The air in the restricted stacks tasted of vanilla and decay. Dust motes danced in the amber glow of the desk lamp, swirling around the heavy mahogany table that felt like an island in a sea of towering bookshelves. I leaned back in the creaking wooden chair, my skirt riding up my thighs, and watched Professor Julian Vance.
He didn't look at me. He focused on the manuscript between us, his fountain pen scratching rhythmic, precise lines across the margin. The sound echoed in the oppressive silence of the library. Julian was a man of sharp angles and ironed creases. His charcoal suit hugged shoulders that looked far too broad for a man who spent his life in archives.
"Your analysis of the third act is lacking, Lila," he said.
His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in the pit of my stom
