5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Beware the Ides

“You could transfer out,” Professor Miller suggests.

“My academic scholarship won’t move with me to another college. And getting another one at a different school will be impossible without her recommendation.”

“I see.”

I don’t want her pity. “Don’t worry though. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“If it comes to that, I’ll fight for you. I’m not entirely without sway in this university. And in the city.”

I don’t want her to make an enemy of the Society. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

Her nose scrunches. Then she sighs. “Maybe you can come study the ancient Greeks. Shakespeare was fond of referencing them, even reincarnating them for his characters.”

That’s what made my fake manuscript so important. There are only a handful of changes from the earliest draft of Macbeth available. Important changes, though. Ones that make reference to a little-known Athenian play that isn’t one of the extant documents that he pulls from.

It’s also one that wasn’t even translated into English until after 1623, when Macbeth was included in the first folio publication.

In other words, this means the author of the play would have had to speak Greek, as well as have access to a library full of Greek texts that might include it. Shakespeare didn’t know Greek.

The fake manuscript, if real, would have been a smoking gun. It would have been proved, definitively, that another person wrote Macbeth . I don’t believe that Professor Thorne wants to argue against authorship. She clearly loves the establishment too much for that. But even she can’t ignore such a powerful piece of evidence.

It wouldn’t just make her an expert.

It would make her immortal.

And when, eventually, she publishes it, she will look like a fool.

“Ancient Greek history would be interesting,” I confess. “But there’s no room on my scholarship for extra semesters, either.”

“Maybe I could give you the money.”

Dumbfounded. That’s what I feel right now. “That would be…no. Impossible.”

“It could be a loan.”

“I....don’t know what to say. That’s so generous, especially when I have no collateral, no proof at all that I would ever pay it back. But I also can’t take your money.” When she opens her mouth to object, I say, “It doesn’t really matter, because I’m tired of college. Not the work. That part I can do. It’s the politics. The viciousness.”

The death.

Her hazel eyes hold sympathy, as if she heard the last unspoken word.

“I wish I could tell you that this kind of thing wouldn’t happen again, but I have to be honest. The academic world is cutthroat. There have always been people trying to use the university’s resources to gain power—and there probably always will be. But students like you are the lifeblood. You’re the reason why we fight back.”

I don’t want to be the reason.

That’s depressing, though, so I force the conversation back to more neutral ground, asking about Professor Miller’s work and life, forcing myself to eat a quarter of the spaghetti on my plate. She tells me a few antics about her two daughters, one of whom has taken after her, she says. A bookish child. The other is more of an adventurer, a troublemaker.

“Like her father,” Professor Miller says ruefully.

When we’re finished with dinner, I thank her for the time. Whether or not Daisy called her, I think it was a form of vigil. Checking on the poor girl who held her professor, and her lover, in her arms when he died.

I don’t want to go back up to the dorm room, where Daisy will no doubt have returned and be ready to continue the vigil. Instead I go for a walk. Later in the day, there are less people around, less stares. More students have their heads down, tired as they find their way back to their dorms.

Wind slips under my sweater, tickling my stomach.

I don’t realize where I am until I notice the bronze elephant statue.

The Beckinsale Library of Natural Science.

The elevator shivers its way to the fifth floor.

Doors open, and I step into heavy silence broken only by the ticking of the woefully late wall clock. Shelves stretch up to the ceiling, filled with leather-bound tomes. I run my fingers along the spines as I walk, embossed titles rough under my fingertips. Bump. Bump. Bump.

It’s a sensory eulogy for the man I met here again and again.

I round a corner to the table where we used to meet.

So ordinary. So life-changing.

I sink into one of the chairs, the cracked leather creaking softly beneath me. I can almost see him sitting across from me, his dark hair tousled from running his fingers through it. His blue eyes are intense as he leans in, discussing the intricacies of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I can almost hear his voice, deep and rich, like the first sip of fine whiskey.

It burned my throat until he taught me how to drink it.

Memories flood back.

The way his strong hands would gesture as he spoke of Shakespeare. The way his eyes would light up when I challenged him—both academically and sexually. The way he would lean in, his breath hot on my cheek, as he murmured explicit commands.

My heart aches. I press a hand to my chest, as if I can somehow soothe the hurt. But it’s not just pain I’m feeling. It’s something more. Something darker.

Something that makes my breath hitch.

I close my eyes, and I’m back there.

Back in that moment when his hand brushed mine, sending a jolt of electricity through me. Back in that moment when his gaze dropped to my lips, his eyes darkening with desire. Back in that moment when I realized that he could control me with only a dark gaze.

I remember the feel of his mouth on mine, the taste of him, the heat of him. The way his hands tangled in my hair, the way his body pressed against mine. The way he whispered my name, like a secret, like a sin.

I remember, but I wish I could forget.

I’m flushed, my skin hot and sensitive. I can feel the ghost of his touch, the echo of his kiss. I can feel the ache of desire, the throb of need. My body is confused, caught between the past and the present. Caught between the memory of him and the reality of his absence.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm my racing heart. But the scent of the library, the leather under my fingers, the sun streaming through the window...it’s too much.

I run my fingers over the worn table, tracing the grooves and imperfections. This was his spot. Where he’d sit across from me, his eyes darkened with passion as he’d discuss sonnets and soliloquies. I can almost hear his voice, the deep timbre that would send shivers down my spine.

I can almost see his handsome face.

Almost, but not quite.

The chair across from me is empty now.

The table bare, the floor empty.

Except for... I lean in, my brow furrowing.

A black envelope lies on the worn wooden floor, a stark contrast against the dull grain. It’s not the kind you’d find in a stationery store. This one is heavy, the paper thick and textured like a whispered secret. The seal is a deep, bloodred—a wax insignia stamped with a familiar crest.

The Shakespeare Society.

I pick it up, my fingers tracing the edges, a shiver running down my spine. The last time I saw an envelope like this, it held an invitation to a world I did not want. A world that killed Professor Stratford.

Part of me wants to burn it, but I know I should see what they’ve said.

This message must be for me. Who else would come here?

I slide my finger under the seal, breaking it with a soft snap. The paper inside is just as heavy, the ink dark and bold.

Beware the ides of inquiry, fair maiden. Cease thy search, lest thou desire to join the Bard in his eternal slumber. His resting place is sacred ground, not meant for prying eyes. Tread not upon his grave, nor seek his remains.

It’s not a long message, but it doesn’t need to be.

The words are sharp, cutting, and unmistakably clear.

They want me to stop asking about his burial place.

My breath catches in my throat. It’s a threat, thinly veiled in Shakespearean language. They know I’ve been asking questions, digging into Professor Stratford’s death, trying to find out where he’s buried. And they don’t like it.

I read the note again, my heart pounding in my chest.

It’s designed to scare me. And it’s working.

It also proves that there’s something to uncover.

Where is he buried? Why does the Shakespeare Society care?

I crumple the heavy paper in my fist, hard edges biting into my palm.

I glance around the empty library, the shelves of books suddenly feeling like eyes watching me. The sun dipping low in the sky, turning the shelves into long shadows. Apprehension is a heavy weight in my stomach, a warning bell ringing in my ears.

I’m alone here. Vulnerable.

Whoever left this note knows that.

I step into the elevator, the metal doors sliding shut with a soft hiss. My reflection stares back at me on the polished surface, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. The note in my pocket feels like a burning coal.

The elevator lurches to a stop, the doors opening with a ding. I step out, my boots echoing on the marble floor. The library is quiet, the air filled with the scent of old books and dust. I walk quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. I just want to get out of here, to escape the ghosts of the past that seem to haunt every corner of this place. To escape whatever ghost left this note.

I push open the heavy doors, the cool air outside a slap in the face. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the scent of fall, crisp leaves and distant smoke. I step forward, my eyes on the ground, my mind a million miles away.

“Hey.”

My heart hammers in my chest as I spin around, my eyes wide. Tyler stands there, his hands shoved in his pockets. His brows rise at whatever he sees on my face. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

I press a hand to my chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” he says, taking a step back toward the bronze elephant statue. That’s why I didn’t see him on my way out. He was half hidden. Why? Was he waiting for me? Unlikely. This is a useful library on campus. It’s only the strange note making me paranoid.

That doesn’t mean I forgive him.

“I’m fine,” I say stiffly, shoving the note deeper into my pocket. My heart is still racing, my breath coming in short gasps.

Tyler’s eyes search my face. “You’re pale as a sheet,” he says softly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

My lips press into a thin line. “I’m... I’m tired,” I say, avoiding his gaze.

He clears his throat, his gaze shifting to the side. “About that final exam,” he says, his voice hesitant. “Kind of crazy, right?”

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Yeah. Crazy.”

“What are you gonna write?”

“It doesn’t matter what I write,” I say, my voice bleak.

Tyler sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says. “Thorne didn’t look like she was gonna give you a fair chance. Then again maybe she’ll pass you just to get rid of you.”

“Something to look forward to.”

Tyler winces, his eyes filled with apology. “I’m sorry for not acknowledging you in class. It was...it was shitty of me.”

“It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not. Even though his dismissal stung like a slap in the face.

“‘The silence of a friend is heavier than the blow of an enemy,’” he quotes.

“I don’t recognize that.”

Tyler gives me a small smile, his eyes filled with sadness. “Pinky and the Brain,” he says.

A little amusement rises in me. That’s so Tyler. Even so I’m not sure if it absolves him. I’m not sure that it matters. I take a deep breath, my gaze shifting to the side. The sun is setting, the sky a blaze of orange and red. It’s beautiful, but all I can see is the darkness creeping in at the edges.

“I have to go,” I say, taking a step back.

“Be safe, Anne,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.