Chevelle stood there, staring down at me, as I leaned halfway across the table of documents about the northern clans. Researching him. I tried not to betray myself by glancing down at the papers, but the only other place to look was into his eyes and it felt like that was all I'd found myself doing since I’d first seen him. He didn’t look away. Had he read the documents before I knew he was there? We were frozen for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t guess how I should explain, nor could I think of a cover. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.
He finally broke the silence. “Freya.” He’d used one of Junnie’s pet names for me, I couldn’t believe how much I liked that.
He reached his hand out to me. “I am Chevelle Vattier.” I nodded a slow, stuttered nod. He wasn’t smiling, his face unreadable. “I am an old friend of Junnie. I saw her at council this morning. She was disappointed she has been too occupied by clan business of late to guide you.” I was still leaning over the table, unmoved since the beginning of our encounter. He continued, “I offered to help her. To help you.”
He was going to help me with my studies? I melted, sliding back down into my chair. He was still holding his hand out to me. My back was literally against the wall, and as he took a step forward I became wholly aware of how small and isolated the library space I had chosen was. He turned the outstretched hand palm up indicating the stool beside me as if that had been his intention all along, instead of a handshake.
“May I?”
I nodded once and he slid onto the stool, facing me, not the table spread with documents. Had I still not spoken? His eyes moved down to the pendant against my chest and then quickly back to my face, as if he had committed an indiscretion.
We sat there for a few more moments, looking into each other's eyes, and I could think of nothing to say. Well, I could think of nothing appropriate to say. When he finally spoke again, I realized his offer of help wasn’t a request. “Let’s begin with histories.” He flicked the middle finger of his left hand and a large white book flew from a shelf, opened, and steadied between us as if on a table.
“Chevelle?”
He smiled. It was only one word, but he understood. I was asking if I could address him in the common dialog, not the official titles and formalities of the council he may have been used to. He tilted his head toward me in a compliant nod.
We sat so for hours. He pulled books between us and returned them to the shelves, never once glancing to the papers on the table beside us referencing the northern clans. Nothing we studied touched on the histories of those clans. Nothing of his histories, nothing of mine. But conversation had become easy as soon as I had spoken the first word; as soon as I had said his name and he'd smiled in return.
I found myself leaning toward him as he spoke; he had a pleasant voice and a most interesting dialect. He wove through the histories as if they were grand stories instead of useless facts, and I became enthralled. It felt as if we were alone there in the quiet corner of the third level, the occasional murmur below and whisper of flipping pages the only other sound in the dim setting. A small knothole made a window in the wall across from me and some light from the cloudy day occasionally came through, putting Chevelle’s face in shade. I had been right; his eyes appeared nearly black in the shadows.
I leaned forward, listening to him as a small gray bird landed on the lip of the knothole.
“Cheep.”
Not many animals feared the elves, it even seemed curious as to what we were doing.
“Cheep cheep.”
Ugh that’s annoying. I focused back on Chevelle’s story.
“Chee, cheep cheep.”
I gritted my teeth, trying to block out the irritating sound. Stupid bird. It broke into a sharp melody that seemed to pierce my ears. Grrr…
Thud.
I jerked upright. My ears were still ringing from the harsh song, but the bird lay dead on the floor below the window. Chevelle started to turn to find the source of the noise and, before I realized what I was doing, I flicked my right hand and the bird flopped behind a shelf out of sight. When Chevelle turned back to me, I stared right into his eyes as if I had not seen or heard a thing, wondering why he wasn’t still explaining the histories of Grah. He glanced past me… or maybe at the crown of my head. Was he avoiding my eyes? My lying eyes?
I was too worried about being caught to feel guilty about the bird.