22. Frankie

"That wraps up today's discussion,"Bishop announces with a finality that seems almost gleeful, clapping his hands together then rubbing them as if he relishes the collective dismay his words provoke. "Next week, I want a three-page essay on one of the prompts at the end of chapter one. You have five to choose from. The assignment will need to be encrypted, so choose wisely."

A chorus of groans and moans vibrates through the classroom, bouncing off the walls and gathering around me like a storm of discontent. I don't mind essays. In fact, I prefer the quiet solitude of writing to the nerve-racking ticking of a multiple choice quiz any day of the week. Apparently, my peers don't share the same sentiment.

As I tap my eraser rhythmically against my notebook, I'm pulled from my thoughts by Matteo leaning close enough for me to catch the distinct, smoky cinnamon scent of his cologne—a scent that conjures memories of autumn fires and spiced lattes.

"Do you have plans for lunch?" Matteo's voice is low, and as he looks up at me, his eyes dark and intense beneath even darker lashes, a flutter rises in my stomach.

"What did you have in mind?" I say, steadying my voice despite how he makes me feel, which is almost too damn intense. I remain still, his proximity intoxicating. His scent, his closeness, and, damn me to hell, his attention are all overwhelmingly enticing.

His lips, full and slightly parted, curl into a smile that's both innocent and loaded with suggestion. As his gaze briefly drops to my lips and then meets my eyes again, the air between us crackles with unspoken possibilities. "You," he whispers softly.

Oh hell.

Heat floods through me, a molten wave that forces me to press my legs together discreetly under the desk. He's unbearably close now, his allure almost sinful in its intensity.

Before I can respond, Bishop's commanding voice slices through the thick atmosphere, calling me back to reality. "Francesca Vale."

Startled, I glance up. Bishop stands at the front of the room, his arms crossed and his gaze piercing. Beside him, Tori's steps falter as she descends the stairs, her eyes locked on mine with an expression of hurt and accusation. The fragile camaraderie that blossomed between us earlier today shatters under her cold stare.

"Want me to kill him?" Matteo's voice, low and dangerously serious, pulls me back from the brink of confrontation.

"No," I respond quickly, attempting to inject some lightness into the tension. "Besides, everyone would notice if their beloved Bishop suddenly vanished."

Matteo nods, his expression unreadable, and reassures me, "I'll wait for you right here."

As I begin to gather my belongings, my thoughts are a whirlwind. Matteo's protective stance is comforting, yet I'm unnerved by the complex web of relationships entangling me.

"Francesca," Bishop calls again, more sharply this time.

"Go. I'll wait here for you," Matteo insists, his tone reassuring but tinged with an edge that suggests he isn't just talking about waiting.

"Are you even in this class?" I quip, starting to pack my things, a futile attempt to break the tension.

"Nope." He pops the P, a gleeful smile lighting up his features. He leans back, interlocking his hands behind his head, looking the epitome of relaxed defiance as he closes his eyes.

I hum in disbelief, gathering my belongings with shaking hands. At the front, Bishop and Tori exchange heated words, their body language taut with conflict. He looms over her, his hands on his hips, while her face is flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

Sighing, I make my way to the front, my grip on my backpack tightening with each step, feeling like I'm walking toward a battlefield rather than an instructor's desk.

"Sir," I interrupt, my voice steadier than I feel.

Tori shoots me a glare that could curdle milk before stalking off, her face a mask of thwarted fury and tear-filled eyes.

As soon as she exits, I turn to Bishop. "Trouble in paradise?" My tone is light, but the undercurrent of my displeasure is palpable.

"I broke up with her," he admits, moving around his desk to shuffle papers, a clear attempt to regain some control over the situation.

"Was that mother approved?" I can't help the snark.

Bishop looks up, his gaze sharp with annoyance. "Don't be like that, Francesca."

"Like what?" I cross my arms, my defense mechanism kicking in full force.

He gestures around me, exasperated. "Snarky."

I roll my eyes, unable to stop my sarcastic retort. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Mercer," I gush, my voice dripping with feigned sympathy. "A breakup. That sounds really hard."

I hear Matteo snort in amusement.

"Join us, Matteo," Bishop calls, finally acknowledging his presence. "Since you aren't even in this class." He turns to me, his expression softening. "Are you alright?"

I tilt my head, irritation bubbling up anew. "Oh, I don't know," I retort, my tone icy. "Was it when you fucked me over there?" I point to the desk where I sat. "Or…" I tap my jaw thoughtfully. "Was it when you dared Matteo and Leo to make me?—"

He winces, and I feel a small, vindictive thrill.

Rubbing his neck, he looks up, his voice sheepish. "Listen, I let my emotions get the better of me."

"Ya think?" I snap, struggling to keep my own emotions in check.

I feel Matteo's presence intensify behind me, then his warmth as he steps closer, his hand finding my hip reassuringly.

"I'm sorry, firefly." Bishop's tone is softer now, contrite. "That's why I'd like you to work on the upcoming project with me."

"Personal or school?" With Bishop, it could go either way.

"Well," he drawls, his eyes twinkling with a mix of challenge and mischief. "In two weeks, I'll give the outline for your project to the class. You will each be tasked with decrypting a unique piece of history." His gaze flicks to Matteo, then back to me. "I have something particular in mind for you, something that I believe will require all your wits and possibly more. If you're up for the challenge, that is."

"Of course I am," I reply despite the grumpiness in my tone. I can't help the intrigue that sparks within me, and I blurt out, "What is it?"

He smirks, knowing he got me hook, line, and sinker. I'm a sucker for puzzles, and he damn well knows it, especially since he was the first person to get me my very first puzzle.

"Well, you'll have to meet with me during official business hours to review the project," Bishop says, a hint of old familiarity creeping into his voice as his tongue presses against his cheek in that contemplative way he has. "But I'll give you a hint." Reaching into his desk, he pulls out a wooden box and hands it to me.

I take the box, surprised by its weight. Curious, I open the lid, and nestled on a little cushion inside is a cipher wheel. The sight sparks a surge of excitement within me, and a genuine smile splits my face. "A cipher wheel," I whisper, turning the artifact over in my hands, captivated by its aged wooden rings and the deeply engraved letters that carry a hint of the mystical.

Bishop watches me carefully as I open the box, his eyes gleaming with anticipation of my reaction. "Cipher wheels such as this were pivotal during the Renaissance for encoding and decoding secret messages," he begins, his voice blending reverence with a hint of pride. "They represented the cutting edge of cryptography in an era where the written word could be both powerful and dangerous."

I trace the intricate engravings of the wheel with my fingers, feeling the weight of history in its grooves. Each mark tells a story of clandestine communications and hidden truths. I turn to Matteo, excitement bubbling within me. "This concept was revolutionized by Leon Battista Alberti, a polymath of the Italian Renaissance. He's considered the father of Western cryptography for his invention of the cipher disk in the 1460s. Can you imagine the secrets this wheel has kept?"

Matteo leans in, captivated. "Tell me more."

Encouraged by his interest, I rotate the inner ring, showing him how it works. "Alberti's original design was genius yet simple. He created a system where two circular plates were interlaid, much like this replica. The outer ring remained static." I point to the fixed alphabet. "The inner ring" —I give it another spin— "could be rotated to align different letters against each other, setting unique codes that varied from message to message. It wasn't just a tool; it was a safeguard for those who bore secrets that could alter the fabric of society."

I look up at Matteo, ensuring he's following, then turn to Bishop, who watches with a mix of pride and anticipation.

"It's no ordinary cipher wheel, Francesca," Bishop adds, leaning closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that suggests the gravity of what we hold. "This particular wheel is an exact replica of one used by a clandestine group during the Renaissance—an assembly of some of the era's most brilliant minds. They were philosophers, scientists, and artists who used these devices to communicate freely, exchanging ideas that were, at the time, considered heretical and dangerous by both the monarchy and the church."

The room seems to close in around us, the air thick with the weight of history. I trace the letters again, this time imagining the hands that might have turned this wheel centuries ago, the secrets it encoded, and the risks it posed to its users.

"This cipher wheel wasn't just a tool, it was a lifeline to those who dared to think freely and challenge the norms of their times. Now it's here with us, offering a bridge back to that transformative era. The message you'll attempt to decode," Bishop continues, "may reveal thoughts that were meant to change the world. Think of this task not just as an academic exercise, but as an excavation of history's lost voices."

My heart races. Touching this cipher is to touch history, to connect with minds that once dreamt of reshaping the world. It isn't just an artifact—it's a testament to the power of knowledge and the dangers of curiosity. My intrigue deepens as I absorb his words.

Bishop leans forward, enthusiasm evident in his posture. "Alberti's disk let you encrypt a message by swapping each letter of the plaintext with another letter from a shifted alphabet, like this." He gestures toward the wheel as I align the rings to set a cipher key. "Once set, you can encode your message by aligning each letter of your plaintext message with a corresponding letter on another ring."

"So it's like a portable Enigma machine?" I muse, still turning the wheel, watching the letters blur into one another.

"Exactly," Bishop replies. "But much older and simpler. The challenge I have for you is to not only understand how to use this wheel, but to decrypt a message that was encoded with it over four centuries ago. We recently acquired a letter believed to be encoded using this very device."

A thrill of anticipation races through me. Decrypting a real historical message could catapult my academic career to new heights, perhaps even help me carve out a reputation beyond the scandals and shadows that have clung to me.

Bishop stands, his presence commanding. "I'll provide you with the tools, resources, and historical context you'll need. Your task will be to crack the code and uncover the message. Think of it as a bridge between history and modern cryptography. So what do you think?"

"Count me in," I say without a moment's hesitation, my earlier frustrations forgotten as my gaze returns to the cipher wheel.

"Good." He smiles, his demeanor softening. "I knew you couldn't resist a good puzzle. Meet me tomorrow, and we'll start your journey into the past, one cipher at a time."

As I pack the cipher wheel back into its box, I can't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Matteo's voice breaks through my thoughts, his tone teasing. "So that's how we get a genuine smile from you. Give you a puzzle."

I look up, meeting his eyes, and there's a spark there that tells me he's just as intrigued by the mystery as I am. Maybe this project could be more than just an academic exercise. It could be a chance to rewrite my own history and prove that I'm more than just my past mistakes.

"I like puzzles." I shrug, my smile mirroring his. "Sounds exactly like what I need."

It's also a distraction that couldn't have come at a more appropriate time. I clutch the little box to my chest, almost not wanting to hand it over, but I do.

"As much as I'd love to just hand this over to you, the university would fire me on the spot," Bishop whispers. "It's only a day, firefly."

I'm going to have to work with him on this alone, probably in an enclosed space. This is a terrible idea. As he packs the cipher away, though, I know I'm going to show up either way—not only because I love puzzles, but because that artifact is something not a lot of people can get their hands on.

"Let's get you fed." Matteo tugs me close, breaking the spell the cipher holds over me.

Just as I shoulder my bag, a familiar and unwelcome voice booms through the classroom, cutting through the remaining tension like a knife.

"There you are," Dorian declares, his presence like a dark cloud looming at the door. The room turns cold as his eyes meet mine, filled with expectation and anger.

"Dorian, always a pleasure," Bishop responds with thinly veiled sarcasm, not bothering to mask the underlying tension.

"You are supposed to meet with me daily at twelve sharp for lunch." Dorian taps his wrist, where there is no watch, to emphasize his point.

"I have class from eleven to, well, now on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Dorian." Irritation simmers up my spine, bolstering my resolve to stand a little taller against his imposing figure.

I swear I see a muscle twitch under his eye as he stomps down the steps. "Then we go now," he growls, his glare darting from Bishop to Matteo.

"We were just about to have lunch," Matteo interjects smoothly, his voice a calm contrast to Dorian's growling.

"No." Dorian stops, his nostrils flaring. "Let's go."

I glance between Matteo and Dorian, the tension between them thick enough to slice. "Actually, Dorian," I start, my voice steady despite the rising heat in my chest, "I was about to discuss something important with Bishop."

Dorian's glare intensifies, and he takes a menacing step closer. "It can wait."

Matteo tightens his grip on me. "She said it's important, Dorian. Maybe you should listen for once."

Bishop, ever the mediator, steps in with a calm yet firm tone. "Dorian, Francesca is right. Academic matters take precedence. You can reschedule your lunch." He gives Dorian a pointed look that even I wouldn't dare challenge.

Dorian clenches his jaw, his eyes darting from Bishop to me, then back to Matteo. His stance softens just slightly, a sign of his begrudging acceptance. "Fine," he spits out, his words clipped. "But this isn't over. Francesca, I'll be waiting outside. Fifteen minutes." Without waiting for a response, he pivots and storms out of the classroom, slamming the door behind him.

The moment the door shuts, the tension in the room breaks like a snapped string. I exhale, not realizing I had been holding my breath. Matteo loosens his hold, looking down at me with a concerned frown. "Are you okay?"

I nod, managing a shaky smile. "Yeah, just the usual Dorian drama. Thanks for stepping in."

Bishop chuckles dryly, walking over to his desk and shuffling some papers. "I suggest you use those fifteen minutes wisely, Francesca. Let's quickly outline your project with the cipher wheel, so you can handle Dorian without this hanging over your head."

"Right," I agree, eager to shift my focus back to the intriguing challenge of the cipher wheel.

"You'll have to read chapter thirty before we meet tomorrow to understand the history and how a cipher works. Tomorrow, we will go over parts of it and read the letter." Bishop outlines the chapter I need to read and the resources I'll need, and then hands me a small booklet filled with historical contexts and potential starting points. It's a lot of reading, but luckily, I don't work tonight, so I can chill in my dorm while reading.

"Got all that?" Bishop asks, his eyes twinkling with a mix of humor and expectation.

"Got it," I confirm, my mind already racing with ideas and strategies. The cipher wheel suddenly feels even more significant, a tangible connection to a past filled with secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Matteo nudges me gently. "Time to face the music," he whispers, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, the music and the musician," I quip, gathering my things.

Matteo opens the door for me, and we step out to find Dorian waiting, his expression stormy yet expectant. I take a deep breath, ready to juggle the delicate balance between my past and my future, between mysteries and the known, all while knowing that whatever lies ahead, I have the tools—and the allies—I need to face it.