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“I don’t think I’m the only one in that class,” Miles says with calm reason.
“You’re the only one with sticky fingers and the absolute fucking cheek to steal from me!” The professor stands with his nose only an inch from Miles’s.
“Isn’t your pen right there?” Miles nods toward the breast pocket of the professor’s sport coat.
“That is adifferentpen,” the professor says, with barely concealed rage. “The last one remaining in my possession, in fact. This is a La Dona Menagerie fountain pen with a crocodile head design, individually numbered, one of only eight hundred and eighty-eight that were ever made!”
All of us gaze in wonder at the bit of the professor’s pen protruding out of his pocket. I don’t know shit about pens, but the silver filigree cap does look expensive, particularly if the tiny red stones studded all over it are genuine rubies.
“As youvery well know,” the professor hisses at Miles, “the pen you stole this morning was a Romain Jerome, made with reclaimed materials from the Titanic. Completely different in color and style.”
“That does sound lovely,” Miles says. “But unfortunately I only use Montblancs. Romain Jerome is a little bougie for my tastes.”
I think I’m about to watch the professor have an aneurysm on the spot. His face has gone way past red all the way to deep purple.
Unamused, he barks, “Turn out your pockets!”
“Don’t you need a warrant for that?” Miles says in that dry tone that never betrays if he’s joking.
“When you step foot on this campus, you sign your life over to me, boy,” the professor hisses. “I could have you stripped and hung naked from the Gatehouse if I cared to do it.”
“Professor Graves . . .” Miles says, one eyebrow raised. “I didn’t know you thought about me that way . . .”
The professor’s hand twitches, and I’m pretty certain he wants to seize Miles by the throat and throttle him. I’ve wanted to do that a time or two myself, so I have a certain level of sympathy. But the bulk of my focus is on the impossible task of trying to smother the laugh threatening to bubble up inside of me.
Professor Graves is clearly about to snap, and it would be just like Miles to wind him up to the breaking point, only to have the brunt of his fury pour out on me instead because I’m stupid enough to let out a snort.
“Turn. Out. Your. Pockets,” the professor seethes.
“Alright.” Miles pretends to be cowed into obedience.
He turns out the pockets of his trousers, revealing only a couple of coins, a lone stick of gum, a bent piece of wire that looks like rubbish, though I have a sneaking suspicion could be used to pick a small and simple lock—like the sort that would keep a desk closed.
“Hmm.” Miles shrugs. “No pen, I guess.”
Professor Graves narrows his eyes, looking Miles over once more as if he might have said pen tucked behind his ear. I can tell he doesn’t want to back down, but he can’t think where else Miles might have hidden it. My cousin would never carry anything as plebeian as a book bag.
“This is your last warning,” he says to Miles, in quiet fury.
“Professor…” Miles’ face is fixed in such an expression of sincerity that even I almost believe it. “I know we got off to a rocky start last year, but this year I’m determined to live up toyour highest expectations of me. I really think you’ll find that I surprise you.”
“I doubt it,” Graves says coldly. “Now clear out of here, this isn’t a place to congregate.”
“Yes, sir.” Miles gives him a little salute.
The salute goes from his forehead straight out toward the professor. Graves is already turning away, so he doesn’t see Miles’s nimble fingertips making contact with the breast pocket of his jacket. Even I wouldn’t have noticed the flash of silver in my cousin’s hand, if I weren’t looking for it.
The professor stalks away.
Miles waits until he’s fully gone before holding up Professor Graves’s very last pen, turning the fine silver cap so it glistens in the sunlight.
“He’s right,” Miles says. “This really is an expensive pen.”
“Going to add it to your collection?” I laugh.
“Oh, I didn’t keep the others,” Miles says carelessly. And with that, he chucks the pen in a clump of grass at the base of the Armory.
Ares gives it a wistful look, like he might have wanted to use it, but he doesn’t stoop to pick it up again. Ozzy has no such compunction—he grabs it and stuffs it in his pocket.
