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Was she? Angry athim? Or was this all residual anger at Gold Stitch?

“No,” she said finally. “It’s been a rough few days. That’s all.”

“Are you having headaches?” he pressed, his brows knitted together in the middle with concern.

Atta’s arms dropped to her sides. “Why do you keep asking about headaches? How do you even know I get them?”

She swore there was a flash of panic in his eyes before he smoothed out his features. “Gibbs mentioned it.”

“Gibbs?” There was a dull ringing in her ears. She wasn’t even aware Gibbs knew about her migraines. They must be affecting her more than she thought. “As in my roommate, Bernard Fitzgibbon?”

“Yes. He mentioned you suffer from migraines and I’ve seen you, I don’t know, wince on occasion, like you’re overcome by one.”

Liar, liar, liar,a voice in her head sang. The one that sang to her of Wills-o’-the-wisp and hawthorn trees.Liars we hate, the liars we ate, under the hawthorn tree.

Atta shook off the voice. “I didn’t realise you knew Gibbs well enough to gossip with him,” she said mechanically, crossing her arms.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “It wasn’t gossip, Miss Morrow. He’s assistant to my colleague,” Sonder clarified, a challenge in his voice. A razor-thin something dancing between them.

“I know that.” She toed the line.

They stared at one another for a moment before Atta cleared her throat. “Well, as it turns out, Iamhaving a bit of a migraine coming on, and I work at the morgue tonight, so I’d like to rest this afternoon, if that’s all right. I heard Professor Vasilios is taking over your lecture today, anyway.”

“You work at the morgue tonight?”

She cocked her head to the side. “I do. . .” she answered slowly, eyes narrowed.

“I’ll see you Friday, then.”

Atta left, headed for her dorm, for her research, one thought on repeat in her mind like a skipping record: Sonder didn’t have any classes on Fridays.

Atta

Bent over her desk, peering at the mycelium plucked from Lauren’s heart through her hand lens for the thousandth time, the early morning sun streamed in to illuminate the hyphae.

Atta jotted notes in her journal next to her sketch before placing the mycelium on wax paper, folding it over to keep the network safe.

A knock came at her door.

“Come in,” Atta said, shoving a book over her mess of notes. She almost had the research paper ready. Almost.

Gibbs came in looking sheepish. “What are you working on over there?”

Atta set her lens down and twisted in her chair. “A paper on the effect of urban climate on flora.” In truth, she’d hardly touched any of her true assignments in days. She was going to be surviving on crappy coffee for another week, it would seem.

Gibbs nodded noncommittally. “Hey, sorry I snitched about your migraines to Murdoch.” He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears. “I was just worried about you, and you’ve stayed locked in here most days, and you keep strange hours, I just?—”

“Thanks for your concern, Gibbs.” She felt bad for the lad. He had a heart of gold, but he didn’t think through his words very often. “I really do appreciate it.”

He smiled, genuine but still a bit on the nervous side it seemed. “I know we’re all cramming for midterm exams right now, but some of us are going out to Mulligan’s for some much-needed time to blow off steam tonight. Emmy and Dony are in and I think they’re bringing a couple of friends. I invited Imogen, too.” He looked at his shoes, a little grin on his face.

“You still talk to Imogen?” Atta asked. She couldn’t help but root for Gibbs’s happiness, but she wasn’t sure Imogen was it.

“No. Not really. I saw her in the dining hall yesterday and sort of panic-invited her.”

Atta suppressed a laugh. There was the Gibbs she knew and loved. “Are you panic-inviting me now?”

He looked stricken. “No! I really want you to come. I think you could do with a break.”