That in ninety minutes she could be back in her apartment with her books and her silence and the particular comfort of not sharing air with anyone.
'Eighty-nine minutes.'
'Eighty-eight.'
"Professor Thornwood." A male voice, unfamiliar. Closer than she expected.
She glanced up.
One of the junior faculty members stood at her elbow — young-ish, mid-thirties maybe, square-jawed and too self-satisfied — holding a glass of pale gold liquid toward her. Not wine. Something thicker. Juice, she assumed, though the color was too light for orange and too dark for white grape.
She looked at it.
"I'm fine, thank you," she said.
"Freshly pressed — the kitchen just brought out a new round. Elderflower and pear." He smiled like he was doing her a favor.
"I said I'm fine."
"Thornwood." Dean Aldris's voice again, carrying that particular tone — the one that wasn't quite an order but was designed to make refusal feel rude. "Take the drink. Professor Henning is being hospitable."
