But the air around the central reference desk was thick with a different kind of silence. The tense, electric kind.

You’d seen the listing online last night: a single, archival copy of The Anatomy of Melancholy, 1621 edition, was available for in-library use only. Crucial for the AP English critical analysis essay on Renaissance humours. The one worth thirty percent of the term grade.

You’d timed your free period perfectly. Or so you thought.

Because leaning against the polished oak of the librarian’s desk, one hand resting possessively on the very book’s aged leather cover, was Scaramouche.

Scaramouche followed your gaze and a faint, unamused smirk touched his lips.