27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Thine Own Hand

I walk into the classroom, the familiar hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The room looks so ordinary, so untouched by the chaos that has swept through Tanglewood. Rows of desks stretch out before me, their faux wood surfaces worn smooth by years of use. It’s almost as if nothing has changed, as if the world hasn’t been turned upside down and shaken like a snow globe.

The chalkboard at the front has Professor Oglevy’s familiar scrawl: Final Exam.

Dean Morris convinced her to come back. Rumor has it that she was having a torrid love affair with a scholar younger than her. It began when she was guest lecturing in Italy. Now her skin is definitely tan and glowing, though her frizzy hair is a comforting halo around her face.

My heart thumps steadily in my chest, a familiar rhythm of pre-exam jitters. It’s a strange comfort, this feeling. It’s normal, unlike the surreal events of the past weeks. I’ve faced actual death, yet here I am, nervous about a final exam.

It’s absurd, really, but it’s a testament to the human spirit, I suppose. We find normalcy where we can, even in the midst of madness.

I choose one of the many desks that have the chairs attached. Too small. A little rusted. Uncomfortable as hell but I’ll miss them.

At least, I’ll miss them if I pass the final exam.

I pull out my pencils, their sharpened tips promising control. I set them down carefully, lining them up next to the shrink-wrapped “blue book” that will hold my words, my thoughts, my ticket to graduation.

All around me, my classmates are doing the same.

Tension vibrates in the air, a mix of anxiety and anticipation. We all have one last hurdle before we can call ourselves graduates. I glance over at Tyler, who’s sitting a few rows away. He catches my eye and smiles, and I manage a small one back.

I scan the room one last time, my gaze snagging on the empty seat near the back. Matteo’s seat. A pang of something—not quite regret, not quite relief—echoes through me. He’s gone, dropped out, or so the rumors say. Maybe he’s with his father, living it up overseas, far away from Tanglewood and the mess they both created.

Good riddance, I think, but the sentiment feels hollow.

Professor Oglevy pulls out a stack of papers from her worn leather satchel, the final exam that will decide our fates. She sets them down on her desk, her eyes scanning the room.

“Good morning, class,” she says. “Today is the day you’ve all been waiting for. The final exam.” She pauses, her gaze sweeping over us once more. “It’s been a tumultuous semester, or so I’ve heard. I’m gone only a few semesters and everything falls apart.”

She looks around, her gaze landing on me.

“Did Shakespeare write Macbeth? What a question for a final exam. As if his authorship could ever be in question. Though I suppose we can’t be too shocked, now that we know the truth about Isolde.”

She isn’t even referring to the Shakespeare Society. Or the scholarship fund. Instead, she’s referring to a paper that was published by a major academic paper…only to be retracted a week later. She managed to convince a researcher working in England to claim he found the extant manuscript, since they would require a source.

It was huge news in the Shakespearean world when it hit.

And then someone found the reference I’d hidden to Lanternleaf Legends.

A modern easter egg that definitively proved it to be false.

The supposed source immediately recanted.

Isolde Thorne’s name became a source of rage and then mockery.

And of course, she now knows I’m the one who wrought her downfall.

That feels good in a karmic sort of way, but it doesn’t actually solve my problem.

Professor Oglevy sighs. “And yet, it was also the final exam question given to you at the beginning of the year, the one you have worked on. So is it unfair to change it now? I decided that it’s kinder to allow you to complete your work as you prepared for it. Your argument, whether for or against authorship, as a certain, now disgraced professor told you, will be assigned randomly.”

She hands out single sheets of paper, one per desk.

Argue against Shakespeare’s Authorship of Macbeth, mine says .

My stomach drops. It’s the question I dreaded.

The one I was sure Professor Thorne would have given me, not randomly.

Now she’s gone in disgrace…but it’s still mine to answer.

At least, as Professor Oglevy said, I did prepare for it.

“You have two hours to complete your essay,” she says, her voice echoing in the large classroom. “Make it compelling, make it insightful. Make me believe your words.”

I flip the exam notebook open.

Blank pages stare back at me.

Deep breath.

Then I begin writing. Words flow from my mind to my hand, a dance of letters forming sentences, paragraphs, ideas.

I lose myself in the words, in the world of Macbeth .

The clock ticks away the minutes, but I barely notice. This is what I’m good at, what I love. The rest of the world falls away, and it’s just me and Shakespeare’s words on the page.

Or… not Shakespeare’s words.

That’s what I have to prove.

My diploma depends on it.

I start with ambition, of course. Relentless. Almost mindless, really. It deviates from the nuanced character studies that he’s known for.

The unflinching gore also stands out. The bloody imagery is more explicit and pervasive than other plays. It lacks the poetic introspection that gives it meaning.

Halfway through, I pause, flexing my cramping fingers.

I glance up, my gaze drifting to the window. The sun is high, casting a warm glow over the campus. It’s a beautiful day, a day full of promise.

A day that feels like a beginning, not an end.

I turn back to my essay, a newfound determination burning within me. I’m not just writing for a grade, I’m writing for my future. For the chance to stay and graduate from Tanglewood, to continue exploring the power of words, the magic of literature. For the chance to prove that I belong here, that I deserve this.

Though my pièce de résistance is about the women.

Of course it is.

You liked the stories of strong women, even if Shakespeare didn’t give them full thrift. You liked arguing for them, and you’re damned good at it.

That’s what Ms. O’Connor said to me.

I argue that Lady Macbeth shows more agency than his other female characters. Though less nuance. The same is true of the Weird Sisters. His approach to women is completely different in this play. And though I have no idea who actually wrote Macbeth , I know that this difference truly exists.

It’s a good argument.

The best final exam paper I’ve ever written.

Because, as I told Ms. O’Connor, if I don’t do it, who will?

I scribble the last sentence, a triumphant flourish of graphite.

I rise from my seat, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor with a satisfying screech. The sound cuts through the hushed whispers and the scratch of pencils on paper, drawing a few glances my way. I ignore them, my focus solely on the blue book in my hand, its pages filled with my thoughts, my arguments, my passion.

I approach Professor Oglevy’s desk, the wood worn smooth by years of use. She looks up as I near, her eyes meeting mine over the rim of her glasses. There’s a spark in her gaze, a knowing glint that makes my heart skip a beat.

“Finished already, Ms. Hill?” she asks, her voice low, conspiratorial. She leans back in her chair, her fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the desk.

I drop the blue book onto the small stack. “Yes, Professor.”

A small smile plays at her lips. “I heard you had your own Italian summer. Perhaps that inspired your writing? We shall see.”

My cheeks flush, a warmth spreading across my face. I duck my head, a vain attempt to hide my blush. Though I can’t deny the truth of it.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the scent of cut grass and distant rain. It’s a smell that promises renewal, growth. A new beginning.

William falls into step beside me, his long legs easily matching my pace. He’s quiet for a moment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He looks almost like a student, his hair tousled by the wind, his eyes hidden behind a pair of aviators. Almost, but not quite. There’s an air of authority about him, a confidence that sets him apart. His shoulders are too broad, his jaw too firm, his strength too tested.

“How did you do?”

I shrug. “I’ll find out when I get the grade back.”

“Bullshit.”

He chuckles, a low rumble that makes me shiver. “Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know how you did.”

“Fine. It was a good essay. A great one, even.”

“Excellent.”

“Though why you want me to be full of myself, I don’t know.”

“It’s not full of yourself when it’s true. You’re the smartest student I’ve ever met.”

My heart melts at his words, a warmth spreading through me. It means more to me than when he calls me beautiful, though I don’t mind that, either. I duck my head, trying to hide my blush. “Don’t say that kind of thing on campus.”

He smirks, a glint in his eyes. “Are you afraid you might swoon?”

I snort. “Hardly.”

He leans in, his voice dropping to a low growl. “I could make you swoon, Ms. Hill. Couldn’t I? I wouldn’t even have to touch that beautiful little body. Wouldn’t even have to kiss you. With my words alone, describing what I’ll do to you, making you feel, want it, breathe it, I could make you come. Couldn’t I?”

I shiver, the heat in his voice sending a wave of desire crashing through me. I can imagine it all too well, the two of us alone, the door locked, the blinds drawn. His hands on my body, his mouth on mine, his voice whispering dirty words in my ear.

I glance around, my cheeks flushing with a heat that has nothing to do with the sun overhead. I’ve resolved that people will eventually know about our relationship, but that doesn’t mean we have to flaunt it.

“Not here,” I say, not quite hiding a smile.

“What are they going to do? Put us in the university gossip mill? Fire me from my position? Or perhaps kill me in dramatic fashion?”

I give him a severe look. “Of course not.”

William takes my hand, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. His eyes, those deep, intense pools of blue, lock on to mine. “Let them see.”

Before I can protest further, he pulls me into his arms, spinning us around in a dizzying twirl. I gasp, my hands clutching his shoulders for support. The world blurs around us, but his face remains clear, his smile wide and ridiculously handsome.

“Come on,” he says, setting me down but keeping an arm wrapped around my waist. “Take a selfie. We can send it to Tanglewood Tea.”

“You don’t even know what a selfie is,” I tease, poking his muscled chest.

“Of course I do. It’s a visage made by thine own hand.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, a mix of disbelief and joy. “You’re old.”

He captures my hand, pressing a kiss to my fingertips. “Too old, in fact, for an innocent maiden such as you, but there’s no hope for it. I love you, Anne Elizabeth Hill,” he says, his voice loud and clear, carrying across the quad.

“Shhh.” Except I don’t really mean it. He’s turned me, studious, serious Anne, into someone who giggles. I don’t know how it happened, but I also don’t totally hate it. It’s fun to be playful with a man, especially when that man is a handsome Shakespeare scholar.

There’s a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’d like to say that I don’t care who knows it, but that would be a lie. I do care. I want every single person on this campus, on every campus, in the entire world, to know that I love you.”

My heart swells, threatening to burst out of my chest. I look up at him, this man who has turned my world upside down, who has challenged me, infuriated me, loved me. And I know, in this moment, that I want the world to know it too.

I pull out my phone, holding it up to capture our faces. He presses his cheek against mine, his stubble rough against my skin. I snap the photo, capturing the moment, immortalizing us.