I watched, helpless to intervene, as August returned Casimir’s penetrating stare with a mystified expression. He must have recognized Casimir from that night in the Tusk, but had he noticed the familiarity between him and Devereaux? Did he suspect Casimir of being a Daemon? I could not discern the answer from his expression. The only thing I was sure about was that August had no idea Casimir had overheard our break-up that night in the library.
“Shall I act as note-taker, then?” offered Monty, disrupting my stream of thought.
I fought the overwhelming urge to look at Casimir and instead tried to focus on the task at hand.
August gave a huff of impatience, suddenly sounding much more like his old pompous self. “Yes, yes, fine,” he said irritably. “Can we please get started? We’ve already wasted enough time…”
Beaming, Monty procured a ridiculous looking fountain pen from his bag. Casimir, damn him, was still eyeing August with that devilish gleam in his eye that reminded me of a lion toying with the idea of tormenting his prey. He knew August couldn’t ignore that look. It was an invitation and a challenge.
Sure enough, as August met Casimir’s gaze, his features twisted into surprise, and then dismay. “I’m sorry, is there something you need help with?”
Casimir merely shook his head and shrugged, apparently unfazed by the obvious hostility in August’s tone.
I heaved a sigh of relief when Casimir trained his gaze back to the textbook. I began to read in turn, but stopped when my tattoo began prickling. I scratched at it and glanced up to find Casimir watching me with that same, insufferably cruel smileplastered onto his face. I could almost hear the wheels of mischief turning in that twisted mind of his. I shot him a warning glare, and then forced my gaze back to the page, though my brain refused to process any of the words. After five minutes passed in this torment, Monty yawned loudly and stretched his arms, apparently bored, his textbook opened to the wrong page.
“So…” August spoke with the air of someone who desperately wanted to get through the next few minutes as quickly as possible. “The two questions we must answer are, one, what does this tale tell us about the nature of trust and human fallibility, and two, is Orpheus and Eurydice’s love doomed by fate, or choice?” He paused, his expression tentative. “Arden, would you like to start us off?”
I was so surprised by this that I nearly bit through the cheek I was gnawing on. “Well,” I said, swallowing down the metallic flavor of blood, “It seems a bit reductive to blame the failure of this love story on fate. It was Orpheus’ choice to look back, after all. But I suppose there’s an argument to be made for blaming the shepherd who chased them into the woods where Eurydice was bitten in the first place. If he hadn’t tried to kill Orpheus, they wouldn’t have fled in such haste, and Eurydice wouldn’t have been bitten.”
August frowned. “I don’t think Skinner is asking us to consider the earlier parts of the story, just how the story ends,” he mused. “We’re meant to consider the pivotal moment when Orpheus is leaving the Underworld and whether his decision to turn around was really a choice. Did Hades know Orpheus would turn around? Or was it all Orpheus’s fault?”
Monty blinked rather rapidly as though baffled by August’s lexical gymnastics.
August clarified, “What I mean is that Hades knew Orpheus was only human. He was bound to make a trivial mistake that would doom him—even if we know that in hindsight, it would’ve been easy to avoid.”
“So, what, you’re going to let Orpheus off the hook, just like that?” The accusation fell from my lips with more heat than I’d intended, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Orpheus gets to blame fate, or Hades, or whomever you like—while poor Eurydice is forever condemned to the Underworld.”
I crossed my arms and sat back with a huff. My face grew hot when I realized Monty and August were staring at me and wearing twin dumbfounded expressions.
August sighed, though not impatiently. It was a sorrowful sound, like he’d guessed my vitriol had very little to do with a Greek tragedy and everything to do with him and his choices.
“I only meant,” he began slowly, as though approaching a dangerous animal, “that we should consider the context in which this myth was written. We know the Greeks believed their lifespans were determined by the three Fates. Clotho spun the thread which began a person’s life, and her sister Atropos cut the thread, thereby ending that life. Maybe Eurydice was never meant to come back to the surface. Perhaps we should blame fate.”
“You’ve forgotten Lachesis,” Casimir cut in abruptly. “The third sister of the Fates.”
“Should I be writing all this down?” Monty asked, his brow furrowed in worry, the moron.
August rolled his eyes at the correction. “I didn’t forget Lachesis,” he said calmly. “I was simply trying to be brief in my explanation.”
Casimir doggedly continued, “Is absolving men of all accountability a habit of yours? Or is it just a personal preference?”
My spine went rigid at the accusation. I fought the urge to look at August, to gauge his reaction to this challenge.
August spluttered, “I beg your pardon?”
Leaning forward with a predatory glint in his eye that toldme he was enjoying this far too much, Casimir said in a low tone, “I think you heard me.”
I did look up then, unable to train my expression into anything other than dismay.
“Casimir,” I said in warning, but he ignored me.
Monty’s eyes flicked nervously between the pair of them.
“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” August scoffed, still glaring at Casimir. “I don’t even know you.”
“Oh, but I know you, Sinclair,” Casimir said, smirking broadly.
August seemed too flummoxed for words, but then he looked toward me, accusingly.