Page 19 of Written in Scent

I sit there until the lecture hall is nearly empty, notebook still open to a page of blank paper, and wonder how long it will take before I stop thinking about her.

It’s not even a week since I arrived at Rosewood University, and yet the air has turned cooler, carrying the first true promise of autumn. I pull my cardigan a little tighter around me as I walk toward the taxonomy lab, a little thrill already humming beneath my ribs. This is the class I have been looking forward to most, Insect Identification and Taxonomy. The one where we finally get to touch specimens, pin them properly, and learn the careful art of labeling.

The past week has been a strange mix of focus and distraction. Dr. Halvorsen’s words about the rainforest expedition are still glowing in the back of my mind like a small lantern. Every evening I have opened my planner just to stare at the date of my first lecture with Dr. Okonkwo, counting down the days until I can finally ask her about the expedition — there’s still another whole week, but I can’t wait. Jamie Miller’s scent still appears at unexpected moments, warm and golden, but it’s easier to push aside when I have real work waiting.

I want this. I want to lose myself in drawers and labels and the small, perfect systems of the insect world.

The taxonomy lab sits in one of the oldest wings of the Natural Sciences building. The moment I step inside, the space wraps around me like an old friend. Tall windows let in slanted morning light, softening long wooden benches stretched down the center of the room, already set with pinning boards, fine tools, and trays of specimens. The air holds the faint, comforting scent of pinning boards, ethanol, and aged paper.

I choose a seat near the front again, close enough to see every detail. My notebook opens with a faint rustle. I smooth the page and set my pen down, feeling that familiar sense of rightness ease over me.

This is my place.

The door at the front of the lab swings open with a cheerful creak. Professor Julian Montague steps inside and the entire room seems to come alive. He’s older, with wild silver hair that refuses to stay in any sensible style and a tweed vest whose pockets bulge with tiny tools and specimen vials. His eyes sparkle behind round glasses as he sets a large wooden tray of pinning boards on the front bench.

“Call me Jules,” he announces immediately, his voice theatrical. “Professor Montague makes me feel like I should be wearing a monocle and lecturing in Latin, and none of us have time for that nonsense.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the class. I find myself smiling before I can stop it. There’s something wonderfully genuine about his chaos, something that feels safe instead of overwhelming.

He launches straight into the lesson with infectious enthusiasm, rolling up his sleeves and gesturing dramatically at the tray in front of him.

“Today we begin the sacred art of pinning and labeling,” he declares. “Insects are beautiful little miracles, my friends. Each one is a tiny masterpiece of engineering, and it is our privilege to give them the respect they deserve on the page.”

He walks us through every step with obvious delight. How to relax a specimen properly. The exact angle for the first pin through the thorax. The delicate placement of the wings so the venation shows clearly. The precise way to write a label that will still be legible in a hundred years.

After the equipment is passed around, I follow along with practiced ease, my hands moving almost on their own from years of doing this at home on the kitchen table — I almost feel like Dad is next to me right now, giving me tips as I go. The familiar motions determine something deep inside me. The click of a pin finding its place. The faint scent of the relaxing fluid. The satisfying alignment of a specimen against the board.

Jules pauses near my bench, watching me work for a moment. His eyebrows lift in open delight.

“Well now,” he says, voice warm with surprise. “Someone has done this before.”

I glance up and offer a small, shy smile. “It’s not my first time.”

His grin widens like I have just handed him the best gift of the semester. “You have a natural touch with them. Most freshmen fumble the first pin or leave the wings crooked. You make it look effortless.”

Heat rises in my cheeks, but I can’t hide the small smile that tugs at my mouth. “I’ve been doing this at home for years,” I admit quietly. “It feels familiar.”

“Well then, young lady, I have a proposition for you if you are interested.”

He explains quickly, gesturing around the room with infectious energy. His senior class has fallen behind on a large backlog of specimens that need pinning and labeling before the next cataloging cycle. The work is straightforward but time consuming, and he needs someone reliable. He offers me extra credit in exchange for taking on a portion of the task. Then he goes further. If I want, I can have a permanent lab desk assignment and some of the specimens officially assigned to me for the rest of the semester.

My heart gives a happy little leap. A real project. In this class. With actual university specimens under my care. The thought sends a rush of warmth through me that feels brighter than anything I have experienced since arriving on campus.

I nod before I can second guess myself. “I would love that.”

Jules claps his hands together once, thrilled. “Fantastic! Stay after class and I’ll show you the archives myself. We can get you set up properly.”

The rest of the lesson passes in a happy blur of delicate pinning and neat labeling. When class ends and the other students begin to pack up, I remain at my bench, heart still humming with frenetic joy.

Most of the room empties quickly. Jules waits until the last student has left before he turns to me with that same sparkling grin.

“Ready for the next part?” he asks.

I nod, unable to hide my smile. He gestures for me to follow and we step out into the corridor together. He chats animatedly the whole way, hands waving as he explains the backlog of specimens and exactly what he needs. His voice echoes off the old stone walls, full of infectious enthusiasm.

We descend a short flight of stairs into the lower level. The archives open before us like a hidden sanctuary. Dim, peaceful light filters through narrow high windows set high in the stone walls. Rows of tall wooden drawers stretch into the shadows, each one labeled with neat brass plates that have grown slightly tarnished with age. High desks line the spaces in front of drawers, each littered with its occupants' things. The air carries the comforting scent of aged cedar, faint preservative, and the mustiness of paper that has been scrupulously stored for decades. It’s a space that feels sacred.

Jules walks me straight to a beautiful corner desk near one of the windows. He pulls out the stool for me with old fashioned courtesy and sets a small stack of specimen trays in front of me.