2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The Scottish Play

Birds sing outside the window. There’s something wise about animals, the way they aren’t affected by human dramas.

I squeeze my eyes tight. It does nothing to block the cheery sound, of course. I’ve always loved their morning music, a much gentler alarm than the one on my phone. It’s only now that I’m torn by grief that I wish I didn’t have to hear them sing. I’m back at Tanglewood University. Back in my dorm room.

It doesn’t feel the same. I’m sure it never will.

I burrow deeper into the blanket, seeking warmth, seeking comfort.

Seeking something that isn’t here.

The other side of the room is a mirror image of mine. Daisy’s bed is neatly made, her desk organized. She’s an early riser, something I’ve always envied. At the moment, I’m grateful to have a moment to collect myself.

Whispers from outside the door.

That means I should wake up. My feet hit the creaky wood floor.

A small mirror is taped to the inside of the door. It reflects back dull brown eyes, limp brown hair. I look as desolate as I feel. I can’t help but think of another pair of dark, mysterious eyes that looked at me with such intensity.

He’s gone now, along with any hope I had.

Along with any hope the university had, for that matter.

Daisy bursts into the room, a whirlwind of blonde hair and a big smile. She’s holding a glass of orange juice and a plate of scrambled eggs.

“Don’t argue,” she says, her voice singsong. “I knew you wouldn’t eat if I left you to your own devices.”

I recognize the stained plastic of the cup and army-green color of the plate. “They let you take those out of the cafeteria?”

“No one can argue with me when I’m on a mission.”

That much I can believe. She has these hopeful blue eyes that make you want to promise her a pony and world peace.

It’s what obliges me to sit down and force the food into my mouth, even though it tastes like sawdust. That’s not the grief talking. Hathaway cafeteria food always tastes like sawdust.

She packs her backpack while I eat, keeping one eye on me. “I was worried I’d have to wake you up or you’d be late for class.”

“It would be better if I did.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.”

“He would want you to go.”

Would he? I’m not sure about that, not knowing who’s running it. Though his wishes don’t really get to factor in right now. That’s what happens when you die. You stop getting a say. I turn away from her, looking out the small window. “I’m not sure I can face them.”

There’s silence for a moment, then Daisy stands up and walks over to me. She places a hand on my shoulder, her touch comforting. “I know you’re hurting. I’m here for you. Just don’t make any rash decisions, okay?”

I look at her, at the sincerity in her eyes, and a lump forms in my throat. I swallow it down, forcing a smile. “I’m fine.”

She doesn’t believe me.

And why should she? I don’t even believe myself.

I am a train wreck. Not hypothetically. I’m a train wreck that makes everyone crane their necks, even the nicest people driven to gawk as I leave the dorm and cross the campus.

Daisy does her part as my best friend to glare at everyone.

It helps, but she can’t follow me around all day.

For example, she can’t follow me to Advanced Shakespeare: Violence, Fate, and Revolution . It’s taught by Professor Isolde Thorne. There aren’t any other options if I’m going to graduate this year. She controls the entire freaking department now, thanks to her alliance with Luca Andini.

I step into the lecture hall, leaving the chill from the drafty hallway and entering a dry sauna of an old radiator. The room has curved rows of old-fashioned wooden desks, each with a tiny desk attached. Tall, narrow windows line the walls, filtering in light through yellowed panes.

Professor Thorne stands at the front of the room, her elegant figure silhouetted against the chalkboard. She’s writing something, her handwriting sharp and precise.

The Scottish Play , it says.

I want to run up to her, to shake her, to accuse her of murder.

Instead I avert my gaze and force myself to find an empty desk in the back row. The desk creaks as I sit down, the sound echoing in the quiet room. I look around, taking in the other students. They’re all familiar faces, fellow literature majors I’ve shared classes with since freshman year.

The usual pre-class chatter is subdued.

They may not know the details of the Shakespeare Society, but they know that a dark cloud has settled over the department. Everyone feels it, their shoulders hunched, their eyes downcast as they wait for class to begin.

My notebook is filled with scribbled notes from old classes and late-night thoughts during study sessions from last year.

I can’t imagine writing a single thing.

Can’t imagine caring enough.

Thorne turns around, her eyes scanning the room. They land on me, and for a moment, we lock gazes. I see the challenge in her gaze, the silent dare.

Unlike the other people here, I do know the details.

Which means I’m a threat, an obstacle in her quest for total power.

I refuse to be intimidated. Refuse to let her see the pain inside me. I’m the little girl in the library again, raising my chin, taking on the entire world rather than admit that it hurt me.

She smiles, as if pleased.

That’s not a good sign.

“Welcome, students,” she says, “to the most important class of your undergraduate tenure. This is the class that decides whether you graduate with a degree from our esteemed fine arts program or whether you flunk out in your final year.”

A murmur ripples through the lecture hall, a mix of nervous laughter and whispered anxieties. Bile rises in my throat. The only reason to keep attending this year is so that I can graduate, but it may not matter.

Thorne hates me enough to fail me no matter what I turn in.

“Half of your grade will be from assignments in class. And the other half is from your final exam. I won’t go easy on you. It will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. Only students with the best papers will make it through.”

There’s no laughter this time, nervous or otherwise.

They know she’s dead serious.

“I have an offering for you. A gift. I’ll tell you what the final exam will be right now, on the first day of class. You’ll have an entire semester to prepare for it. Now, say thank you. ”

There are some mumbled thank yous.

Meanwhile, knuckles turn white from their grip on pens.

It’s clear this won’t be a real gift. If she’s giving us an entire semester to prepare for the final exam, the expectations will be that much higher.

“Each one of you will be asked to prove—or disprove—one thing. That Shakespeare himself wrote The Scottish Play . You won’t find out which one you get until the exam.”

A few whispered exclamations. Someone gasps.

As a school steeped in traditions, Tanglewood University does not often address the question of authorship. They want us all to assume, as the world usually has, that Shakespeare wrote all the plays. We don’t even bother to make the arguments, since suggesting otherwise would be blasphemous.

Even so, we’d have an edge, arguing for authorship.

It’s the default assumption. The easy A.

Another student raises her hand, asking for clarification.

And Professor Thorne is pleased to give it. Yes, it will be random which students must argue for the opposite case, that someone else wrote Macbeth .

Random, my ass.

I see it in her eyes—the calculation, the malice. She wants me to fail. My grade will have little to do with how I perform on the exam.

Everyone looks worried.

Tyler is here. Our eyes meet.

He turns away from me.

Apparently we’re on our own this semester.

I can’t blame him for wanting distance. It won’t help anyone to be my friend in this class, but it still hurts to know I’m alone.

Thorne paces the length of the stage, her heels clicking against the worn wood. “Now, let’s begin. The Scottish Play embodies the theme of violence.”

Someone raises their hand, and she nods. “What is the Scottish Play ?” they ask.

Damn. It gets quiet enough in the lecture hall that we can hear students calling to each other outside. The professor’s eyes narrow. “We don’t use its name.”

The student looks around, wide-eyed. They know they’ve messed up, but it’s not like they can figure it out from context clues if they haven’t already.

Professor Thorne looks at me. “Perhaps you’d like to help elucidate.”

She wants me to say the name. As if I can get more doomed than I already am.

“Macbeth,” I say, and there’s a rumble of uneasy movement throughout the room. “People say it’s cursed. One time a riot began in the streets while two competing companies put on productions. In another case, supposedly, a real dagger was used instead of a stage prop. And in the original staging by Shakespeare, the actor playing Lady Macbeth died shortly after the first performance. Such a tragedy.”

The last word I say with a note of irony.

Not because I’m calloused toward that long ago passing. The irony is a subtle dig at the woman standing in front of the class, the woman who has startling similarities to Lady Macbeth.

Her lips firm. She doesn’t miss the accusation.

There’s at least some upside to having a mortal enemy who’s in Mensa.

“We don’t say the name of the play,” Thorne says. “Instead we call it The Scottish Play . All scholars know what it means. It’s a sign of respect to Shakespeare, as well as the talented actors and directors. Do you respect them, Ms. Hill?”

Pretty words. I don’t believe them. I think it adds a level of drama to her lecture. It adds a level of performance, because that’s what this is. She’s not interested in teaching.

She’s interested in being admired and feared.

“I’m not superstitious, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So you don’t believe the play is cursed?”

“I don’t believe that witches got angry because Shakespeare used lines for a real curse, because I don’t believe that curses are real. Humans cause enough evil without magic.”

Her lids drop. “Since you brought her up, let’s talk about Lady Macbeth.”

“So we can say the character's name but not the title of the play?” someone asks.

Thorne’s eyes flash. “You may leave the class if you wish to shout like a baboon.”

The person shrinks in their seat.

She continues serenely. “Death, blood, gore. Their purpose, of course, is symbolic. Consider Lady Macbeth’s obsession with cleanliness. What does it symbolize?”

“OCD,” someone says, which sets off a round of snickers.

“Regret.” Someone else. “It represents the blood on her hands.”

Her eyes meet mine.

I’m not afraid of her. I raise my hand, meeting her gaze head-on.

She narrows her eyes. “Yes?”

Well, maybe I am afraid of her, but I’m not going to let that stop me. “It’s irony. She wants to spurn motherhood and femininity, and yet she’s chained herself to the historically feminine task of cleaning.”

“So, you suggest she cannot get free from gendered expectations?”

I take a deep breath. “Exactly. The same way that some women claim to be interested in merit, in achievement, but they actually get what they want by pandering to men.”

Someone gasps. Yes, that was blatant, wasn’t it? I’m proud of myself for saying it, for making the accusation in full view of her students.

She raises a penciled brow. “That’s an interesting claim coming from you. Do you have personal experience with pandering to powerful men?”

I should probably be cowering, ashamed that I had sex with my professor.

Except it didn’t give me anything.

It never would have given me anything except for scorn.

I would have had to play the game to do that, to wheedle him for favors, to suck his cock so he’d write my papers. I would have had to do what Thorne herself does, aligning herself to Andini. “I’ve seen it happen right in front of my eyes, a woman urging a man to violence. It doesn’t lead anywhere pretty.”

Her lids drop. This is a woman who thrives on her looks.

It’s a very specific kind of beauty. Her pencil skirt makes it clear that she’s sexual. Her white Oxford shirt, buttoned all the way up, proclaims her intelligence. Her red lipstick makes it clear that you’ll listen to her, whether you like it or not—though you’ll probably like it.

She wouldn’t want me insulting such a careful aesthetic.

It’s a costume, really, like any actor would wear.

“Violence,” she says. “It’s an interesting idea for a woman. We have less strength, don’t we? Less physical strength, usually. And yet Lady Macbeth became the queen of Scotland without ever lifting a sword.”

“Power,” I say. “Strength. Violence. Those are just tools. The play is about ambition. It’s about the bloody ends that come to those who are slaves to it.”