The Haven

Chapter 8

Wham!

A book hit the ground beside Elsa.

She twitched. Her eyes flicked up from her own reading.

Oh. It's just him. For a moment her eyes lingered on book and the hand that had slammed it to the floor – a hand with a star ring on one finger.

"Sorry," he mumbled, a few moments too late.

"It's ok," said Elsa as she let her attention drop back to her own book and tried to ignore the black-haired boy beside her.

Monday morning, Elsa had actually been glad to hear the obnoxious BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! of her alarm. She was even happier to get out of the house and return to school. Her mother's shopping trip had left the house empty for only a few brief hours. As uncomfortable as the silence of the empty house was, Elsa missed it the moment her mother returned, of course with a contingient of her friends to celebrate the new clothes. Celebrate – for the whole damn weekend. Friday dinner turned into drinks turned into Saturday brunch turned into another dinner party... and the whole time a parade of heels, seemingly louder with each cocktail, clattered through the house, shattering even the memory of silence.

Monday morning was an absolute gift.

At school, Elsa only had to dodge the glare of Mrs. Arnold, the librarian. The old woman knew perfectly well that there weren't any free periods first thing in the morning. She knew perfectly well that there weren't, in fact, any free periods at all at Nathaniel High. The school board had gotten rid of them in favor of chaperoned study halls, and the study halls always came to the library in groups. But Mrs. Arnold also knew that if she chased out the skippers, they'd just end up somewhere even less educational, probably the east stairwells where the smoke detectors had been disabled or, if chased out of there, then the little park a few blocks away where the school sentries didn't have any authority. She couldn't fool herself into thinking they'd end up in a classroom. If they were going to skip class, the library was altogether the best place to do it.

So Mrs. Arnold just watched.

She sat behind her desk, flicking bits of lint onto the neatly stacked piles of paper in the trash can and occasionally shooting the obligatory glare at the truants. Otherwise, she ignored them.

Monday morning saw Elsa settling back against the astrology shelves, ready to bury herself in her own extracurricular studies for the day. Today, this meant Herbal Defenses.

Fennel, she read, a gentle weapon of particular use against malicious–

Wham!

Another book hit the ground.

Elsa looked over again, this time her eyes flicked up from the ring to the one wearing it. He ignored her.

She knew that ring and it's wearer – well, she knew them in the sense that she knew the tall bookshelves and the rotating displays of new releases and the disapproving librarian. They were all fixtures in the library, and the black-haired boy with the ring was, too. He was probably here more than Mrs. Arnold herself; she at least took lunch and holidays. He was definitely in here more than Elsa, an impressive fact in her mind. He was always there, like the bookshelves and the displays, constantly on her periphery. And it was hard not to notice, the way he tore through books like a jaded editor attacking a slush pile. His prefered sections of the Dewey Decimals – sections of myth, magic, superstitionoften – overlapped with Elsa's, so he was never far away.