The chapter begins with a girl. Hardly seventeen (though not a dancing queen.) Sometimes likable. Mostly cynical. Primarily passionate about one thing. Or rather, several million things, to be particular: Books.

            Lydia’s dad had not failed yet to make the joke that if you looked up the noun, “bibliophile” in the dictionary, you would find a picture of his preciously precocious daughter, and looking calmly around her bedroom that morning, Lydia Hawking couldn’t disagree. Books did not only neatly line up along her two sets of bookshelves on either side of the window overlooking the garden, they were piled, stacked, and strewn on every other available surface in her room. Glossy young adult hardbacks were pressed next to musty, second-hand science fiction stories. F. Scott Fitzgerald and Agatha Christie welcomed Maureen Johnson into their fold. Percy Jackson and the Olympians camped out ironically between the Odyssey and Edith Hamilton’s Mythology. The only factor that most of the novels had in common was that Lydia had read them all.

            There was, however, no time that morning to dwell for too long on her beloved books. Rubbing the crusty sleep from her eyes, Lydia reluctantly pulled her toes out from underneath her delightfully warm fleece blanket and immediately regretted not washing enough of her fuzzy socks for her to wear in the chilly morning. It was a bit cold, especially for Georgia, even if it was November,

            Milledgeville never seemed to get colder than twenty degrees Fahrenheit, except, of course, when it was least convenient for it to be so icy. Middle Georgia weather was known for its lack of courtesy. Besides that, though, Lydia absolutely loved living in the content little town. In such a place, her bike commuting was easy and almost encouraged, the only businesses that made any money were the locally owned, and everyone you saw on the street was a friend. The sporadic weather was a more than fair trade.

            Lydia surveyed her closet thoughtfully before choosing the day’s sweater. She tried to pull it on as quickly as possible, shivering involuntarily a bit as the wintry air bit her skin. After making sure it looked acceptable with the jeans she had selected, Lydia deftly plaited her dark hair to one side and shuffled down the stairs to the house’s small kitchen.

            She could already smell the bacon, as on any other school morning. Her dad was a devout believer that as the most important meal of the day, breakfast should be the best it could possibly be- resulting in toast or eggs and bacon almost every morning they had to get up early enough to eat it. Standing at the stove with his back to her, he called out cheerily over his shoulder.

            “Morning, Lyds, the kettle’s already on!”

            Jonathan Hawking, was, in his daughter’s opinion, too much of a morning person. The students who took his eight o clock World Antiquities and Literature at Georgia College definitely thought so. His warm brown eyes were always shining with enthusiasm over something, whether a book he was reading or a lecture he was giving. Lydia admired that happiness in her dad, but just couldn’t imitate it when it came to the morning.

            “Thanks, Dad,” she mumbled, significantly less cheerful, but all the same, gracious. She filled up her usual tea mug three quarters of the way with steaming water and dropped in a bag to steep.

            After a couple chapters in East of Eden, a quickly gulped breakfast, and a last swig of Earl Grey, Lydia kissed her father goodbye, wished him a good day in class, and dashed out to the small car port.

            Though she had easily gotten her license the moment she had turned sixteen, Lydia preferred her bicycle to any car- especially the one she and her dad shared, a rundown Subaru with more bumper stickers than window space and a lack of air conditioning and heating that made driving it an absolute pleasure. So, the bike it was.

            What had been a gentle, chilled breeze became a whistling wind nipping at her ankles and the back of her neck as she pedaled to school- a normal experience for Lydia, and a refreshing one. Twenty minutes later, she arrived at school with a bit of time to spare before homeroom, and promptly went to the band room to find her friend- a senior who was, unlike her, incredibly talented musician and could almost always be found hanging out there before his first period practice.

***

            Alex was already discussing something heatedly with one of the flutists, as was normal of him. He never failed to find someone to debate; it was his favorite pastime. His pale grey eyes were not the least bit sleepy this morning, and his brown hair was spiked, as usual, with obvious care. Turning from the poor girl he was arguing with, his red-cheeked face split into a welcoming smile and he immediately abandoned his discussion.

            “How did the SAT go on Saturday, Lyds?” he asked excitedly (he was one to get excited over the meanest of things, like a friend entering a room.)

            Lydia had forgotten that she had even taken that stupid test that weekend- she had immediately tried to absorb herself in a book the minute it was over, and that had succeeded in helping her forget the terrible memory.

            “It was… alright, I suppose,” she said, reluctant to elaborate, but knowing that Alex would demand more details than that, what with his OCD tendencies. “I actually found out I was in the wrong room about halfway through the exam, when we were coming back from a break and the lady was checking off names and didn’t see why. Don’t know why she didn’t take role before we ever got started, but there you are. I finished the rest of the sections with everyone else, but they’re not even sure if they’re going to be allowed to score it.” She sighed, still quite a bit exasperated by the situation.

            “It’ll work out,” Alex said calmly, as if he already knew the outcome. He never seemed to worked up about anything regarding anyone’s future. He never seemed too concerned about the SAT, college applications (which he was now having to fill out, as a senior,) and job interviews- he apparently already had a plan and a career selected, but not one that he was willing to share with Lydia. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, kid,” he always chirped, ruffling her hair like she was a child, and not almost exactly one year younger than him. But that was Alex for you, always superior- but not in an annoying way.

            Having Alex for a friend was what Lydia imagined having an older brother would be like. Lydia didn’t have any siblings, something she wasn’t sure if she was thankful for, or missing out on. Some people’s little sisters and brothers were the most annoying creatures she had ever seen, but sometimes she was sad that she couldn’t have had a older brother or sister. She had been the first child her mother and father, and the only one, because when Lydia was very young, her mom had –as her dad put it- “had to go away for a while.” He really wouldn’t say what had happened, but had assured her that they were- and technically still were- married. “It would have been a scandal, otherwise,” her dad had always reminded her. “That day and age? In the South? Children out of wedlock were considered the eighth deadly sin.” That’s how he always responded whenever Lydia asked (she had had theories that the whole marriage thing was just a story for her to grow up believing. But it made sense, especially since her dad had been a devout Catholic since childhood.) And yet, no one knew where her mother was, or when or if she was coming home- or even if she had found a new home, far away from a pining husband and a apathetic child.

            Yes, Lydia was apathetic about her mother’s bizarre absence. Life had always been good with just her and dad. She was a fairly obedient kid, so discipline had never been an issue, and with only two of them plus a couple of cats in the household, more of her father’s meager teaching salary could be spent on books.

            Those books had shaped her childhood more than a mother ever could have, or so Lydia liked to think. She had always found friends among the other orphans in literature- from Harry Potter to Tom Sawyer. Why would she need a mother when they didn’t? She had Ms. Snicket at the library, too, the elderly widow librarian who loved books more than anyone Lydia had ever met, besides her father. The kindly, snowy-haired woman was always willing to offer advice or a good book recommendation.

            Still, Lydia’s philosophy had always been that her dad was more than enough for her. She thought he was perfect.

            Jonathan Hawking, as mentioned before, was an incredibly annoying morning person, and hardly perfect. He was a professor of history and literature at Georgia College, the main university in Milledgeville, and helped on the weekends at Andalusia, a local author, Flannery O’Conner’s famous home, along with his daughter. He was fairly easy-going about everything but his books. Lydia had been raised to treat them with the utmost care, so there really wasn’t much of a problem there. He hated exercise, but sometimes would make the incredible sacrifice of cycling around town with his daughter, whom he loved so.  Lydia’s childhood had been a wondrous one with this man. They loved each other very much, and he still had her naively fooled into thinking that they shared everything, and kept no secrets.

The rest of Lydia’s day, after recounting her SAT catastrophe to many others, including her teachers, was fairly normal. Nothing exciting ever happened in Milledgeville, which was how she liked it. She could always (and did always) escape to another adventure in a story, one that would be slightly more comfortable to experience sitting in front of the hearth at home rather than in reality.

            After school, Lydia made her customary journey to the public library, where she knew Ms. Snicket would be expecting her. She shivered as little droplets of rain pinged against her face and hands as she cycled onward. The warmth of the library was a welcome refuge from the sudden, gentle shower, and the distinct smell of dusty book jackets and aging wood that was sporadically cleaned was almost more familiar to her than home.

            Her dear elderly friend’s amiable voice sounded from the back of the fantasy section, where her little head librarian’s desk sat, a prime spot for surveying the outdoors and the patrons who had wandered in. “Lydia, my child, we have the new Terry Pratchett novels in!”

 Lydia grinned at her excitement and nodded politely to the young, bored-looking college student who was on duty at the front as she made her way across the sizable room.

Ms. Snicket called again: “We’ve got three copies this time, so one can stay on the shelf while we read the other two!”

            This was why the library was one of Lydia’s favorite places in all of the world: whenever the Hawkings couldn’t quite afford a book, there would always be a copy waiting here, without a mention from Lydia about her want. It was funny, really, that the seventeen year old girl and the sixty five year old woman would have such similar taste in books. They thought so, too, the first time Ms. Snicket had approached her to talk, after noticing her frequent appearances in the library. But there you are. Despite their close companionship and familiarity, however, Lydia would never call her by her first name. Ms. Snicket had stopped pushing her to call her “Joan” a long time ago, cursing the Southern norm as she gave up on the cause. Even in the twenty first century, it seemed wrong to Lydia.

            “The Long War had better not disappoint,” Lydia replied to the librarian as she rounded the corner of the last shelf before her desk. It looked like the woman was slipping something in one of the books- probably a bookmark, Lydia thought, wondering why all of the sudden, her imagination was running as wild as Harry Potter’s when it came to suspecting Severus Snape.

            “Oh, you know it will, honey,” Ms. Snicket said, a bit sadly, “they’ve all gone downhill since Making Money back in 2007. But that’s all right. We’ll stay faithful! …It is the state’s money, anyway,” she added cheerily, chuckling softly at the thought of spending even more tax money on fantasy novels. “Now go on and grab something else to read, or do your homework,” she said, waving her away briskly and forcefully stamping a date into the back of the book she had been fiddling with earlier. “I’ll talk to you later- I want to hear how you’re day’s been and all, hon!”

***

            Lydia perused the shelves a while and scanned them for a new read, starting with the Young Adult section, and ending up somewhere in fantasy, lost in thought as she wandered aimlessly among the familiar rows. The Milledgeville branch was a notably large library for such a small town- but with so many genres and books to choose from, who was complaining? A thickset green hardback, obviously just bought, caught her eye and she slid it carefully off the shelf. Lydia gasped when she realized what she was holding.

            “The new Eragon book,” she whispered excitedly to herself, stroking the cover with affection. She had been waiting for years for it to be released.

            “You’re not going to check that out, are you?” an amused voice sounded behind Lydia, startling her a bit. She tilted her head a bit to survey her questioner before she responded to him.

            Behind Lydia stood a man who was obviously a college student- probably in graduate school, judging by the fact that he looked to be about twenty four or twenty five and almost towered over her diminutive stature. His golden-brown hair that was mussed ever so slightly reminded her of the color of honey, and his pale green eyes that were crinkled up in what could only be described as a sassy smile and framed in thick, black, square glasses seemed to stare straight through her as he anticipated her response. He wore a slightly rumpled t-shirt that bore the legend “Holden Caulfield Thinks You’re a Phony,” and dark-wash jeans that were close but not tight, barely fitting over the laces of his black combat boots. Finally, he smelled strongly of espresso, the final of many details that caught Lydia off guard.

            “So what if I am?” What Lydia meant to be a playful response to a  (cute) stranger who was teasing her came out as a defensive retort and inwardly, she winced.

            “So, I totally want to know how the series ends, and I don’t think I’m okay with anyone getting in my way,” he replied, green eyes (that she wished she could stare into all day long because ugh) sparkling, like he knew that she meant to be friendly and not angry. He put his hand on the thick green book even as she held it- still frozen in place from admiring it- and fingered a piece of paper that was sticking out from between the pages- something that Lydia hadn’t noticed.

            She jerked it (in what she hoped was a playful way) away from him as the corners of her mouth began to turn up in a bit of smile. “What gives you the right to say who can borrow the book? I got here first, remember.”

            “You won’t even let me read the back cover?” he said, reaching for it again (did he want the book or the piece of paper that was in it?)

            “You’ll have to wait,” Lydia teased back, starting to get exasperated with his persistence, whoever the (cute) stranger was. She shoved the book under one arm and began to make her way to the front desk, sure that the guy would maybe go away so she could see what was in the precious note (and read the book, too, because c’mon, she had been waiting a while for it.) He didn’t follow her, but after the book had been scanned and the date stamped by the bored girl who was still on duty, he slid into the chair across from her at the table at which she was trying to do some homework- specifically, finish a rhetorical analysis that was ironically over Catcher in the Rye.

            He leaned over to inspect it, really starting to get on Lydia’s nerves now, and stretched out his shirt, as if she couldn’t already read it. Why was every little thing he was doing annoying her so much? It was obvious he was just trying to flirt- or something. Lydia had never had anyone flirt with her, so if he was, 1. She had no idea whether he was or not, and 2. She had no clue as to how she was supposed to respond.            

            “Holden Caulfield!” he exclaimed in mock excitement, “The head phony himself. Wish old J.D. was one of my friends so I could call him up on the phone and discuss the book.” 

            Lydia tried not to smile at the cheesy, unsubtle reference and subsequently failed. “It’s one of my favorites,” she replied, trying to be less irritated. “The first time I read it, though, I hated it- much like everyone else in my high school. It took me a couple reads, but once I finally got it, I adored it.”

            The guy (she still didn’t know his name, not that she wanted to,) smirked and said, a bit loudly, “Yeah, I liked it my first around, but it was a bit difficult- or I could see how it could be.”

            He really was trying her patience, now. Was he just an annoying show off, or was he trying to spark intelligent conversation by flirting? Who knew? Not Lydia. They had just met and he already had her on a rollercoaster, traveling from supremely irritated to hopelessly charmed. Was it the eyes… or the prime taste in books? Probably the eyes, she decided, and immediately cursed herself for thinking it. She was the type to immediately fall in love, and it was extraordinarily inconvenient most of the time. Lydia made up her mind: she would hate the annoying jerk whose name she didn’t know, and no second thoughts about it.

            But she had to at least know his name, right? (She could feel herself falling into the trap she was setting up for herself even as she berated herself.)

            The silence had gone on for an awkward length, especially with him uncomfortably close as he read her analysis off of the laptop screen. If she just turned her head, she could almost definitely count his eyelashes… not that she would ever want to, she reminded herself. I am going to hate him. I can’t like him. I’ve only just met him, and he’s incredibly… stupid (even though she knew it wasn’t true) Stupid emotions, she told her seventeen year old brain.

            “I don’t think I caught your name, by the way?” she said, hoping that the question would snap his unnerving concentration on her paper and maybe get him a significant distance farther away.

            The guy turned his head suddenly, a bit startled by the question, it seemed, and almost collided into Lydia. He promptly stepped back, pale green eyes wide with apology as he realized what would have been an awkward situation if he had been paying attention.

            “Sorry,” he halfway stuttered, having lost the easy coolness from before, as if all of the sudden being that close to a female had rattled him. “Um, I was, just kind of focused on your writing or whatever.” He cracked an attempt at another smirk. “And the name’s Arthur. Arthur Collins.” 

“He had good taste in books,” was the first thing that Lydia told Jonathan he asked to hear about the encounter at the library. “But he wouldn’t leave me alone, and I was trying to write my essay, so that kind of put me off, if you know what I mean.”

            Her father laughed softly at that. “You know, that’s the sign,” he said, eyes twinkling merrily at Lydia as he teased her, “Boys will never leave a girl they like alone.”

            Lydia halfway groaned. Her dad was such a dad sometimes. “I met him today. For the first time. So you- and he- can hold your horses. Besides, he wasn’t really a ­boy-“

            “He was man!” Jonathan finished, barely able to contain the peals of laughter that were threatening to spill over. His daughter was so dramatic, and he absolutely loved it.

            “Dad!” Lydia said, reproachfully but also grinning a bit at his antics. “But yeah, he was like twenty-five or something, looked like a grad student, so I have no idea what he was doing, trying to talk to a seventeen year old.”

            “Oh, you probably know exactly what he was trying to do.”

            (How many times would Lydia have to reprimand her father? Who can count that high?) “Dad!”

            “Okay, okay, the perfectly nice but annoying fellow with good taste books wanted nothing more than to read your rhetorical analysis on Catcher and perhaps allow you to experience how he smelled delightfully of espresso. And that’s all. Does that sound about right?”

            “Well, I guess there was one other thing,” Lydia said thoughtfully, the conversation turning semi-serious again. “There was this note thing? Or some sort of paper or bookmark that was stuck in the book that we both wanted to check out. He reached for it a couple times, when he thought I wouldn’t notice. I don’t know what would be so important… And how would he know it was there, if he’d never read or borrowed the book before?” she wondered aloud.

            “A… note?” Jonathan was incredibly solemn now, his dark eyes flashing with sudden anxiety that Lydia was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice. “That’s… weird… And you said you hadn’t read it?”

            “Yeah, well, it was written in elvish, like Lord of the Rings style, and I definitely recognized it, but I haven’t had time to translate it to see what it said.”

            “Sounds like some silly roleplaying game to me,” her father said lightly, “Probably not even worth translating, you know what I mean? Someone fancies themselves the next Fellowship of the Ring and enjoy play-acting, or something, and it sounds like that guy you were talking about just really wanted that note for that…”

            “Yeah,” Lydia said vaguely, still lost in thought, “yeah, you’re probably right..”

            “And did you say you caught his name?” Jonathan asked suddenly.

            “What? Why do you want to know?”

            “You never know,” he said, trying to seem natural, “I may have him in one of my classes, wouldn’t that be funny?”
            “I guess, Dad. Hilarious,” she mumbled, tired of the conversation all of the sudden, ready to move on, maybe go and translate the note or something- maybe it something more than just some dumb roleplaying game? Arthur hadn’t seemed the type to play something like that…

            “He said his name was Arthur Collins.”
            The extremely shocked and worried expression that passed over her father’s face was completely missed by Lydia. She was already upstairs, googling a key to elvish script.

***

            Her dad had to be right. It was obviously a roleplaying game type note, there was no other possibility. Apparently, it was something that was across many fandoms, as the rather lengthy note made mention of things not only from The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit. It didn’t seem as formal and in character as it should have been for roleplaying, however. Maybe some strange Tumblr gag that she didn’t understand? (Which was most of them, by the way- the Mishapocalypse had essentially freaked her out.) The note specifically read as follows:

            Arty,

            Man, last meeting was awesome. You missed it. John and his brother, whatever his name is, both came in and reported on how the event thing at Cair Paravel went. You should definitely come next time. You missed out for sure. Your dad said you gotta get your priorities straight and come to the meetings (whatever dude, do what you want,) but you really would like it more if you would come to the meetings. We’re getting stuff done and making decisions and it’s pretty exciting, to be honest.

            Speaking of which (and definitely keep it on the down low, ok? We don’t want the hawk to eavesdrop and spread the word before we’re ready. You can’t tell anyone- your father has said so,) there will be another, more secret (like I said, completely silent) meeting near the lamppost in Lantern Waste. It’s really important- maybe the most important one we will ever have. You have to show up. You know when, and now you know where. Don’t be late. And definitely don’t tell the hawk; he’ll tell everyone what we’re thinking of doing if he finds out, and no one else can know just yet. Cheers.

            -A

            Pretty vague, that, and Lydia had no idea what it meant- while it seemed to be part of a game, as her dad thought, it could also have been a  note encrypted so no one could understand it, even if they knew elvish, to convey an important message- as the note said it was. But what was so secret that it couldn’t be texted, or emailed, or even sent over snail mail? Why stick it in a specific library book, to be found later, and why in code?  Why the mysterious, unincriminating initial at the end, instead of a name.

            It seemed too serious for some dumb roleplaying club. (Not that roleplaying was dumb- it just wasn’t Lydia’s cup of tea. Not that she hadn’t tried that tea.)

***

            “So, yeah, I think you’re right,” Lydia said as she and Jonathan gulped down a pleasantly steaming “homemade” chicken pot pie for dinner, “It has to be a role play or a game of some type. What else makes sense?”

            “Nothing, nothing else really does,” he replied, a little too quickly, but she, as usual, was more absorbed in the book she held on the table with one hand to notice anything other than the obvious in their conversation

***

            Lydia couldn’t stop thinking about the strange note, even as she took a scalding shower, nothing could drive it from her mind.

            He just didn’t seem the type, she said to herself, as she tried yet again to dismiss it as a game. This is bothering me too much to just be something trivial like that. But what? Narnia’s not real, so where were they talking about? And what kind of group would use code words from children’s fantasy books like that?

            All of this swam around in her mind until she could bear it no more. Lydia had to talk to someone about it, and not her dad- he was acting weird about it all, for some reason. She glanced at her clock- only 8:15- before picking up her phone to text Alex (probably the only person she could talk to, considering she… really didn’t have any other friends. Who wanted to be besties with a nerd?)

            Hey, something kind of strange is going on and it’s kind of bothering me and I really don’t know why. Like something I know in the back of my head, but don’t really get right now. I don’t know. But Dad’s not really a good one to talk right now- do you think you could meet me at Blackbird’s in a couple?

            Lydia hoped she didn’t sound too psychotic in her message. She really just needed to discuss it with someone- about the weird note that she really was starting to think wasn’t some message from one roleplayer to another, and maybe about how confused she was over Arthur’s annoying-ness and his wittiness.

            Surely Alex wouldn’t think her too weird for wanting to talk? They often got coffee together in the evenings, although they hadn’t recently since he’d gotten a job.

            Her phone buzzed and the screen lit up with the words: Yes, alright, I suppose I can spare the time. ;) Meet you in ten?

            Fine, she typed back, already shoving her phone back in her pocket and pulling on a sweatshirt over her already wrinkled t-shirt.

            “I’m going out, Dad!” she yelled as she shut the door, hoping he wouldn’t ask many questions. There were times when your dad couldn’t be your confidant. Especially when he was acting so strangely, anyway.

            Lydia pushed the kickstand of her bicycle down with her foot and pedaled out the car port, loving the way the wind tugged at her loose hair as she flew into the already dark night. She soon pulled up to Blackbird’s, which was a part of Georgia College’s food court, and skidded to halt on the sidewalk. After pushing her bike up onto the rack and using the chain she always had handy to lock it in place, she swung the door to the coffee shop open, and stepped inside the bright, welcoming shop that smelled pleasantly of coffee beans and caramel.

            Alex waved a hand as she entered; he had already gotten their usual table next to the window. She raised a hand in response, ordered a drink, and sat down to join him.

***

            Geez, he really hated doing this. Jonathan was slightly uncomfortable with what he was about to do. “We don’t keep secrets” had always been a rule for him and his daughter: it worked best, since there was only two of them in the household, anyway. Therefore, he really hated doing this.

            He pushed open the door to his daughter’s room gingerly, as if it was going to bite him if he put too much pressure on it. Convenient, really, it was that she had decided to go out tonight for a bit. Probably to tell her friends how weird I’m acting, he thought. She’s not used to her father lying to her. He wondered if she could really tell that he wasn’t telling the truth, or if she was just looking at him that way for no reason. Why couldn’t he just tell her?

            No.  He wasn’t going to tell her. Leaving her in the dark and preserving her innocence was better than immersing her the corruption and politics that came with being a member of a secret society. She couldn’t know. Jonathan reminded himself to tell Arthur that he definitely wasn’t allowed near his daughter again, especially if he was going to be so obvious about the whole thing. What the heck was he playing at, anyway? He knows she doesn’t know about…

            Jonathan snapped his mind into focus. He was sneaking like a filthy bandit, which he was about to be, for a reason. He pushed the door open with more force, shedding the light from the hallway into the darkened room of his daughter.

            He couldn’t take this. This was a violation of everything he ever said he wouldn’t do to his daughter when Mia had gone. He didn’t mean for it to end up this way.

            Her things still lay in her room as if she had rushed out all of the sudden, disturbed, which she probably had been by her father’s strange antics. Her notebook was laying open on the extremely untidy desk, the pencil point still lying near the last sentence as if it were still waiting to trace the last few words of her thoughts. Paintings and posters were arrayed on every inch of the lilac walls, and each one as different as the next. A poster from something that she had attended a year ago, called “An Evening of Awesome,” was tacked up next to a stunning canvas print of Vincent Van Gogh’s famous self portrait. Sometimes she claimed that the artist was starting at her eerily, but she couldn’t bear to take it down.

            And the books. Her love of literature had definitely come from him, at least one thing he could proud of in the way he had raised her, motherless as she was. He could see that she had nicked some of his worn, first edition hardbacks without him noticing- a price he was willing to pay for what he was about to do.

            Ah, yes, the reason he was actually her. (Not just to view Lydia’s room nostalgically and regretfully.) The note. The note that had brought the guilt and the secrets back into his life. He would take it and be done, and he wasn’t going to look back. He had to protect his daughter. She couldn’t get involved. Especially after what had happened with her dear, beloved mother…

            He could see that it was not still sticking out from between the pages of Inheritance, checked the library card at the back cover, and scanned the room quickly to see where she had left it. She couldn’t have taken it with- There it was. The bright white of the paper greatly contrast with the dark wood of her dresser drawer, from which the corner was just sticking out enough- but ut wasn’t it. Looking the paper over quickly, he realized it was some instructions for a hair flat iron or something of that nature. His cheeks colored, even though no one was around to notice his foolish mistake that he had made while he was woefully preoccupied with his guilt.

            It was actually lying underneath her notebook that was still sprawled out on the top of her desk. Jonathan was sure of it this time- but the words on the page of her hastily scrawled journal couldn’t help but catch his eyes. Against his better judgment and will, he read: He’s acting weird. I don’t know why. Maybe Alex knows what this note’s all about? I just need someone to talk to who will be candid with me, and Dad is just… I don’t know. He’s never been this way before.

            Her words slapped him in the face, his guilt was, if possible, deepened, and his suspicions pretty much confirmed. Her words were painfully true.

            He folded the note into his pocket and tried not to look back. He was doing this for the best.

***

            Lydia finished up recounting what had occurred at the library for the second time that evening.

            “I don’t have a clue if he was flirting with me, or just trying to get the note, or whatever. He was annoying as heck, but… witty.” She was kind of a sucker for intelligent guys, honestly. Or she would be if she had ever met one who didn’t have a girlfriend and wasn’t fictional… or gay.

            Alex leaned back, stretching a bit and yawning, and took a careful sip of his chai latte, grimacing as the now lukewarm beverage hit his tongue.

            “You said… the note said something about meeting at Cair Paravel… which is in Narnia.”

            “Yeah,” Lydia replied, the impatience she had felt all day beginning to overflow into her speech. “That’s what I said.”

            “Okay,” Alex said slowly, as if chewing his words thoughtfully before spitting them out to be heard, “Hm. It’s probably just some dumb roleplay, you know those things are getting popular again.”

            “I’d already thought of that, Alex,” she said exasperatedly, “didn’t you listen at all? It can’t be that, who would take that so seriously? Do you think it’s… maybe… someone who’s just using ‘Cair Paravel’ and what not as a code word or something for a meeting place?”

            Alex shrugged, smiling gently. “Even if it is, why is it bothering you so much? It’s not like it’s anyone’s business…” His eyes lit up, eyebrows almost disappearing into his perfectly styled bangs. “You just want to know because you thought that Arthur guy was cute, is that it?”

            Lydia was really really trying not to blush. “Of course that’s not it!” she said crossly, glaring at her friend, who had just hit the nail on the head, “Ever since you got a girlfriend, you’re seeing romance everywhere!”

            “That was six months ago,” Alex reminded her, knowing he was right, and glorying in it. “And that has to be it. After all, you’re projecting acting strangely on your dad as an excuse to call me, when really you just want to talk about boys.”
            Lydia was really uncomfortable now. “Even if that’s true –which it’s most definitely not- you have to admit that note’s weird.”

            “But nothing to get worked up about,” he finished, atrocious Southern accent twanging the last syllable, as always.

            “If we’re talking boys,” Lydia began, already observing a silly smile creeping onto her friend’s lips, “he was rather annoying.”

            Alex wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were wide with excitement, and staring at something that was behind her.

            For the second time, an amused voice sounded from over her shoulder. “Surely you’re not talking about me, are you?”