A Knight to Remember

by Bridget Essex

  “We have libraries on my world,” she says with a small smile. “And I did love them there. I’m sure I would find them just as enjoyable on your world.”

  “So then it’s settled!” I’m utterly relieved. “You can come in with me tomorrow, and then we can try to locate the beast.” I rise too quickly, a little of my tea sloshing out and hitting the carpet where, moments before, Virago and I were rolling around together. Albeit not exactly the way I wanted. But it had happened.

  “Holly,” says Virago. And she’s rising too, setting her mug of tea down easily on the coffee table as she crosses the space between us and takes my elbow gently in her hand.

  “Yes?” I say, feeling my heart pounding in me.

  And then, upstairs, I can hear the stupid, incessant beeping of my phone. It’s a specific rhythm, that pattern of beeps, though.

  Nicole.

  Nicole is calling me.

  Are you kidding me? How bad can my luck possibly get?

  “I’m sorry…I’ve got take that,” I stammer miserably as I take a step backward, and then I’m bolting up the stairs. When I enter my bedroom, I carefully shut the door behind me, and then my heart is in my throat as I pick up the phone from my purse, start the call and press it to my ear.

  “Nicole?” I say, a little breathless.

  “Hello,” she says woodenly.

  I slump a little, setting my mug of tea on the table beside my bed, sitting down on the edge of my bed as I toe at the carpet with my slipper. I try to make my breath come slower, take a deep breath in, feel the awkwardness press down on me like a lead blanket.

  The silence stretches on for a full moment before I make any sort of effort at a conversation.

  “How are you?” I say then, trying to keep my tone even.

  “I think that the time for pleasantries has come and gone,” says Nicole with a practiced snarl. “Are you going to apologize for what happened at that asinine festival or not?”

  Her tone cuts me like a knife. And after the wave of pain comes another equally sized wave.

  Of anger.

  I’m so tired of all of this. I felt guilty downstairs that I was having these thoughts about Virago. But Nicole doesn’t want me, hasn’t wanted me for a long time.

  This needs to be over. We’re not right for each other.

  That much is fairly obvious.

  “Asinine?” I whisper into the phone, feeling my hand shaking as it holds the phone to my ear, but feeling firm resolve curl like a fist in my stomach. “Nicole, I admit, Carly stepped over the line. But you could have—”

  “I should never have even been there in the first place. I only went to appease you.” She spits out the word like it’s poisonous. “You’re always so precious about that festival, and I assumed that if I didn’t go, I’d never hear the end of it. You’d sulk about it for weeks, and frankly, I have no energy to deal with your petty needs right now.”

  “My needs?” I whisper.

  “Look,” she says then, her tone hard and sharp, “I want to see you tomorrow.”

  For a long, full moment, I am utterly speechless. She wants to “see” me for one reason and one reason only, and you know what? I’m not in the mood. I’m not in the mood to be cast off and away like I’m meaningless to her. I’m not in the mood for someone who no longer cares about me to tell me what to do.

  “No, Nicole,” I say, my voice not in the least bit shaking, to my surprise. “I want to see you tomorrow. I’ll meet you at your place. We…we really need to talk.”

  “Finally. I have about an hour between four and five. We can, perhaps, get in some intercourse, clear this up. You can apologize to me in person.”

  I’m fuming so hard that if I were a cartoon character, flames would be coming out of my ears. Thankfully, I am not a cartoon character.

  “Fine. I’ll see you then.” And then I hang up.

  But the anger that had fueled me so powerfully while I was speaking with her is gone in an instant. Because I think about how she spoke to me. The sharpness, the demanding cruelty in her voice. And I remember that when Nicole and I first got together, she used to speak to me so softly, so gently. She used to make time for me and my “asinine” needs. She was thoughtful and brought me flowers and take-out. And I didn’t exist solely for her. I was my own person, and we loved each other equally.

  And it’s not that way anymore. And it’s never going to be that way again.

  I feel so deflated as I sink down deeper into the edge of the bed, let the phone fall into my lap as I realize exactly what I have to do.

  We’ve dragged this out for far too long.

  Tomorrow afternoon, I’m going to break up with her.

  I was supposed to for a very long time, now.

  I can, at least, finally make this right.

  Chapter 12: Books and Breakups

  Virago insists on taking her sword with us to the library.

  “I cannot leave Wolfslayer here,” she says firmly when we’re ready to go, standing by the door with my purse, my thermos of coffee, and Virago decked out in all of her jacket and button-down shirt glory…with her scabbard belted tightly—and unmovingly—onto her back.

  “Wolfslayer?” I ask her perplexed, and then nod. “Oh, right, right…your sword. You killed wolves with that?” I frown. The animal lover in me says that this is Not Okay, no matter how much I’m falling in love with this gorgeous creature. (And yes, I am falling in love with Virago, but at this point in time, I’ve decided not to do anything about it. I think. Not yet anyway.)

  “Well, not exactly wolves,” she says with a grimace and a wave of her hand, “but the name ‘Wolfslayer’ worked better as a sword name, and was a bit more concise. My wolf tail,” she points up to her ponytail, even though the wolf tail no longer resides there, “was cut off from a murderous werewolf. There are groups of them in the country who terrorize entire villages, killing everyone they encounter. My band of knights and I followed the wolves back to their lair. There were many people the werewolves had held captive, ready to cannibalize and eat. We killed the wolves and set them free. It was my very first quest, so I named my sword after it.”

  I’m staring at her with my mouth open, but I shut it and swallow. Cannibalistic werewolves. Of course. Why did I think she’d randomly hurt an innocent animal?

  Also…cannibalistic werewolves?

  I probably shouldn’t poke further into that.

  “Well, be that as it may,” I start, but Virago’s folding her arms in front of her, her feet hip-width apart, a single brow raised as she shakes her head slowly.

  “M’lady Holly,” she says formally, inclining her head to me. “If you would have me leave my weapon here…”

  I watch her carefully, brows up, my own arms folded.

  “Then I will do as m’lady asks of me,” she says softly, her piercing, blue gaze searching my eyes as—holding my gaze—she slowly, carefully, starts to unbuckle the sword from over her shoulder.

  The buckle, of course, lies right on top of her chest.

  She’s slow and methodical as she runs the leather through her hands, unhitching the buckle with long, nimble fingers. I swallow, can feel my cheeks start to turn a very unflattering shade of red. She takes the buckle off, and it’s over then, the sword lying, sprawled on my couch, its pommel glinting in the early morning light.

  “There,” Virago says with a slow, sensuous smirk as she gazes at me. “Better?”

  “You’re being cheeky,” I admonish, but my voice is a little high-pitched when I say it, and it’s obvious that I’m more than a little flustered. Did I really just call Virago cheeky?

  Well. I guess it was better than letting “sexy as hell” slip out.

  “Thank you, Virago,” I manage, and then I hold open the door for her to stride out of my house and into my car and then into my workplace that I have a feeling will never be the same again after Virago has been there.

  But Virago, of course, doesn’t let me hold the door open for her. Sh
e reaches over my head and touches the frame of the door lightly with her warm hand, brushing it lightly against my fingers.

  “After you,” she whispers, her mouth turning up at the corners, “m’lady,” she finishes lazily, causing my already flushed cheeks to deepen in color.

  “Definitely cheeky,” I mutter, stumbling out the door and down the walkway to my car parked on the street. I somehow manage to get the car doors open, and then after grappling with the seatbelt because I’m so damn flustered, we’re on our way to work.

  Well, actually, with a brief detour to the coffee shop first.

  “Hi, Henry!” I tell the drive-thru microphone when we pull up. “I need two large coffees with soy milk, two sugars a piece, and an extra shot of espresso in each?”

  “All business this morning!” the barista practically purrs through the microphone. “Is your new girlfriend with you?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend, Henry,” I mutter between clenched teeth, stealing a glance at Virago over my shoulder. She’s looking out her window and not paying attention, I think. But then, if she’s not paying attention, why is she smiling a little as she tugs on the seatbelt positioned over her chest?

  I pay for the coffees (trying to ignore Henry’s knowing grin), and then it’s just a few blocks more to the library. Virago doesn’t say very much as she takes a few sips from the to-go coffee cup, but when we pull into the parking lot at the library her eyes light up at old brick building nestled comfortably in front of us in the middle of the parking lot.

  It’s not the main library of Boston, but the Thorn Branch Library has its own history. The stained glass windows along the front edge of the parking lot—all depicting flowers in full bloom—were made by Tiffany over a century ago, and though the library itself is on the smallish side, it has one of the most robust communities behind it. This was one of the buildings that was almost hit by the great Boston molasses flood (if you’re not from around here, you might never have heard of this. No joke, this actually happened—a molasses storage tank burst and flooded the streets in the early twentieth century. People died, buildings were destroyed…all from molasses!), so it has historical significance because it was spared, too.

  No matter what though, history and pretty stained glass windows aside…there’s a feeling I get, deep in my heart, when I pull into the parking lot of Thorn Branch Library.

  Because, no matter what, this place has been here for me. My co-workers evolved into some of my closest friends.

  In a library? I’m at home.

  I’m so excited to share this with Virago. Even if it’s just for a day. Even just for a little while…I want to show her the place that makes me the happiest in the world. I don’t know why I think she’d understand that, but as I sneak a glance at her, I know she does. She recognizes that this is a good place, too, as she gazes at the building with a soft smile brightening her features.

  “This is where you work?” she asks, gesturing to the library. I turn off the car, take the keys out of the ignition and smile at her.

  “Yeah,” I say, taking my coffee cup out of the holder.

  “It’s a castle,” she breathes.

  I glance at the building, my head to the side. I guess it sort of is a castle. It has three brick towers and turrets (though they’re only two stories high), and with the stained glass windows colorfully marching along the side of the building…sure, I can see a castle. After all, I thought it looked like a castle, too, when I came for the job interview here many years ago now.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, and we both get out of the car. “So,” I tell her, chewing on my lower lip. I’m not exactly certain how to break it to her that Mondays are always Kid Days, and on Kid Days you’re liable to get a migraine if you’re not a big fan of kids.

  One of the first school buses is pulling up now.

  “There’s going to be a lot of children,” I begin to tell her, but the school bus doors are swinging open, and a tidal wave of kids pours out of the bus onto the pavement of the parking lot. Shouting, screaming, laughing, ecstatic kids. Alice, the head of the children’s department and a good friend of mine, is unlocking the library doors from the inside, opening the doors wide to accommodate the press of children. Her long blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a sweeping curve, and her cat glasses twinkle from their beaded chain around her neck. Today she’s wearing skinny jeans and a vanilla blouse, impeccable as always—I have no idea how it stays that impeccable around the kids, but that just happens to be one of her super powers.

  “Hey, Alice!” I wave to her and trot across the sea of children and pavement to give her a big hug. Alice peers over my shoulder, her brows rising over the cat glasses as she picks them up and perches them on top of her little nose. She’s staring at Virago.

  “Well,” is all she says, grinning at me as I instantly begin to shake my head.

  “It’s really not what you think—” I begin, but she waves her hand, chuckles, lets the children flow into the library around the three of us, like a dam that’s burst, water flooding everything.

  The day’s already begun, and I haven’t gotten a chance to explain that Virago is not, in fact, my girlfriend. That I have not, in fact, broken up with Nicole.

  As I walk behind the circulation desk, my stomach clenches at that thought.

  No, I haven’t broken up with Nicole. Not yet.

  That’s tonight.

  I take a deep breath and turn on my computer as the kids’ happy chatter becomes background noise. I turn to Virago who’s followed me quietly to my desk.

  “Do you want me to tell you where any particular books are? You should be entertained for hours…we have everything you could think of…probably…” I trail off, clear my throat. “Do you want more coffee?” I ask, indicating her already empty to-go cup. “Do you need anything?” I fret.

  “No,” she says with a soft smile. “I am perfectly content, Holly. Please do not trouble yourself on my account.”

  “Okay,” I say, poking at my keyboard as my old computer begins to make the whirring noise that indicates that it’s thinking about starting up. I mean to say something else to her, but this little girl (I’m thinking maybe she’s five or six) that I’ve never seen before runs up to me with a stricken look on her face, brunette curls bouncing.

  “Miss, I have to tell you something,” she says, tugging on my shirtsleeve.

  “Yes, sweetie?” I ask with a wide smile as I lean down toward her.

  “I really have to go,” she tells me in a stage whisper, her face contorted in a dramatic grimace.

  “Oh, okay…uh…” I straighten and look wildly around for the teacher.

  The rest of the day erupts into similar chaos.

  One of the children goes missing (not really—she showed up in the basement where we keep the old research files, though how she got down there beyond the locked “employees only” door is somewhat beyond me), a little boy tinkles on the carpeting (but just a little, and our longsuffering janitor happened to be in today) and my coffee gets spilled onto my keyboard (not a huge tragedy, thankfully we have an extra keyboard in the storage room and I’m not electrocuted on the spot). By the time lunch rolls around, I’m utterly exhausted in that good, bone-deep way that you get when you’ve done something that you love for too many hours in a row.

  “You look like you need more coffee, missy,” says Alice, setting a cup down next to my mouse. She poured the coffee into one of my favorite mugs: it has two small chips out of the rim, and a well-worn slogan on the side: “I’d rather be reading,” printed next to a little bookworm holding a big hardcover. I take up the mug gratefully, blow on the billowing steam from the coffee’s surface and take a single, thankful sip. Alice’s brows are up over her cat glasses as she watches me, her head to the side, as if she’s considering telling me something.

  The most recent bus of kids just left, which means that we have a ten-minute break until the next bus shows up. I stifle a yawn behind my wrist and blink up a
t my friend expectantly. She clears her throat. “Have you seen…” Alice drifts off, glances at me meaningfully as she considers how to put whatever she’s going to say next. She settles on: “Have you seen where that woman you brought in got to?”

  Virago. Oh, my God, I was so busy and this morning was so crazy that, somehow, I forgot about Virago. Alice chuckles at my expression and pats my arm with a wry shake of her head. “I wouldn’t be too worried—she looks perfectly content. I just want you to catch a glimpse…it’s pretty cute.” She jerks her thumb toward the non-fiction history section and puts a finger over her lips in the universal gesture of “sh.”

  I get up from my chair, move quietly around the corner and peek down the aisle.

  Virago is seated on the floor, her back against a shelf of books, her legs folded in front of her gracefully, a book propped up on her lap, and her elbows propped on her knees as she carefully curves her body over the book, utterly intent on devouring it. Her brows are furrowed in concentration, and she traces a few lines from the page with a long finger, entranced by what she’s reading.

  My heart skips a beat as I watch her read that book. She’s so obviously engrossed and delighted by what she’s finding between the covers. If I’m not mistaken she’s reading one of our medieval histories right now—I know the shape of the book (it’s a big, clunky hardcover), even when it’s seated in her lap. She seems to be devouring information on our world’s version of knights and castles and all the chivalry that went along with that, because there’s a small stack of other hardcovers and one paperback book beside her, all medieval histories.