3

Lecture halls and seminar rooms for my own classes, with some careful forays into the canteen, several therapeutic afternoons in the library, and one abortive attempt at attending literature club. By the time I found rooms 118 and 117 I’d climbed five staircases and gotten lost twice in the corridors of threadbare carpet and whitewashed walls.

Medieval Metaphysics wasn’t listed in Willow House’s directory on the ground floor, nor included in the thumbnail blurbs for each department and school on the university website, but I trusted Raine, against all sensible judgement. When the Philosophy department corridor ran out at room 116 I tried to think outside the box.

I discovered the doors to 117 and 118 tucked away in the back stairwell, like a dirty secret in the attic, framed by cold concrete and lit by a single tiny window. At first I thought I must be mistaken, these were janitor’s cupboards or maintenance access doors, but a small plaque was fixed to the wall.

‘Medieval Philosophy and Metaphysics, Professor-’

A little slot for a name card stood empty.

I swallowed and took several deep breaths in a vain effort to calm my churning stomach and the pulse in my throat. I reminded myself, I had nothing to lose.

Part of my subconscious didn’t agree, the same part which had convinced me to wear my best clothes. Before I could knock on the door I had to smooth my skirt, make sure nothing was out of place. I only owned two skirts, long ones. I loved them but never felt right wearing them, made me feel frivolous and silly, like feeling that way wasn’t for me, but I wanted so badly to show Raine that I was - what?

Not just a crazy weirdo? Who was I kidding? What did I expect, that we were going to go out to late lunch together, so I’d dressed up cute? I’d showered, scoured myself clean, stood in front of my bathroom mirror and fussed with my hair for minutes on end. I was wearing my best sweater, a cream turtleneck with no holes or raggedy ends, and I’d even brushed down my coat, the most effort I’d taken in weeks. But my skin was still pasty and pale, my eyes still dark-ringed from chronic sleep deprivation, and I knew I looked awful.

The longer I hesitated the more I felt out of place.

I’d worn winter mittens to conceal the fractal Raine had drawn on the back of my hand, but I now tugged them off, worried she might think I was ashamed. I cursed myself again and pulled my back straight and knocked on the door.

My heart pounded. I clasped my hands behind my back, then thought that looked too formal, so I folded them in front, then worried I looked twee and girlish, so I fluttered about for a moment at a complete loss.