Ovenshine

27.

Normally, this would be the last place anyone could find Percy Mitchell on a Friday night so late it bleeds into Saturday morning. He wanders the quiet floor of the library, his only company the shelves of papyrus-scented reference books older than anyone he knows, the wooden floors lacquered as if in syrup, faded starlight falling through dusty floor-to-ceiling windows.

Silence, the dark, are the things he runs from. Noise is what keeps him safe, alive. Yet right now, there's something comforting about being a ghost. It's the weightlessness of it, he thinks, the utter lack of expectation, the ability to exist without anyone's scrutiny.

He goes to the window overlooking the expanse of the Commons: a dark, silent sea at this hour, the intermittent streetlights like buoys floating through space. He stares at one such streetlight, forcing himself to focus on its fuzzy golden light, as if it's his last remaining anchor to this world. Lately all he has done is slip and slip further. He's afraid he doesn't have much longer to hold on.

There's a quiet shuffle of feet behind him; he barely hears it, thinks nothing of it until a voice cuts through the veil: "Percy?"

He half turns, catching sight of Indy, standing in the shadows of the bookshelves. Knee-high patent leather boots glint in the ill light, the oversized sleeves of her sweater gathered in her hands. A glimmer of moonlight outlines one side of her face, yet her eyes are dark, questioning.

He remembers the words he spoke to her last time he saw her. He can still taste them, the sizzle of them like smoke in his mouth. "It's late," he says, only when he's sure his voice will come out normally. "What are you doing here?"

Hesitation flickers across her face. "Work," she answers. She takes a step closer, and another when he doesn't move away. "And I could ask you the same thing. Since when were you a late night studier?"

Percy leans against the windowsill, half a smirk forming on his mouth before he's conscious of it. "You and I both know I'm not studying."

Indy's face brightens if only for a moment, like she were holding her breath before and only now does she fall back into rhythm. Slowly, she turns so her back rests against the sill—moonlight a glimmer of silver against her neck, turning the tight curls at her nape a softer brown. When she speaks again, her tone is wary, not yet accusing, but nearly there. "I didn't see you in Clover's class this week."

"I wasn't feeling well." It's not a lie, he doesn't think. More of a half-truth.

Which still isn't enough. "If you're avoiding me, Percy, just say that."

He wonders what the point is, of discussing all these hypotheticals they both already know are true. His tongue simmers in his mouth again, a fine burn he feels all the way in his stomach. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows there is no apologizing for what he said. That even if he tried, she may never forgive him, and he would have no other option except to accept it.

"I guess I am," he says. "I'm scared. That's what you told me. Doesn't matter what it is, I'd always rather run than face it, right?"

A sigh. "Percy—"

"No. You were right," Percy says, and the conviction in his voice is enough to make Indy go quiet, look at him with eyes wide and shiny. "Nothing you said was a lie, and I think that's why it hurt."

It's something he's grown to expect from Indy, whether he's aware of it or not—her never-failing honesty, so often mistaken for bluntness, heartlessness. It's gotten her in trouble with teachers, with acquaintances who never became friends, with her own parents. She has a tongue like fire, simple but daring, dangerous but purifying. Even now he isn't quite used to it.