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N ursing a hangover on the day she was meant to begin her new assistant position for the severe Professor of Morbid Anatomy was not ideal.

A hangover always made the migraines worse, too.

knew better than to drink whiskey and Guinness at the rate of college kids, let alone chase it with three glasses of wine and little sleep. The night had been fun though, far more fun than had expected it could be. She was actually looking forward to sharing a suite with Gibbs, Domhnall, and Emmy. Especially now that she knew the scales weren’t tipped too far to her side concerning maturity, and she felt bolstered by Emmy rather than the competitive girl world most women lived in that found disturbing.

There were clouds rolling in, but for the time being, the sun was shining over campus, the breeze was crisp, and the walk to the Medical Building from Brieseis House was short but beautiful.

The coolness of the building’s interior sent a chill up ’s arms, and she wondered idly when the college would switch on the heat. The corridor leading to where Mrs O’Sullivan said Murdoch’s office was located was significantly warmer, and she discovered upon reaching said office that it was because he had a lovely fireplace there.

She knocked politely on the open door just as she had on the open door of his lecture hall when they first met a few days earlier. He was standing with his back to her, one hand in his pocket, the other holding an open book. Again, she was struck by the familiarity of his stance, and again, she couldn’t grasp where that familiarity came from. It was a distant thing, far off and fuzzy. It was going to drive her mad until she figured it out.

“Come in,” he said more to his book than to . He didn’t seem to often look at people when they entered, and it irked her.

“I know I’m a little early,” she said as she came in. “Mrs O’Sullivan said I could find you here before class and I thought we should discuss what it is you’d like for me to do today.”

“One moment,” he murmured, again more to his book than to her.

He was completely engrossed in what he was reading, and couldn’t help but wonder what it was. Finally, he slid that hand out of his pocket and flipped the page reverently. It almost felt like she was intruding on a private moment, something special and intimate. Or was she captivated by seeing this surly man be so gentle with the book, that page-turn almost romantic. . .

Murdoch clapped the book shut and jumped at the sound, her romanticism dissipating like faerie dust.

“Have a seat, Miss Morrow.” He turned and gestured toward one of two fine leather chairs opposite his desk.

She dropped her satchel to the floor and stacked all her textbooks on an end table. Sitting in the left chair, she smoothed out her pleated skirt that was frankly too short for sitting without the cover of a desk. “This is a lovely office, Professor.”

As a rule, did not hand out empty compliments. Murdoch’s office truly was stunning. Dozens of anatomical sketches, skeletal renderings of various creatures, and one large Doctor of Philosophy diploma hung in simple frames between two glass-enclosed bookcases taking up the entire charcoal grey wall behind Murdoch’s mahogany desk. To ’s left there was an antique sideboard with a beautiful glass decanter of what was most likely expensive whiskey and an old globe, the sepia-toned kind that bore depictions of the old world. Across the room was a small hearth, a fire steadily burning and casting the space in a warm glow.

Despite the perfect order of everything else in the room, particularly the bookshelves, Murdoch’s desk was a flurry of chaos. It was mostly papers and pens, a gaslamp, and a few scattered books, but there were also three coffee mugs—not the paper takeaway kind—and an expensive-looking pipe on display. Ah, that was it, the scent lingering along with the parchment and leather aroma of books and stale coffee: pipe tobacco. A smoky, sweet scent, like old books, spices, and deep woods.

Professor Murdoch did not respond to ’s compliment, he merely sat in his chair across the desk and watched her until she nearly squirmed. She hated that he made her feel like she could come out of her skin.

“I thought we could discuss what it is you’ll need me to do today and going forward,” she repeated her earlier statement when his gaze became too much. He certainly didn’t have trouble keeping his eyes on her while not speaking.

Murdoch laced his fingers together and set his hands loosely on the mess of papers in front of him, like a ribcage splayed on parchment. “For the next few weeks, I’d like for you to simply observe.”

blinked at him, certain she’d misheard. “I’m sorry. Observe?”

“Yes.”

“For a few weeks? That’s more than half what’s left of the term, Professor.”

“Yes.”

Maybe she was too hungover for this, but she was getting pissed. “Then what?”

“Then, maybe we can discuss you making some copies for me, or fetching coffee like you so generously suggested the other day.”

Nope. Not just hungover.

shifted in her seat. “Let me get this straight. You need me to observe your classes before I can even be allowed to make copies for you or bring you coffee ?”

He didn’t even move, let alone respond.

A bitter laugh escaped her. “Unbelievable.”

“You know,” Murdoch said, leaning forward on his elbows, his clasped hands sliding across the desk closer and closer to her with the movement, “most students would find this the easiest way to free tuition, not complain about it.”

“I’m not most students,” she shot back, failing to keep the ire from her tone despite the flush rushing up her neck.

“You’ve never taken my courses, Miss Morrow.”

“I don’t need to take a course to know how to make copies of Page 45,” the pitch of her voice rose there at the end, making her accent thicker, and she took a deep breath when one of Murdoch’s eyebrows dragged upward. “I have been performing autopsies since I was practically a child. It’s wildly inappropriate how young I was the first time I cracked a rib cage open. I’ve studied pathology myself for six years, and I might not know every detail of your courses, but I’m uniquely qualified in that regard to at least make copies of the damned diagrams.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Jesus, she wanted to slap the brooding right off his face. “Do you want to see my CV?”

“I already have that. What I don’t have is proof.”

“I don’t understand. Do I really have this position or not?”

“You have it as a favour to a friend. If you have it for being actually useful remains to be seen.”

Common sense told her to rein in her temper. To take the easy way. To listen to the handsome, infuriating professor holding her fragile future in his hands. But she’d never been very good at things like that and the fire was hot and the scent of his lingering tobacco smoke was intoxicating.

“You know, these students are all spooked by you, but I don’t think you’re scary. I think you’re just a bastard.”

One side of his mouth twitched and stood, unable to sit there a moment longer.

“I think I need to go.” Her words hardly carried. If she’d said them above a whisper, she would have shouted them.

She was halfway to the wrong dorm when she realised she’d left her bag and books and probably the whole of her tuition in that office.

Sitting down on the nearest bench, she wilted, pushing against her eyelids with her fingers. The scent of cigars and books—the scent of Murdoch —was still cloying with her senses, embedded in the fabric of her clothes.

This time, the migraine that came from nowhere and everywhere brought a song, student passersby disappearing, replaced with synesthesia in shades of warmth, nostalgia and a forest in winter.

God, it was beautiful. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she couldn't make them stop, the fog only breaking long enough for her to see strong, slender fingers gliding over an old piano, the notes filling up her soul before she could see her bare legs in a tub, covered in suds, a melodic voice reading her fairytales.

Then everything was slashed in red. Garish gashes of black blood, the notes cut short, a scream tearing through her so forcefully she thought it must be real—now. Everything trembled, the world shaking, crumbling. It all went black and gasped, opening her eyes to see students on the green staring at her.

Tears streaming down her face, she ran for Briseis House, ripping off her clothes as soon as she hit the door to the suite. She needed away from the scent of that man.

Showered and changed, realised she had to go back. Every iota of her coursework was in that office.

Tomorrow. She’d go back for it tomorrow. When Murdoch was in session.