#not-jenna

(The cafe is not quite in the library- it shares a roof, certainly, but it is completely walled off, and you must leave the library to enter it. You were only a little surprised to find that the librarians’ protection did not extend to the cafe.)

(The cafe is sacred. Coffee and cream and other sweets, energy and nourishment, a meeting place, a place to rest, the traditional realm of story-tellers everywhere and when. It would take much more than what's going on now to violate the sanctity of the cafe. On this one thing, human and fae alike are in a singularly bloodthirsty agreement. The only other place on campus that is so incredibly off limits to the vagaries of fate and the profanities of people and fae alike is the bakery, for very similar reasons.)

(No, really- one time a window in the bakery was broken by a foul ball. Baseball no longer exists within the bounds of Elsewhere U.)

You all order drinks, give the barista their payment and try not to look too hard at their eyes or fingers.

The coffee is delicious.

You settle down at one of the tables in the back, out of range of the afternoon sun; spread out a few books and notebooks to distract from the thing you're actually here for.

‘So.’ Thirteen starts. ‘We have a book.’

Cat-Eyes hums, but looks to you. Not-Jenna is very specifically not looking at you. You think she might not have been supposed to find that book, accident or not.

The book is in the center of the table, and it looks old. Old enough that you are quite sure that if you could convince one of the science majors to do some testing, they might tell you the book is bound in something awful. Like human skin.

You flip the cover open, and the first few blank pages. You leave it open at the first page that has writing on it, stare a moment, and lean back.

The other lean in.

‘...what the fuck.’ Cat-Eyes opines.

Thirteen is confused, but, well, he falls closer to ‘jock’ than not.

It's Not-Jenna that voices it.

‘That's an author's note... in modern APA format?’

You nod, and point out the affiliation. Elsewhere University, Historical Studies Department. Breaking with format, there's no date anywhere to be found.

On a hunch, you flip back a page. The page that was formerly blank now boasts the title of the book in looping, fanciful script that isn't actually English but which you can all read nonetheless.

A treatise on the unique traditions and superstitions of the populations of Elsewhere University- the Underhill, the Overhill, and those in between. Volume 9- on theft, Theft, the differences therein, and the consequences for such Crimes.

By Robert Dove Scyt.

You all take a moment to digest that.

Thirteen speaks up.

‘Robert Dove Scyt? What a name, jeez. ...Oh. Oh, jeez, guys, Rob Dove Scyt. Robbed of sight.’

Oh. Oh my, you think. That is. That is quite a name indeed.

Quietly, Cat-Eyes asks, ‘Think he lived very long after getting that published?’

‘I think he lived for a very, very long time.’  Not-Jenna says, and there is nothing in her voice that speaks of happy endings. She doesn't look up from her coffee.

‘Maybe..’ Thirteen starts, and then trails off. You quite agree.

‘Well,’ you say, only ever so slightly louder than is perhaps necessary, gathering up poor, hopefully-dead-by-now-Robert’s book along with the few others you had out for camouflage into your book bag, ‘that's enough studying for now. We need to go put out out fresh milk. For the cat. Remember?’

The sun, at least, is high in the sky, and the others quickly make noises of agreement and follow you out. You lead your group straight back to Dorm 5, leaving offerings on every park bench, beneath every oak tree you pass, throwing a handful of nuts to the crows, leaving creamers on the picnic table no one ever sits at as you go.

When you get there, you lock the doors and the windows and salt the sills some more and establish your thresholds and light candles even though it's still plenty light out.

Dinner that night is ramen, with wontons from the freezer and soy sauce for dipping, because even Not-Jenna seems to want a little more salt in her blood after reading that. When you sleep, you sleep all curled up together.

---

When you all wake next, you all stay in your pile of blankets and page through the book together, passing it back and forth when the script becomes too much for human eyes.

It doesn't really tell you much more than you already knew- the rules are the rules, and they really haven't changed much at all. Still, it is nice to have a written copy of an account of the Chemistry Majors’ revolt.  It is ..less bloody than you had believed. The price was paid in other ways. The other ways you read about hold ..promise is the wrong word. And yet.

The four of you spend all day like that, passing out mugs of tea to soothe throats and spirits.

As the day winds down- well, as the sun sinks closer to the horizon- you pass out mugs of spirits instead of tea.

Cat-Eyes calls a toast, grim-voiced.

‘To the History Majors,’ she says, and you all raise your mugs to clink against hers.

You drink your drinks, re-pour, drink again.

When you are comfortably floating, fuzzy, you stir, tell the others,

‘I think I have a plan.’

Not-Jenna’s eyes catch on the way you're fiddling with your crow pearls. She doesn't say anything, but she looks sad.

---

The next morning (well, when the sun is back in the sky, anyway. ‘Next’ implies the passage of Tuesday. It's still Tuesday.) you and Not-Jenna set out early, early in the morning with empty bags and backpacks. When you get back, it's nearing on ten, you're both out of breath and grass stained, and your bags are full to bursting.

Cat-Eyes and Thirteen cook breakfast, and then help you and Not-Jenna sort through the food you brought back. You all repack it into a bag, fold a blanket, find an umbrella.

You lead the others to the south quad, where you first started reading and singing to crows, set up your picnic, and wait. None of you eat.

It doesn't take long for someone to approach. You've laid out quite the spread, after all.

The thing that approaches first is pretending to be Professor Grant, from the art department. (You think Professor Grant must have an arrangement, for how frequently she's taken and returned.)

‘Hello, Professor,’ you say, because while this isn't Professor Grant, it does try it's best to teach.

‘Quite a spread you've got,’ it says, and it eyes the smoked meats you have with hunger. You don't bat an eye when its eyes turn to gaping maws in between blinks. Thirteen shudders beside you, and Cat-Eyes quietly removes her glasses.

‘I try.’ You demur.

It swallows, salivating.

‘Surely,’ it says, ‘you'd invite a dear professor to feast with you?’

‘Alas, this picnic is not just for me. I find myself requiring an audience.’ You smile, apologetic.

Professor Grant’s replacement sighs, mournful, and wanders away.

Several others approach you, and you replay the scene each time. Thirteen has become bored of being bored, Not-Jenna has wondered off and returned three times already, and Cat-Eyes just broke out a portable charger for her phone. You're beginning to wish you had remembered to bring sunblock when someone walks right up, flops down on a spare corner of the blanket, insouciant,  and pops a grape in their mouth.

‘So, Girl who Sings to Crows,’ it says, ‘I hear you and yours are the ones who wanted an audience.’

You don't even get up, just fold yourself low over your crossed legs until your forehead is bare inches from the ground, and are glad of the yoga class you took for the improved flexibility.

Still low, you murmur a question.

‘I am unsure as to how I should address you...?’

Magnanimous, it tells you, ‘I am called the Crow Prince.’

On the blanket behind you, Cat-Eyes inhales sharply. You sit up, and yes- hair like the sound of feathers, empty eyes, nails dark and a touch too long. You rather thought so.

Thirteen, who between bouts of boredom has been making good use of google, breathes ‘Royalty?’ To a very still Not-Jenna.

The Crow Prince laughs.

‘Not in the way you mean, morsel. I am no great Name of the Seelie nor Unseelie Court, and may no such great Name ever darken our fair doorstep here at Elsewhere!’ He crows, and Not-Jenna mutters a fervent Here, Here.  

He quirks an eyebrow at you meaningfully, nodding to Not-Jenna, and you pour him a red solo cup full of orange juice.

‘Here, here, indeed.’ He says, raises the cup and takes a draft. ‘No, I am of the Autumn Court, and long may we reign here at Elsewhere!’

Not the Winter or Summer Court? you wonder, but oh, of course: Elsewhere turns on the passing of semesters, not seasons. This is probably one of the only places the Autumn and Spring Courts aren't subordinate to their more well-known counterparts.

‘Though it is good for you that you have come to me now. If it were fall I would not have time for you.’ He pops a cube of cheese in his mouth, then spears a bit of salami on a talon and bites into that as well.

Then he looks-really looks- at the rest of your spread.

‘Where did you get all this?’ He asks, and you have to smile. You and Not-Jenna really outdid yourselves this morning.

‘It's Tuesday.’ You tell him, and he smiles back.

This is the most dangerous thing you've ever spoken to.

After that, he just wants to eat for a while, and you let him. He’ll talk when he wants to, and the longer it takes the less worried you are that Thirteen is going to say something stupid and offensive- he'll get bored of being terrified soon enough, and therefore less likely to blurt out something without thinking about what he's saying first.

He makes idle conversation as the five of you lounge on the grass: what is small talk to one such as him is nonsense to you. He speaks of stardust harvests and celestial poachers and music made to taste like strawberries, and you all answer as best you can.

The Crow Prince is gracious company. He invites you all to eat with him, and you do. You make sure to nudge all the best bits towards him before you help yourself, though, and you can tell by his easy smile and the warmth of the pearls around your wrist he appreciates it.

(Something in you preens at his attention. It's the same part of you that delights at the glint of sunlight on your feathers in your hair, at the way other Involved students look at your pearls, at the way people know who you are. It's the same thing that sat up and crowed when Thirteen called you the Crow Girl.) (the Crow Prince has claim on you, and for more reasons than what hang about your wrist)

(You make deals, yourself, now. Most people at Elsewhere do- a coffee for help studying, conversation for company, iron jewelry for sea salt- but sometimes, you think you can feel the worth of a thing.) (it scares you, most days. some days it doesn't.) (you are fae-touched, you know. You are more fae-touched each day you spend here.)

(You don't really mind, anymore.)

(that right there is the more frightening prospect by far.)

Almost all the food is gone, and the Crow Prince lays flat on his back, legs crossed so an ankle bobs mid air, a taloned hand twirling lazily in the air as he speaks. The light from the sun has gone amber, and it twists the colors of the trees. You are starting to relax, even let your guard down. This too-pretty thing is of the gentry, of the Court, even, but he is more crow than not. With crows, it is intention, not technicalities, that matter most.

You are starting to believe that this thing will not hurt you. (You are wrong. You know this. You know this. And yet...)

When he is done, he rolls onto his feet, and you hear the rustle of wings as he moves.

He folds himself, looming over you, so he can catch your jaw with his talons to make you look up and up and up and up into empty, empty eyes.

‘The dove book will not help you.’ he says, and you’re confused- the dove book?- before you realize he means the book by Robert Dove Scyt. (fear replaces confusion- what need has the Crow Prince for circumspection?)

‘It was an interesting read?’ you offer, feebly. He snorts, and the humanity of it makes your skin crawl.

‘This will be moreso.’ he says, and he is gone in a rush of cackling laughter and wingbeats, wind tearing at your hair and clothes, knocking over cups and stealing napkins and tugging at the umbrella.

The Crow Prince is gone, and in his place is a book.