June tugged the bookshelf hiding her hidden extra space. The latch had started complaining two weeks ago, and she’d found the bookcase gaping open – though behind her locked office door – one panicked evening. The extra movement knocked over her makeshift desk and sent her dreaded laptop clattering toward the floor. It lodged in the crossguard of her newly acquired sword and teetered, allowing her to snag it with a flailing hand.
She’d initially hated the claustrophobic closet masquerading as an office until the accidental discovery. A tea table swapped for a desk, and barely enough room for two dented folding chairs. It wasn’t surprising that her students rarely stayed long, and wasn’t comfortable. Still, it was hers.
And the back room, well, once she’d finished cleaning up mess left by her predecessor, it’d be a lovely hideaway. And anyone thinking she was appearing and disappearing was more likely to assume she’d taken the nearby back stairs, rather than the more impressive grand staircase left over from when the university had been built for New Hampshire’s elite.
It would be a lovely mage’s workspace, too, with lots of cubbies and storage for books and supplies. But I don’t do that anymore, June reminded herself sternly.
“A one time aberration.” The words dropped firmly against the door. She yanked the antique metal knob, only to be greeted by a tall, dour man in a suit.
“Er. Dean Lyer. Good to see you.” Her mother had always said politeness never hurt anything, even if it was somewhat more than a white lie.
“Doc-tor Porter.” The dean put the emphasis on the first syllable, managing to convey a level of deniable disbelief. “I feared you were about to miss leaving for your next class.” Thin lips pressed into a mirthless smile. “Just – checking in.”
“No, no – of course not.” June stumbled over the words. “I would never -“
“After all, Doc-tor Porter, you nearly missed arriving on time to the last staff meeting. And your faculty service could use some additional – consideration, shall we say.”
“I -“
Dean Lyer turned and walked down the hall toward the main staircase, ignoring the closer entranceway for the battered back stairs. Footfalls punctuated each word. “Strike one, strike two, and… don’t you wonder what the next pitch will be?”
***
This week’s offering was from AC Young: Strike one, strike two, and… don’t you wonder what the next pitch will be?
My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: Last year’s war between the Textile Guild and the Thieves Association was most unexpected.
