I bristled as my name slipped over his tongue with such derision. Suddenly, I hated him all over again. I hated everything about him, from his smattering of freckles to the way his mouth twisted to one side when he was dissatisfied, down to his tweed trousers and the stupid sweater vest he wore over a stiff white shirt. I hated him for his bitter lies, for what he was now implying about my intelligence and Casimir’s ease in manipulating me for his own ends. After everything he’d done to me, after all the humiliation and loneliness, he truly had the nerve to patronize me?
“If this is your way of persuading me to listen to you,” I began hotly, turning my attention back to the book in my shaking hands, “you should know your methods are about as effective as your pathetic performance in that match against Oliver Hastings last spring.”
Stormy indignation, followed immediately by chagrin, clouded in his dark eyes. Then, to my surprise, his lips turned up at the corners. “Okay, I deserved that,” he said, sighing resignedly, breaking the tension. “But did you know that was the first time Ouverham’s beaten Whitmore at fencing in over a decade?”
I spied a glint of the old August then, like a phantom coming back to haunt me. I had to remind myself that the old August was gone. He had never been mine to keep in the first place.
“Unfortunately, I do recall.” I bit my lip to stop myself from smiling at the memory. It was impossible to forget the details of that disastrous fencing match.
August had insisted on fencing in the match against Whitmore College despite having a nasty case of influenza. He’d ended up winning three out of nine matches against Hastings, but only because his opponent was preoccupied with avoiding August’s wayward sneezes. Otherwise, his performance had been utterly wretched.
August grinned. “It’s not my fault Hastings is a germaphobe,” he reasoned.
I almost smiled, but then reality flooded in. August wasn’t here to catch up; he’d invaded my peace to warn me against trusting Casimir. To remind me how naive and foolish I was. The smile slipped.
“Look, I appreciate you coming here to warn me, but I don’t need a babysitter,” I said. “We aren’t together anymore, so it’s really none of your business who I choose to associate with.” I jerked my chin toward the exit. “You can go now.”
August’s nostrils flared in indignation. “I’ll go when I’m sure the message has sunk in.”
I snorted. “Did Devereaux send you to talk to me? What, are you his messenger boy now?” I may as well have slapped him, the way his face fell, and I felt a tinge of regret at my own cruelty.
“I’m not here to discuss my…situation,” he replied, his voice flat. “I came to warn you. Stay away from them, Arden, even Casimir. Especially Casimir.”
I saw the worry, then, drawn in the tight line of his mouth, before another, more powerful emotion stirred in his expression, one that I did not immediately recognize. Was it… jealousy?
I didn’t know what to make of that.
Without another word, August departed.
I stared after him until he disappeared, my clammy fingers still clutching to my copy ofRebecca. I stayed curled up in that corner of the library for several long minutes, thinking over all August had said. The wary, haunted look in his eyes—as if he might shatter into a thousand pieces at any moment. I didn’t know what to make about his assertion that Casimir was untrustworthy, but I resented the accusation of naiveté where I was concerned.
I couldn’t deny the fact that August seeking me out at all was… surprising; although, the unpredictability of his character had always been part of his charm. Just when I’d given on him, he’d do something to make my hope come flooding back. It was like stepping into the sun after a long hiatus in darkness. Like when he’d knocked the poisoned cup of wine from my hand to stop me from drinking it. Against all logic and at great risk to himself, he’d protected me.Then again, I thought bitterly,August’s moments of heroism rarely outlasted his self-interest.
I felt inexplicably nervous as I headed up the spiral stairs to the third level, where most of the private study rooms were located. There, in a room at the end of the hall, was Casimir, looking both haughty and bored.
“You’re late,” he commented as I threw my bag onto the table.
“I am not,” I argued. “It’s only—” I glanced down at my wristwatch. Fifteen past eleven. I shot him an exasperated look. “Oh, come on. Fifteen minutes?—”
“Can’t you ever just admit it when you’re wrong?” he grumbled.
I looked at him sharply. He was different, tonight. He was scowling, and his body language was altered. He began pacing the room with a restless unease that only served to accentuate his already brooding demeanor.
Casimir was in a foul mood.
“What’s up with you?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” he grumbled, ceasing his pacing.
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
But my eyes followed his right hand as he raised it to scratch at his left bicep. The exact spot where the eye was burned into his flesh.
“Is your brand bothering you?”
He glanced up sharply. “That’s none of your concern.”