Henry had assured Camilla that they would succeed--of course they'd get away with it. It was them--or, more accurately, it was him. It would never, ever occur to Henry to think that there was anything he couldn't get away with.
Lunch had gone perfectly, without so much as a hint of awkwardness; dinner on Sunday had not been quite so easy, but still more than manageable enough. Class, however, might well prove another matter altogether.
Henry arrived early, as was his wont, greeting Julian and arranging his things at the table. He had a little time to think, before the rest arrived--before he had to see just how much would have changed in this, their most hallowed atmosphere.
Julian greeted him in Latin, as was their wont, the usual Salve and trivial witty remarks, then asked him to put water on for tea.
It was while Henry was in the little anteroom of the office doing as Julian requested that the Macaulay twins arrived, a few minutes early themselves. Both twins were pink-cheeked from the cold, and Charles was wearing Camilla's red muffler. Julian started talking to Charles in English almost immediately. Camilla, quiet, watched them as she set down her bookbag at the seat beside her brother's.
The ritual of preparing the tea was familiar to the point of being ingrained; it required no thought whatsoever, and thus afforded him the opportunity to silently observe the twins' entrance.
He could tell at once that this was going to be rather more difficult than the informal dinners at the twins'. Outwardly, nothing had changed at all, but on some subtle internal level something had changed just enough to make the entire setting suddenly feel quite different.
Francis came in not long after, followed by Richard, who was in turn followed (rather later) by Bunny. By the time the tea was done they were all seated, and when he took his spot across from Camilla he could feel that subtle shift. Interesting, and perhaps not entirely fortuitous.
Camilla had known Henry was there, of course. His books and his Montblanc pen and his other things had all been laid out neatly where he usually sat. Still, the actual sight of him came as a little shock, just as it had the night before when he'd shown up at the twins' door for Sunday night dinner. Then she'd been able to throw herself into conversation with Francis, and to duck into the kitchen under the guise of checking the oven, and any number of little escapes when the charge (almost electric) in the air between them became impossible for her to ignore.
Now she had no escape, and nothing to keep her occupied but notes. Julian had always said he was the teacher because he knew more than the students did; his teaching style, Socratic at times, could go heavy on the lecturing at other times, and today was going to be one such day, as they moved from one topic to the next.
It didn't help that the topic of the lecture was Plato's Symposium. Camilla kept her eyes on her notebook, but she was afraid she'd blush.
Henry was quite sure none of the others could possibly suspect a thing--not even Francis, who could be somewhat paranoid by nature. The strange chemistry could not, though, remain unnoticed forever, or at least so it seemed; he half fancied he could feel something crackle across the table between them.
Nevertheless, he maintained his poker face throughout the lecture, through tea and some sort of delicious buttery scone, and on into another lecture. Never mind the fact that he could, if he'd wanted to, have reached across the table and taken Camilla's hand, or smoothed back her hair, or any number of small things that would be infused with all kinds of meaning they would never have had before.
Two lectures killed the morning effectively, and after that class was done for the day. Camilla let Julian's voice carry her into a realm of abstraction where dead people and furtive desire were matters far removed. All the same a thrill shot through her the first time Henry spoke to answer a question (correctly, of course), and she couldn't help but wonder whether he felt something like that when Julian called on her.
She was going to have to find some occasion to see Henry alone again soon. She wasn't sure how or when it could be. She just wanted to discharge that weird electricity between them -- like touching a wall or something, letting the charge shock you, getting it over with. There was only so much of it she could take.
Henry was indeed quite serene unless Camilla spoke, and then the throaty, slightly hoarse quality of her voice would make his nerves abruptly tingle. Even with Richard on one side, and Francis on the other, he had eyes and ears only for her. How he could keep his mind on the lecture and still be so aware of her, even he didn't know, but he somehow managed it without batting an eyelash.
Though he didn't know Camilla's thoughts, he too realized he was going to have to be alone with her again. Soon. This kind of chemistry wasn't something that could be ignored, or swept beneath the carpet; if it wasn't siphoned off, it would explode.
As fortune would have it, Camilla received an unlikely and not entirely welcome excuse to go see Henry that afternoon, courtesy of the Hampden Examiner.
"Henry's not answering his phone," she lied to Charles. "I'm going to go take this over to the library. I bet he's there."
Charles, who didn't feel like going to the library, shrugged. "The man's going to stay dead no matter what, Milly." He hated talking about it. He was agitated, visibly so.
"We know his name now. McRee."
Charles shivered. "God, don't say his name. I can't deal with this right now."
"You don't have to. I'm going to go give the article to Henry and let him deal with it. If there's anything that needs dealing with."
Charles nodded his assent, relieved to have the entire topic off his metaphorical plate, and Camilla put on her coat to rush over to Water Street, the clipping from the Examiner folded neatly and shoved in her pocket. Mutilated corpse of Harry Ray McRee found on McRee's own farm in Battenkill County
( ... )
This time, Henry had no mystic forewarning of Camilla's visit. He was cooking when she knocked, broiling a chicken, and the scent of it pervaded the little kitchen.
He knew her knock, of course; each of the little group had their own, quite distinctive from all the others. He opened the door to find her looking pale, and when he saw the clipping in her hand, he knew why.
"Come in," he said, drawing her inside and shutting the door. He locked it, too.
She handed him the little rectangle of newsprint right off, before she even took off her coat. "I shouldn't have cut it out," she said, nervous, as she watched him unfold it. "I should have just brought the whole page over. It's more conspicuous cut out like that. Anyway. Well. They found him. We were on his land. That's like breaking and entering, around here."
She shifted balance from one foot to the other, standing as though she were ready to take flight at any moment.
Henry glanced at it, then pointedly ripped it. "It will be fine," he said. "There's absolutely nothing to connect us to him--if anything, we're some of the least likely suspects in Vermont. A small class of Greek students, who spend most of their time attending lectures? Even the most paranoid inspector would have no reason to look twice at us."
And it was true. Barring some horrible interference by Fate, there was almost no way it could be traced anywhere near them.
What he said was what she wanted to hear. It was also, probably, true. "Of course you're right," she said, a little of the tension bleeding out of her. "I just -- well. Seeing it on paper like that makes it seem more real. I was sort of hoping it would go away ..."
She'd known it couldn't, though. There were lots of things that wouldn't just go away.
He knew what she was hoping, and he knew it wasn't possible. "It won't go away," he said, leading her into the kitchen to check on his chicken. "But it doesn't have to come any closer, either. It will die down soon enough, I think, especially if something more interesting happens. Public interest never fixates on one thing for long, and with such a lack of clues the law might well give up, too."
The house was warm; she shucked her coat as she followed him, and held it folded over her arm. "I didn't dare tell Francis. He'd be in hysterics. Charles saw it before I did, and he's a mess now. He's at home. I told him I was going to the library to show you. I would have, if you were at the library, but I thought I'd check here first."
Half hoping he'd be here rather than the library. It wasn't usually until later in the evening that Henry would be at the library, anyway, but she'd bet Charles wouldn't remember that in his current worry, and she'd been right.
"It's not on our heads anymore anyway, though, is it? We did the purification." The piglet's blood in a steaming gout. It had almost made her sick. "We're not guilty anymore. So it did go away, in that sense." The smell of the cooking chicken should have made her sick, too. Carneia. A profusion of torn flesh. But it didn't. It reminded her of Nana and home.
No, he was usually home at this hour, and he wondered if Camilla had been counting on that.
"We did," he said, taking her coat and laying it on the spotless counter. "It's on neither our heads nor our hands. The only reason it's news now is that it's a mystery, and mysteries lose their interest if they're not solved quickly." Which he trusted this one would not be, as there was no evidence to link the crime to anyone at all.
Henry himself had not found the piglet's blood unduly sickening. It was purification. Cleansing. So far as he was concerned, the matter was well and truly settled, and he could soothe whatever fears the others might hold--the others, but especially Camilla.
She hadn't been counting on his being at home, exactly -- she wasn't positive when Henry was and wasn't necessarily at home, only when he was definitely going to be in public places where she'd seen him routinely before. But she'd been hopeful.
She let him take her coat, and stood back while he performed the startlingly domestic actions associated with cooking. She'd seen him deal with this kind of thing before, now and then. She was just seeing it in a different light, now -- seeing everything he did in a different light, really. He was good at everything, wasn't he? And precise. He even used a poultry thermometer. Camilla never bothered with that.
Lunch had gone perfectly, without so much as a hint of awkwardness; dinner on Sunday had not been quite so easy, but still more than manageable enough. Class, however, might well prove another matter altogether.
Henry arrived early, as was his wont, greeting Julian and arranging his things at the table. He had a little time to think, before the rest arrived--before he had to see just how much would have changed in this, their most hallowed atmosphere.
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It was while Henry was in the little anteroom of the office doing as Julian requested that the Macaulay twins arrived, a few minutes early themselves. Both twins were pink-cheeked from the cold, and Charles was wearing Camilla's red muffler. Julian started talking to Charles in English almost immediately. Camilla, quiet, watched them as she set down her bookbag at the seat beside her brother's.
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He could tell at once that this was going to be rather more difficult than the informal dinners at the twins'. Outwardly, nothing had changed at all, but on some subtle internal level something had changed just enough to make the entire setting suddenly feel quite different.
Francis came in not long after, followed by Richard, who was in turn followed (rather later) by Bunny. By the time the tea was done they were all seated, and when he took his spot across from Camilla he could feel that subtle shift. Interesting, and perhaps not entirely fortuitous.
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Now she had no escape, and nothing to keep her occupied but notes. Julian had always said he was the teacher because he knew more than the students did; his teaching style, Socratic at times, could go heavy on the lecturing at other times, and today was going to be one such day, as they moved from one topic to the next.
It didn't help that the topic of the lecture was Plato's Symposium. Camilla kept her eyes on her notebook, but she was afraid she'd blush.
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Nevertheless, he maintained his poker face throughout the lecture, through tea and some sort of delicious buttery scone, and on into another lecture. Never mind the fact that he could, if he'd wanted to, have reached across the table and taken Camilla's hand, or smoothed back her hair, or any number of small things that would be infused with all kinds of meaning they would never have had before.
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She was going to have to find some occasion to see Henry alone again soon. She wasn't sure how or when it could be. She just wanted to discharge that weird electricity between them -- like touching a wall or something, letting the charge shock you, getting it over with. There was only so much of it she could take.
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Though he didn't know Camilla's thoughts, he too realized he was going to have to be alone with her again. Soon. This kind of chemistry wasn't something that could be ignored, or swept beneath the carpet; if it wasn't siphoned off, it would explode.
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"Henry's not answering his phone," she lied to Charles. "I'm going to go take this over to the library. I bet he's there."
Charles, who didn't feel like going to the library, shrugged. "The man's going to stay dead no matter what, Milly." He hated talking about it. He was agitated, visibly so.
"We know his name now. McRee."
Charles shivered. "God, don't say his name. I can't deal with this right now."
"You don't have to. I'm going to go give the article to Henry and let him deal with it. If there's anything that needs dealing with."
Charles nodded his assent, relieved to have the entire topic off his metaphorical plate, and Camilla put on her coat to rush over to Water Street, the clipping from the Examiner folded neatly and shoved in her pocket. Mutilated corpse of Harry Ray McRee found on McRee's own farm in Battenkill County ( ... )
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He knew her knock, of course; each of the little group had their own, quite distinctive from all the others. He opened the door to find her looking pale, and when he saw the clipping in her hand, he knew why.
"Come in," he said, drawing her inside and shutting the door. He locked it, too.
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She shifted balance from one foot to the other, standing as though she were ready to take flight at any moment.
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And it was true. Barring some horrible interference by Fate, there was almost no way it could be traced anywhere near them.
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She'd known it couldn't, though. There were lots of things that wouldn't just go away.
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Half hoping he'd be here rather than the library. It wasn't usually until later in the evening that Henry would be at the library, anyway, but she'd bet Charles wouldn't remember that in his current worry, and she'd been right.
"It's not on our heads anymore anyway, though, is it? We did the purification." The piglet's blood in a steaming gout. It had almost made her sick. "We're not guilty anymore. So it did go away, in that sense." The smell of the cooking chicken should have made her sick, too. Carneia. A profusion of torn flesh. But it didn't. It reminded her of Nana and home.
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"We did," he said, taking her coat and laying it on the spotless counter. "It's on neither our heads nor our hands. The only reason it's news now is that it's a mystery, and mysteries lose their interest if they're not solved quickly." Which he trusted this one would not be, as there was no evidence to link the crime to anyone at all.
Henry himself had not found the piglet's blood unduly sickening. It was purification. Cleansing. So far as he was concerned, the matter was well and truly settled, and he could soothe whatever fears the others might hold--the others, but especially Camilla.
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She let him take her coat, and stood back while he performed the startlingly domestic actions associated with cooking. She'd seen him deal with this kind of thing before, now and then. She was just seeing it in a different light, now -- seeing everything he did in a different light, really. He was good at everything, wasn't he? And precise. He even used a poultry thermometer. Camilla never bothered with that.
"So we just have to wait," she said.
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