~ Sylas ~

Volodchenko's office is a small, windowless room on the basement level. Packed with stacks of file boxes and file cabinets, with a plain metal desk in one corner, it looks more like a glorified storage closet than an esteemed professor's study.

"Have a seat," he says, flicking on the harsh fluorescent ceiling lights and waving vaguely in the direction of his desk. I don't see a chair except the one behind it, and stay where I am.

"Oh, no thanks. I don't want to take up too much of your time."

"Well, which is it?" he grumbles, raising wiry brows at me. "Is your question so urgent it can't wait, or are you eager to be gone?"

"I... It's important. I only—"

"Sit down, then," he snaps, and I startle involuntarily. He turns his attention to the utilitarian shelves stuffed with dusty volumes. "What is it you want to know, anyway?"

Investigating the area around the desk more closely, I discover there is a second chair—a cheap, folding one—on which several boxes rest. Shifting them carefully to the ground, I perch on the chair, hugging my pack.

"Um... Anything to do with Solemnity, really," I hedge.

He stops his search of the shelves and turns to face me, his bristly brows lowered ominously. "Entire books have been written on the man. If you want a biography, then go to the library and stop wasting my time. Otherwise, tell me—specifically—why you need my expertise."

Gulping down a breath and hoping I'm not about to prove Jaxon's opinion of me correct, I take a chance. "My... My paper's about the rumors, professor. About how there are secret chambers under the college, and how Solemnity is buried there, along with his collection of dangerous knowledge."

Volodchenko continues to stare at me for a moment. With his thick-rimmed spectacles, broad, sloping shoulders, stocky physique, and black-and-white checkered sweater, he reminds me of a large, grouchy badger. He grunts.

"Oh. That old thing."

Shutting the book in his hands with a snap, he shoves it back on the shelf, then unlocks the filing cabinet and rifles through a drawer so packed with papers it looks like a solid block. Near the back, he finds what he's after, and pulls out a plain, spiral-bound notebook with a faded yellow cover.

"Ah-hah!" he exclaims, and smacks it down on the desk, raising a small cloud of dust.

I startle at the sudden sound, and he peers at me over the top of his glasses.

"You're a nervous little thing, aren't you?" he remarks.

I open my mouth to protest the characterization (even if it's true), but he waves his thick-fingered hand at me as he lowers himself into his chair.

"Never mind, never mind. I don't mean anything by it. It is only... I suppose you remind me of myself, at your age."

I blink, surprised, and for the first time that I've seen, he smiles.

"I was never very attractive, of course—my Valery is the handsome one. But I found myself in a similar situation, once."

Unsure what he's talking about, I stay quiet, watching warily. Volodchenko turns his attention to the notebook, opening it carefully to reveal yellowed pages covered in cramped handwriting.

"I was young and desperate for approval, and I thought I needed an older, wiser man to rescue me. My Valery is the one who really rescued me—from myself. He taught me that love is not a currency; if you have to barter for it, then it isn't real affection."

Confused, I shake my head. "Professor... I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"You're Professor Edwards's new... 'assistant,' aren't you?"

I feel myself go pale, mortified that the 'rumor' has spread so far, and that the curmudgeonly but kind Volodchenko feels it necessary to remind me not to be a whore.

"I don't..." I trail off. This is exactly what Edwards—what Linden—wants, after all. "I am, but..."

Volodchenko waves his hand again, not looking up from his notes. "Don't worry. I'm not judging. You're an adult, and as I said, I was young, foolish, and desperate, too, long ago. Just remember that you're more than a pretty face. You wouldn't be here if you didn't deserve to be."

"Yes, Professor," I murmur, feeling a new wave of misery. Not only does everyone think I'm selling myself for grades, but I'm not here because I deserve to be. My transcripts are as fake as my 'relationship' with Linden, and when this farce finally ends, so will my chances at scholarship—the one part of all this I've actually enjoyed.

"There's another thing that reminds me of myself," he goes on, tapping a gnarled finger against a page. "I was once a bit obsessed with that old legend, as well. Spent years convinced there was some sort of code in Agatha's writings. Solemnity called her his secret keeper, which is ironic, given she made a living of spilling his 'secrets' to the world. It made me think she kept the real secrets well hidden."

He licks his fingers absently and turns the page. Besides the densely written notes, I glimpse intricate diagrams, symbols, and what appears to be hand-drawn maps or floor-plans.

"Solemnity amassed a huge collection of rare things over the years—that much is true—and undoubtedly his collection included many powerful and dangerous things. Some have conjectured he ordered it all destroyed after his death, but I've never been convinced of that. The man dedicated his life to knowledge. Why would he allow valuable knowledge to be lost? But then the question remains..."

He looks up at me, brows raised.

"Where did it all go?" I venture.

"Exactly. Where are the rare books, and scrolls, and charts? The powerful Relics and runes, and ancient artifacts? Did Agatha take it all? Was it scattered and broken up over time? Divided and diluted until nothing remained?"

He shakes his head.

"Solemnity guarded his 'hoard' far too jealously to allow that, I think. Now, I don't know about 'secret chambers' beneath the College—this isn't Harry Potter, you know—but I wouldn't be surprised if there's something to Agatha's rumor-mongering, after all. In one of his final letters to her before his death, Solemnity called his sister his 'key.' That's why I think she knew not only his secrets, but also where he hid them, and how to find and access them. It would be just like the Bodewells, too—to hide the answer in plain sight."

He pushed the notebook towards me.

"These are all the notes I collected on Agatha's writings. I was never able to 'crack the code,' but perhaps you will have more luck."

"You mean...?"

He nods. "They're of no more use to me. Take them."

I reach for the notebook.

"And... in return..."

I freeze, glancing up, but his expression holds only the traces of a dry humor.

"You'll let me know if you find anything, won't you? I'm too old for treasure hunts, myself, but you've rekindled a bit of the old interest, it seems."

"Yes—of course."

"Good. Well, get on with it then. I've a roast lamb and a handsome man to get home to."

With an awkward 'thanks,' I excuse myself, take the notebook, and escape.

✧ ✧ ✧

"Fantastic!" Linden remarks, when I show him my prize. "This is really quite remarkable. Who'd have imagined crusty old Chenko had such passion, once?"

I frown. Volodchenko had been kind and generous, if a bit rough around the edges, and just because he was old didn't mean he lacked feelings.

We're sitting outside in the 'quad'—a rectangular, park-like space between buildings—at a table beneath the shading branches of an elm, and I'm horribly conscious of how exposed we are. People can see us, and no matter how many times I remind myself I'm not doing anything wrong—not really—I still flinch every time I hear the laughter of students walking past, or catch the disapproving glance of some professor.

"It will save me the trouble of having to read through all Agatha's works, anyway," I say, watching as Linden turns the brittle pages with care.

The notebook is something a student might have purchased for a few cents, some decades ago, and wasn't designed to last. The pages are yellowed, and the ink—once black, maybe—has faded to a jaundiced brown.

"More than that," he says. "This thing is like an 'ultimate guide' to the Bodewells, really. It's a treasure-trove. Good work, Sylas."

I shrug. All I'd done was ask, but it still felt good to be praised.

"Tell you what," he turns towards me, a crooked smile lifting one side of his mouth, "I'll be your... liason, shall we say, with Daisy in the archives. You tell me what you need, and I'll get it. Deal?"

I fidget, wondering what sort of 'arrangement' Linden has with 'Daisy the archivist,' and if it's anything like the hold he has on me.

"Alright."

"In the meantime..." he  reaches for my hand, and I wince with the effort not to pull away. He laces his fingers through mine and leans close, speaking low and soft near my ear. "Craft for me, this afternoon. I've got a new shipment of gems just in, and I think a few of them have... high potential. I promise we won't overdo it. An hour of work, at most. Could you do that for me?"

"Yes, I could do that," I agree, blushing with discomfort at his nearness and the heady scent of his aftershave.

"Good. You're remarkable, Sylas—truly. If I hadn't come across you when I did..." He bites his lip and reaches towards me to run his fingers through my hair. "I think I might have lost faith in myself."

I turn my head aside, away from him, seeking fresh air and more space, and when I lift my eyes, my blood goes cold.

On the path, just behind a group of chattering freshmen, I spot the one person my heart will stop for, and the one person I most fear seeing me like this: the person I love more than my life.

We'd had a rough start.

I'd thought he'd come to kill me—the night we'd first met—and he'd thought I'd might've killed his father.

I remember it clearly, because Jaxon Spellwright looks about as unhappy now as he did back then.