Late Afternoon, Achtus 30, 2716
An Empty Classroom
Aurelie stared at him, and Uzoji smiled at her, and he waited. He thought he could nearly see the indecision on her face, somewhere beneath the dust and the swollen eyes. No, she said, and then – that she had been thinking of her sister.
It occurred to Uzoji that – well – many imbala kept their own names. Those born in the Turtle did, of course, and even some of those born on Cinnamon Hill or elsewhere in Mugroba. Some, but not all. How common was it here? He wondered, and he remembered the careful way Aurelie had pronounced her last name, lingering behind the first, but a little stronger.
Whether she’d enjoyed it or, Aurelie had drank the kofi. Whether she’d found any peace or not, Uzoji told himself, he had tried. Perhaps she would have been better served by the resumption of her normal routine; perhaps he’d only made things worse with his interruption. He didn’t think so.
Aurelie rose, then, and thanked him, again, and said that she needed to go.
“Of course, Miss Steerpike,” Uzoji said, and he made a polite little seated bow. She lingered, and he blinked, and he realized. “Please feel free to go,” the galdor said, making it explicit. “I’ll stay until I finish my kofi,” he lifted the still half-full beaker, and he smiled at her again.
Aurelie went, then, darting away as if he’d sling-shotted her free. Uzoji drank the rest of his kofi, slow and a little thoughtful, and then set about cleaning up the mess he’d made. He swept the remains of kofi grounds from the desk; he turned the gas off, and unhooked the burner, and tucked it away where it had been; he rinsed the three beakers out, carefully and fully, in the small faucet, dumping the grounds out the window to hide behind snowy bushes beneath, and he dried them with another handkerchief, and put them away.
And then, with his two stained handkerchiefs and the little brush he’d known would be there for such purposes, Uzoji swept up the bits of broken glass that Aurelie had left behind on the floor, and knotted them carefully away. Sharps had never frightened him, and as a student he’d broken more than one such vessel; his motions were careful and deliberate, and he did not cut himself, this time. He put the brush away, and carried the handkerchiefs from the room with him, resting double-wrapped and smelling heavily of kofi in one hand. He paused at the door, glancing back behind him to check that he’d left nothing behind.
Then, unerringly, Uzoji made his way out of the classrooms and towards the library, leaving the handkerchiefs behind in a suitably distant trashcan as he went. Niccolette was still bent over her books, frowning lightly, when he reached the library; he wondered if she had any idea of the hour, and he was more than certain she’d forgotten to eat lunch.
“Beloved,” Uzoji said, smiling, and he rested his hand on her shoulder.
Niccolette snapped her book shut, and covered the title with her arms, and glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows. “What? I thought you would not come until night?” She glanced around, and scowled at the sunset spilling in through the windows, and kept the book hidden.
Uzoji had read the title before she’d managed to cover it; she was not nearly fast enough to have pulled such a trick off. Theories of regrowth, the book said. He looked down at her, his lips pressed together.
“No,” Niccolette said, softly. She looked down at the book as well, and slowly set it onto the table, giving up covering it. “It is not possible.” She settled her hand on top of his, intertwined their fingers together, and brought his knuckles to her lips, with a soft kiss.
Uzoji cleared his throat. “We’d better go change for dinner,” he said, lightly.
“Of course,” Niccolette rose, and she brushed his cheek with a kiss, and she left the books behind, walking arm in arm with him from the library. Uzoji thought, as he went, of names and family and the sort of injuries that did not heal, and he covered his wife in his coat when she shivered, out in the cold, with a field full of love for her.
