Looking back, my biggest mistake–if mistake it could be called–had been taking the veil with me. Had I not brought along that scrap of fabric, I would have had nothing to link me to the scandalous affair at Rosewood Hall.
Other than my own regrets, of course.
It was the last week of spring classes and Xander would have sworn he was too tired to keep his eyes open, much less stare at the stranger across the way from him in the subway car. At first, he told himself it was just the man’s hair that had caught his attention—it was the kind of bright, fiery auburn that looked fake everywhere outside of Scotland, except that the color was too nuanced for it to be from anything as simple as a bottle. Then the man noticed he was being stared at and Xander looked up and away, pretending he was concentrating on the advertisement for Dr. Zizmor’s dermatological miracles. He read the sign mindlessly, too busy pondering the emerald green of the man’s eyes to bother paying any more attention to the words than was necessary to find the obligatory grammatical mistake in the signage.
