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A tta stared up at the entrance hall of the building with its mix of Neoclassical limestone columns and Gothic stone architecture. Her nerves were frayed by the idea of meeting Professor Murdoch and her trepidation gave the Medical Building an air of eeriness she’d never felt there before.

hadn’t many occasions to enter the Medical Building, but she’d toured it before undergrad, her father beside himself over the stunning domed roof of colourful brickwork. It was a masterpiece of a building in her eyes as well, second only to The Long Room—her heart of hearts. Sure, The Berkeley was great as far as libraries went, but The Long Room was unmatched. There were rumours that Trinity planned to rope off the study tables and the books to protect the sacred texts, and though she saw the logical side of that, it made her inexplicably sad to consider losing time huddled in the stacks at an old table, surrounded by tomes and bent over open pages.

She made a mental note to study there as soon as possible, then climbed the steps to the second floor of Medical College where she’d been told to find Lecture Hall 26.

It was a smaller classroom, much like the others at Trinity, but it was larger than those in Botany College.

One hand raised to knock on the open door and alert the man bent over at his desk, caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall behind him. She was early. Before he could look up and notice her, she decided to back out and wait in the hall for another few minutes, but the opportunity to openly study her new employer—for all intents and purposes—in live and living colour was too hard to pass up.

She couldn’t see his face, not with him scribbling on the papers in front of him, but she noted the crisp white of his shirt, his hair a semi-tamed mess of chestnut brown waves and just long for some of the ends to spill forward and conceal his brow as he looked down. His jacket was a lovely forest green tweed was instantly envious of, but then she saw the elbow patches and contemplated stealing it, though it would be far too large for her. She was no tiny waif, but even seated she could tell Professor Murdoch was tall and lean, but broad-shouldered.

“Are you going to come in or just stand there and lurk?” he asked without looking up from his work. His deep voice, like the smooth burning warmth in the first sip of whiskey, startled her, and almost tripped trying to appear like she’d just arrived.

“Yes, of course.” It occurred to her that she’d said something similar to his words last night to a creepy man watching her, but then Professor Murdoch looked up and lost all rational thought. A curl of his hair slipped over his forehead as he removed a pair of round, wire-framed glasses to regard her with disinterest.

She continued down the few steps past rows of desks and he stood, coming around his desk to meet her. When she made herself look up to meet his gaze, his brows pinched in the middle, just for a second, a note of something she couldn’t quite place lighting in his hazel eyes before he smoothed his face back into indifference.

“I take it you’re Ariatne Morrow.”

“Yes, sir.” She shuffled her books to one arm and held out a hand. Professor Murdoch removed his right hand from his pocket and shook hers firmly. gave the sourpuss a point in his favour for that. Actually, something about him was familiar, only she couldn’t quite place it. “But please call me .”

Murdoch nodded once and moved to sit on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Jesus of little Nazareth. No wonder Imogen had given her crass description of the man. was not usually one to be distracted by a handsome face, but it took a great deal ofeffort not to soak in every detail of him. That photo in her course catalogue had not done the good doctor justice. The stubble on his jaw was just the right amount and the lines etched next to his eyes made her think he hadn’t always been so sombre as his reputation made him out to be. She thought if he smiled she might actually go weak in the knees.

All right, Jane Bennet, get your shite together. You are a Lizzie, damn it. And this man is no fucking Darcy.

“,” he repeated, boredom coating his cold demeanour, “I don’t need a TA.”

Her juvenile infatuation dissolved as her heart sank, anger boiling up to take its place. Before she could say anything, Murdoch went on.

“But Mariana O’Sullivan is an old friend of mine and she tells me you’re quite gifted.”

What was she supposed to say to that? ‘ Yeah, I truly am ’?

“I also understand that you haven’t taken any of my courses and you are in Botany College.” His eye crinkled with what she took as revulsion, and she fought the urge to baulk and call him a dick.

“That’s correct. But I was reared on autopsy. I’ve worked in a mortuary since I was legally old enough to. Earlier, actually, but, you know, child labour laws and all that—” She trailed off with a nervous laugh, and Murdoch blinked at her, sitting there still as a marble statue of a Greek Tragedy hero.

’s books were becoming a burden to hold along with the effort of not sounding like a babbling idiot, so she set them on the closest desk. “I’m well-trained in postmortem arts. I understand that’s what most of your courses centre around?”

He offered her the barest of disinterested nods.

“Good. I’m certain I can keep up with whatever it is you need. I don’t know a great deal about pathology, per say, save for what I’ve taught myself, but I’m a quick study. I’m sure that I can help grade or make copies.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Grab your coffee?—”

“You taught yourself pathology?”

“I— Em. Well, yes. Again, not a great deal, but working in a morgue at the height of a rampant Plague no one understands. . . Well, it left me curious.” Christ, someone make her stop rambling.

“Curious?” the professor pressed, but a little thrill went up the back of her neck because he didn’t look quite as bored anymore. Maybe he wouldn’t regret this after all. It shoved a modicum of steel into her spine and she felt more like herself.

“ Tick, flick, tick. The clock keeps time with the candlestick until they all get sick ,” recited a portion of an old folklore rhyme. “Isn’t that how it goes?”

That pinch of his brows came again, this time he didn’t bother smoothing it out. “I believe it is, yes.”

“Well”— lifted one shoulder, dropped it—“I don’t want to get sick.”

She was nearly ready to squirm beneath the intensity of those eyes of Murdoch’s when a “ Yoohoo !” came from the doorway.

“Oh, yoohoo ! There are the two of ya’.” Mrs O’Sullivan beamed from the doorway, giving them a wave so big it was as if she were attempting to land a plane. “Lovely, lovely,” she repeated with each step as she descended them rather perilously in her pumps.

By the time she reached the front of the class, Murdoch was already back behind his desk, taking off his jacket.

“Make it quick, Mariana. My class is about to begin.”

An exceptionally punctual student was summoned by his words, sliding into a seat at the back of the lecture hall. Without looking up from the shuffling of his papers, Murdoch said loudly, “I won’t bite again, Miss Murray. You can return to your normal seat.”

“ Sonder ,” Mrs O’Sullivan censured under her breath. “You can’t say things like that to students. People will get the wrong idea.”

“ People are imbeciles. Don’t be churlish, Mariana. The girl gave a stupid answer last week, and now she’s frightened of me. You’re the one who told me to be nicer.”

“Evidently, you don’t know how to do that.”

“I am but a tragic lost cause.”

got the distinct impression they'd both forgotten she was there. Miss Murray, it would seem, was slowly and rather shakily relocating for a desk in the second row.

felt a cold hand wrap around her wrist and she turned away from the poor student, looking instead into Mrs O’Sullivan’s heavily mascaraed eyes.

“Come with me, dear. I have the key to your new student accommodations.” She flicked her attention over her shoulder to Murdoch’s back where he was writing on the chalkboard. “That is if this is all working out?”

The professor didn’t bother turning or answering the question directly. “Be at my next 10 a.m. lecture, Miss Morrow.”

Mrs O’Sullivan pulled along before she could ask when that was or even what course. And what if she already had a class at that time? Oh, this was a mess.

“Wait, my books.” She pulled out of Mrs O’Sullivan’s death grip before they got up the gallery stairs and snuck back to retrieve them.

Out in the hall, asked when the next class was.

“Unsure, dear. I’ll look into it and give you a ring.” She produced a key from the pocket of her too-tight blazer. “You will be in Room 4, Third Floor of Briseis House. It is located not far from your current accommodations, so I trust the move won’t be too difficult.” She set a folded paper on top of the key in ’s outstretched hand. “That is a map with Briseis circled, but it’s just ‘round the corner. I’ll point you in the right direction.”

Outside, the campus was bustling with students, a hint of the approaching autumn on the wind, stirring the leaves that would soon lose their chlorophyll and show the world how beautiful it is to die.

* * *

Briseis House, in all its stately, Gothic stone didn’t look all that different from her grad suite with Imogen and Colin, but she was still sore over losing the view from her old room.

“Sure you wanna do this?” Imogen dropped the box she’d hauled from ’s car unceremoniously at her feet. She should have given her the bags of clothes to carry.

“I don’t have a lot of choice anymore. The ball is already rolling.”

Imogen shrugged. “Your funeral.”

“Encouraging speech, Imogen.”

The girl bent to pick up the box she’d set down, using her back instead of her legs like an amateur. Alas, Imogen only had to worry about how shiny her hair was, not how to carry dead weight.

“Here, let me help you with those.” They turned to find a young man about the same age as Imogen—let’s face it, the same age as every grad student but and the middle-aged man in Geology College. He was a handsome lad with warm brown skin and even warmer brown eyes lined with enviable lashes and black hair shinier than even Imogen’s. He wore thick-framed glasses, and he was fairly gangly, not quite filled out yet despite his age that would peg at about twenty-three. He wore jeans and a Trinity College hoodie, nothing out of the ordinary, but he gave one glance at Imogen, and almost snorted. The lad probably hadn’t realised even existed. She wasn’t blonde, busty, and long-legged, after all. Most young men hadn’t yet realised the appeal of soft curves and more to grip.

To ’s immense surprise, Imogen wasn’t an arse to him.

“That’s so thoughtful.” She kicked the box toward him and he scooped it up, struggling only minorly less than Imogen had.

“No problem at all. The name’s Bernard Fitzgibbon. But everyone calls me Gibbs. You moving in here?”

He directed the question at Imogen, but answered. “I am. I just took a TA position. I’m . That’s Imogen.”

Gibbs finally looked at her and the box slipped from his hands, but he caught it at the last second. “Sorry about that,” he laughed awkwardly. “So, you’re the one that took the position for Dr Frankenstein— Em. Sorry. Professor Murdoch.”

Imogen laughed, inspecting her nails. “Told you everyone calls him that.”

“Get the door, Imogen,” gritted out, juggling her box.

In no rush at all to follow directions, Imogen sauntered slowly toward the door and addressed Gibbs. “How did you know it was me that took the position for Murdoch?”

“Oh.” He balanced the box on his knee and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I do some work for him sometimes. Just”—he shrugged, adjusting the box in his grip—“calculations, stuff like that. Word gets around fast here.”

Gibbs let her enter the dorm first, and they stepped into a common room that was far more polished than her previous one, outfitted with a pool table, a kitchenette, and a media corner. Imogen ran off to take a cider from the well-stocked fridge.

“Tell me I didn’t kick you out of a job,” said to Gibbs as they climbed the stairs toward her floor. “I didn’t realise Murdoch had an assistant already. He told me he didn’t need one, but I thought he just didn’t want one.”

“Oh, no, no.” Gibbs shook his head and she worried his glasses might fly off. “It’s nothing like that. Finally, that empty room on our floor will be filled.”

“Wait, ‘ our’ floor? I’m in your suite?”

“Sure are.” He beamed at her and decided she liked the lad. She could use some of his enthusiasm in her life. At least he hadn’t brought up her age. Though reminding herself she was going to end up a veritable Dorm Mother was a tad depressing.

“The suites work differently here than any of the other dorms,” Gibbs went on, leading the way. “Each suite is an entire floor. Murdoch, Vasilios, Lynch, and Kelleher all stayed on Third when they were postgrad students, and it became a time capsule of sorts because their parents and grands stayed here before them. We’re all TAs here, and the suites are all split around three separate common rooms, one on each floor. Only Second and Third have two bathrooms, so you lucked out only having to share with one of the three of us.”

They walked through another common room that rivalled the setting of a fancy French ski resort. It was more a cosy library and bar than anything else. The hearth logs weren’t lit, but she could easily picture herself snuggled up on one of the comfy couches in front of the bookshelves to study by the fire come winter. Maybe leaving her picturesque view wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“And you are TA for. . .”

“Lynch. Domhnall assists for Kelleher, and Emmy assists for Vasilios. The TA room for Murdoch has always been empty, though.” Gibbs kicked open the door to what must be their suite, and followed him in. “It might be a bit dusty in there.” He dropped the box onto a round coffee table in the middle of the small sitting area and pointed to one of the four doors. Two of the others stood ajar but were empty of students. One had cream walls covered in a chaotic array of band posters and shelves of esoteric knickknacks, films, and records. The other room was a whirl of clothing on the floor and the bed, the only decor a poster of a bikini-clad woman didn’t recognise.

“Oh, this one’s mine.” Gibbs smiled and bopped over to open his door. It had taupe walls, a little brown desk and not much else that she could see. “I’m not here often,” he explained bashfully. “And I’ve never been one for stuff .”

“I respect that.” set down her box by her door and looked at the grain of the dark wood for a moment.

“You okay?” Gibbs asked from behind her.

“Have you ever felt like your life is about to change all of a sudden? If you do one little thing?”

“Like open a door?”

“Yeah. Just like that.” She looked over her shoulder at her new roommate.

“, I think your life changed when you said yes to assisting Dr Frankentstein.”

She definitely liked this lad. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Gibbs.”

“Good.” He smiled. “I’ll head down and bring up more of your boxes. You settle in.”

Gibbs bustled off with more energy than had dreamed of having since before she was that age.

With a deep breath, she took the brass knob in her hand. A zing went off behind her eyes, and she almost doubled over. She was no longer herself for an instant, but a beautiful, stunning young woman with flowing auburn curls down to her waist, laughing as she opened this very door. The hallucination jumped, like a bad movie edit and the woman was older, shrouded in white, her veins black and pulsing as she lay on a bed. sucked in a breath and it was all gone, dissipated into fog.

“Jesus.” She pressed her palm against her breastbone and willed away the anxiety that inevitably came with the migraines. Lips in a thin line, reached for the doorknob again and twisted.

Her headache was immediately forgotten. The room was painted in a wrought-iron green, like a misty Fae Forest at dusk. One wall was solid bookshelves as loved and worn as the dark oak floors they matched. In the far corner was a small bed, naked save for a standard-issue mattress. Next to it, a window overlooked the Rose Garden and the Medical Building. There were just enough trees bordering her view that it would certainly give her old window-view a run for its money once the leaves changed. Perhaps there simply were no bad views at Trinity.

ran her fingers over the desk situated under the window sill, imagining all the studying and sketching she would do there. It almost made her want to let her job at the morgue go—to throw herself, finally, fully into her studies. But she’d agreed to too much, needed too much, had too much darkness in her heart to be a proper academic.

Gibbs came bumbling back in carrying another box and a bag of clothes dragging behind him. “I couldn’t find your friend.” He looked around her room. “Where do you want these?”

“There’s fine.” She pointed to a cobwebbed corner. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve lost Imogen’s help.”

Gibbs set the boxes down and dusted his hands together. “You don’t have much stuff. What say we knock it out and I’ve got a couple of things to take care of after my next class, but then I’ll take you to meet Emmy and Dohmnall. They always go to the pub off Poolbeg on Wednesday nights. Vasilios and Kelleher usually have them working their arses off the first half of the week.”

“Sure,” smiled. “That sounds great.”