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I remember the first time I saw him, the way his bleak intensity brought to my mind the icons of saints in their iconostases. That bleak intensity has morphed into something different. A burning intelligence in his gaze, an aura of conviction and self-faith.
Three years ago, Zachary was austere as a saint.
Now, he’s as beautiful and intimidating as an angel.
“Zachary.” I greet him in the same formal tone as he greeted me.
We watch each other like two wary animals. At first, I guessed he was here to study, but his leather satchel is nowhere to be seen, and he stands by my table, fixing on me the full beam of his attention.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask, tilting my head slightly.
He gestures at my book. “What are you reading?”
“Keats.”
“Keats?” He raises his eyebrow, his lips curling in a sardonic smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to enjoy such a sentimental poet.”
“I happen to find him more emotional than sentimental, and there is a lot of beauty in how emotional he is.”
“You know Byron hated his poetry, right?”
I raise a hand in an indifferent motion. “So? I don’t like Byron?”
“You don’t like Byron?” His tone is incredulous. “You seemed to like him well enough that time you defended him like he was paying you to do it in Mr Kiehn’s class.”
We’ve had many arguments since, but it’s almost amusing he’s still not over that particular one.
“I wasn’t defending him,” I point out. “I was just saying his interpretation of the Prometheus myth had more merit than yours.”
“Ah, so what you’re saying is that in the list of your esteem, Byron might rank low, but I rank lower?”
There’s laughter in his eyes when he says this. His eyes are a rich, satisfying brown, but in the sunlight flooding down from the glass dome, they are limpid gold.
I lean back against my chair to transpierce him with a sharp gaze. Zachary is doing this thing he does where he thinks he has the upper hand because he’s amused and I’m not. He’s also doing something else, something he’s quite adept at.
“You’re normally much more subtle than this when you’re fishing for compliments,” I point out with a mocking smile. “Feeling a bit desperate?”
“I’m always desperate for a compliment from you, Theodora.” His smile is easy and guileful. “They are the rarest of treasures. How could I not want to collect them?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Fine. Your handwriting is incredibly tidy. There’s your compliment—take it and go.”
He takes out his phone and types a note.
“Excellent,” he says, looking up. “So far this year, I’ve got ‘not insignificant’ and ‘tidy handwriting’.” He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. “You’re really sweeping me off my feet, Theodora.”
I roll my eyes, though there’s still laughter tickling my throat. “Is that all?”
“No.” The amusement fades from his eyes and the intensity I always associate with him returns. “I didn’t actually come here to beg for compliments, believe it or not.”
I frown. “What did you come here for, then?”
“I came here to ask you if you wanted to come to the dance with me.”
My heart squeezes like a fist and drops in a sickening sensation. I stiffen in my chair, my entire body feeling both as if it’s turned to ice and filled with flames at the same time.
“Are you being serious?”
“Deadly serious.”
