18. Heavily Guarded

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Heavily Guarded

T he crisp morning air is a balm to my troubled thoughts as I meander through the verdant campus of Tanglewood University. The trees stand tall and proud, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. I find solace in their silent company, their enduring presence.

I'm still trying to process the events of that night, of the Society's cruelty and my professor's confession.

As I navigate the cobblestone paths, my mind a whirlwind of emotions, I spot a familiar figure near the ancient oak that stands sentinel at the heart of campus. Professor Avery Miller, the esteemed scholar whose lectures on Greek myths captivated me, sits on a bench, her attention focused on the small creature scampering at her feet.

She's a striking figure, even from a distance. Her blonde hair cascades down her back in loose waves, catching the morning light and setting it ablaze with fiery highlights. Her slender frame is draped in a tailored suit, the pale pink color feminine.

She wears minimal makeup. It makes her seem younger than other female professors. It also makes me wonder if she gets underestimated because of it.

A fat squirrel waits for her to toss what appears to be the very last piece of her bagel. She laughs as he grabs it, only moving away a few feet before nibbling. Campus squirrels are bold. And legendary. There's one who hung out around the west quad that people swear could work a vending machine.

I shouldn't bother a professor on her break. It's bad form. Then again, it's not like I can really attend office hours either. The classics elective I took last semester is likely the only one I'll ever have with her.

She teaches some others, and I'd love to take them, but the scholarship doesn't allow for trying things out. It's strictly necessary for graduation only.

And yet, there's something about her that invites approachability, a warmth radiating from her that's both comforting and commanding .

While I'm standing there like a stalker, she notices me and raises her hand in a wave.

"Anne, please tell me you have carbs or nuts in that tote bag. The Sciuridae population on this campus are at risk of starvation."

I grin. "I may or may not have a contraband muffin, but it's from Hathaway, and they have turned their nose up at such offerings before."

Hazel eyes twinkle. "The Mayfair muffins must have a superior nutrient factor."

"Yeah, or they use actual butter and milk."

"Or that," she agrees.

"What did you call them? Scurry-something?"

"The Sciuridae family includes squirrels, chipmunks, and prairie dogs. It comes from the Greek word skiouros , which means shade tail."

She specializes in Greek mythology. "Was that in an extant text?"

"Nah, I looked it up on Wikipedia one afternoon while I was out here. Come sit down. There's plenty of room."

I hesitate for a moment, but the kindness in Avery's eyes beckons me forward. I join her, my mind torn on what to ask—if anything.

"How's the semester going?"

"To be honest, not great."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Actually, I wonder if I could ask a question about…you?"

Her eyebrows rise. "Let's hear it."

I know I should be worried about the Society's plans for global, or at least university domination. And I am. Though the part that keeps replaying is the hooded Thorne's smile. She certainly would never have invited a student to sit on a bench with her. Or even feed the squirrels. She would be too busy achieving. I thought I wanted that, too.

Not at the expense of integrity.

"I've always wanted to be in academia, like you. There was never even a plan B. But lately I've been wondering… How it is to be a woman?"

"Ah, that."

I can't help but smile at her wry tone. "That bad, huh?"

"I'm not going to sugarcoat it. Women are underrepresented in the tenure track, but disproportionately represented in unranked instructor positions."

"In other words, they want women to teach while the men get to do the research, write their books, and speak at conferences."

"And even when they do make professor, there's a pay gap."

"I can't believe we still have to deal with that."

"Inherent bias is hard to uproot. Worse are the people who say the gap only exists because women are inherently less qualified."

"Is there any good news?"

"It's more of lateral news. These gaps exist in all industries. Academia is not an exception. It's only more offensive because you'd assume they would know better since they care about knowledge, but ironically knowledge is one of the most heavily guarded areas in the patriarchy."

"Because the more knowledge women have…"

"The more powerful. Exactly."

"So maybe a better question is how do you live in such a tilted system without going insane?"

"Sometimes just existing, taking up space, doing the work you love, is an act of rebellion."

"I like that."

"Though other times you might let yourself go a little insane. As a treat."

I laugh, but then my smile fades. "I guess I'm more concerned about turning bitter. Or catty. Or becoming one of them."

My words feel nebulous out of context, but Professor Miller seems to understand. "Women are some of the worst offenders of the patriarchy. They think they have to act like a man to succeed or push down other women."

I've been dreading Professor Thorne's class this afternoon. That's exactly what she's like. "Have you worked with people like that?"

"Oh, I still do. I take some private pleasure in calling out their bullshit in the context of ancient Greek mythology, but the truth is, they're not going to change. See that squirrel? He fights away the others, even though he's already full, even though campus has more than enough bagels to go around. He feels like it's necessary to his survival."

"So even though he gets plenty of food, he feels like he's fighting for his life?"

"Exactly."

The quiet praise in her tone makes me feel ten feet tall. It's a reminder that you don't need to act like a hard ass to teach, to inspire, or to be taken seriously.

"Even though these squirrels are basically rodent billionaires, the epitome of privilege in their world, they're still operating on old software."

"I don't suppose there's a mandatory system update we could push out? "

She smiles. "Maybe your engineer friend can work on that. How is she, by the way?"

Professor Miller was there the night we found Daisy half dead. She's been conversing in hushed, urgent tones when Professor Stratford and his brother, Cormac, who's also a professor on campus. "I wish I knew."

Her expression fills with sympathy. "A friend of mine does his research on higher education social groups. Mostly fraternities and sororities, but also secret societies."

"What does he think of—" I stop myself before saying the name out loud. It feels like I'm being watched. There are eyes everywhere. "What does he think of them?"

"I asked for his help on this. He said these are more than social groups. They're essentially networks designed to build power. You know how cheerleaders build a pyramid one person at a time? The person at the top gets higher than they could have alone."

That explains Luca Andini's reasoning but not Professor Thorne's. "What about the person who's at the bottom of the pyramid? She's no higher than if she stood alone."

"Perhaps she's blinded by the pageantry of it. Or she doesn't want to be alone. You might be surprised at how strong of a motivator that is. Or many times she thinks she can climb her way to the top one day. Even if she's wrong it's enough to keep her in the pyramid."

That sounds like Professor Thorne.

She frowns. "They aren't still bothering Daisy, are they?"

No, they've moved on to me. But I don't want to burden her. "No, she's done with them. Thank goodness. I should get going. My class starts soon."

She smiles, though it's a little speculative, as if she can sense my withholding. "The academia needs women like you. Bright. Curious. Brave enough to challenge the norms. You can always come to me, Anne. Whether you need advice or someone to listen."

"That means a lot to me."

As I stand to leave, a chill runs down my spine. The feeling of being watched returns with a vengeance, a silent warning that our conversation has not gone unnoticed. I turn to look behind me, half-expecting to see a member of the Society lurking in the shadows.

But there's nothing—just flower petals blowing in the breeze.

I slip into the lecture hall just as the bell tolls, signaling the start of Professor Thorne's class. The room buzzes with the low hum of whispered conversations, the sound tapering off as Thorne strides in. I make my way to the seat next to Tyler. He looks much better after his encounter with the Society. His body seems healed, but his spirit still seems low.

I settle into my chair, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm against my rib cage. The sight of Professor Thorne, with her sharp features and commanding presence, sends a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. It's her—the woman from the Society's event. The certainty fans the embers of fear and anger nestled within my chest.

Thorne launches into her lecture, her voice a rich contralto that fills the room. She discusses Ophelia's death, her words painting a vivid picture of the tragic scene. As she delves into the nuances of Gertrude's role in the play, something within me snaps.

Unlike Stratford and most other upper-level instructors, Thorne doesn't want us to have our own opinions. She presents the ideas and tells us which one is the best.

In the case of Ophelia's death, she's pushing the more bizarre idea that Gertrude imagined the entire episode, that it's part of the mythos. Except Ophelia had seemed real enough in her other scenes.

I can't sit here in silence, not when she's twisting the truth for her own ends. Not when she's the one who watched that night's horror. I raise my hand, my fingers trembling with a mixture of nerves and indignation. Thorne's eyes flicker to me, a hint of annoyance passing over her features.

She turns her face away, ready to ignore me.

So I stand, my legs unsteady beneath me. "Professor Thorne," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Gertrude specifically mentions her reflection in the water. That detail makes it unlikely as a random story. It also proves she could have saved Ophelia if she wanted to. So why did she let her die?"

A murmur ripples through the class, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Tyler's brows knit together in concern.

Thorne's eyes narrow. "This is not an open forum. Ms. Hill. I'm teaching the correct interpretation, not whatever you thought of while you took a shower this morning."

"Maybe she was afraid that Ophelia had seen and heard too much. She was a threat to the entire throne…and therefore a threat to Gertrude herself, who benefited the most from the royal pr ivileges."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You will see me in my office after class."

The rest of the class passes in a blur.

When the lecture finally concludes, I gather my belongings and make my way to her office. I'm trembling, though it's not really nervousness. It's not even rage. It's an overload of emotion. Or in scientific terms, my amygdala's releasing adrenaline, because it knows I'm preparing for a fight.

I walk down the hallway towards Professor Thorne's office, my heart pounding in my chest. I don't know what to expect, but I know that I need answers. The image of the woman at the Shakespeare Society initiation is still fresh in my mind, and I need to know why she was there.

I knock on the office door.

Thorne's voice summons me inside.

The walls of her small, windowless office are practically wallpapered with her published work, her awards. They're clearly attempts to bolster her authority. It makes me sad, the way she's trying to overcompensate.

She stands in front of her desk, arms folded across her chest. "You interrupted my lecture today. It was unprofessional and disrespectful. Speaking out of turn will not be tolerated."

"Neither will the truth, apparently."

"Your interpretation of Hamlet is flawed, and your outburst was inappropriate. You owe me an apology."

"You understand Gertrude's point of view, don't you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't you? I think you know all about letting a young woman drown because she threatens the centers of power that benefit you."

She narrows her eyes, red lips pressed together.

The same red lips that had been under the shadowed hood.

"You were there," I say. "You watched while they tore off my clothes. While they dragged me onto that table. You were smiling ."

Her eyes flash. "I don't know what deranged dreams you've been having, but if you persist in saying such inappropriate things to me, I'll have no choice but to contact campus security."

"Call them. I'll explain what happened. You don't have an alibi, do you?"

Thorne leans back against her desk, her arms folded. "Assuming, for a moment, that I was there, what would you have me do? Turn against my own colleagues? Risk my career and my reputation for an upstart little slut?"

"No, I suppose someone like you could never do that."

"I told you the first day of class that none of it mattered to me. Whether the children in my class like me. Whether other professors like me."

"Yes," I say, my tone mocking. "You're here for the work. For the study. For Shakespeare. But you don't actually care about that. All you care about is power, even if it means fucking the head of a secret society to get it."

It was a guess, and judging from the high color in her cheeks, it was correct. "Get the fuck out of my office. And hope like hell I don't fail you."

"I don't think you'll do that. I don't think you'll want to explain how someone with all As in all my classes ever suddenly failed. It would be awkward for you."

Her silence is my answer. I turn to leave, my heart heavy with the weight of betrayal. As I reach the door, I pause, glancing back at Thorne. Her eyes are fixed on the floor, her body as rigid as armor.

"I wanted to be like you—strong, successful, respected. "

"You will never accomplish what I have."

"I know." And it's the truth. She means the accolades papering the wall, but I mean the way she's traded in integrity to get them. If I am lucky enough to get those things, it will be on merit. And if the world is determined to shut me out, then I will still love Shakespeare. I'll still study and think and write. Because it was never about being lauded. It was always about the work.