shoes, feeling my cheeks getting warm. "I'm not trying to be pretentious. It's just... I prefer things that are real. Even though they're sad."
He remained silent for a while. His silence wasn't awkward, it was as if the library was silently urging us to continue.
In that moment, I figured out that he wasn't just withdrawn. He was lonely. Not the kind of loneliness when you're alone, but the kind where you're with people but still completely disconnected.
"You have your mother's eyes, " he murmured. Then, as if realizing he pushed too far, he coughed and straightened up.
"Margot was... she was very talented. She also liked Hardy, " he added.
"You knew her?" I whispered, heart pounding wildly.
"I've gone through the records. And the old yearbooks, " he said, putting on his serious face again. "You'd better go to dinner, Elara. Saffron will start rumors if you take too long, and I've got a stack of essays here that won't grade themselves."
"Sure, " I said, retreating. "Goodnight, Mr. Howard."
"Goodnight, " he replied.
When I had reached the door, I looked back. He was still standing where I had left him, his eyes fixed on me.
Suddenly, a weird, exciting sensation stirred up in my chest. He thought I was just a shy, emotionally scarred girl. He thought that by being the responsible adult he'd be giving a bit of pity to a student who was out of place.
He was mistaken about many things. However, he was right about one thing: I was indeed paying attention.