The Ravens (The Ravens #1) - Kass Morgan Page 0,50
a worn copy of Love in the Time of Cholera festooned with colored Post-its. “Is that for class?”
“For fun,” Mason said, slightly sheepishly.
“So you’re as much of a nerd as I am.”
“Oh, I’m a much bigger nerd, trust me. Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.” He extended his hand to help her up, but Vivi hesitated. She wanted to go with him, but she wasn’t sure how Scarlett would feel about Vivi spending one-on-one time with her boyfriend.
“Sorry,” Mason said as he let his arm fall awkwardly to his side. “I realize you’re perfectly capable of standing up by yourself. My mother’s etiquette lessons were a little outdated.”
“No, it’s fine,” Vivi said as she scrambled quickly to her feet. “I was just thinking about my schedule, but I have time. What did you want to show me?”
His expression brightened. Vivi wasn’t sure she’d ever met someone whose emotions showed so clearly on his face. “It’s right over here. You’ll see in a second.”
Mason led her across the quad and down the tree-lined path to Westerly’s most famous library, the Hewitt, which, according to the guide on the tour Vivi had taken during orientation, housed the school’s collection of rare artifacts.
“Are we allowed inside?” Vivi asked. “My tour guide said that it was only for grad students and visiting scholars.”
“The archives require special permission, but the museum is free and open to the public.”
“There’s a museum on campus?”
“Tsk-tsk.” Mason shook his head. “Either you had a delinquent tour guide or you weren’t paying attention. I’m not sure which of those scenarios breaks my heart more.”
As they climbed the white marble stairs toward the columned façade, Vivi surveyed Mason with a smile. “If your heart breaks that easily, life is going to be hard for you.”
He placed his hand on his chest. “You have no idea, Ms. Devereaux.”
“How do you know my last name?”
“You nearly assassinated me your first day on campus. I told you, I need to keep tabs on you for public-safety reasons.”
Vivi raised an eyebrow. At least, she hoped that was what she was doing. It wasn’t a gesture she was particularly adept at, and there was a good chance she’d merely contorted her features strangely. He opened the door for her, and although Vivi was sure he did this for every woman, the courtly gesture still sent a tingle through her chest.
“The archives are that way,” Mason said, pointing at a set of wooden double doors. Next to it was an ornate desk occupied by an imperious-looking woman with gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses. “That’s where they store most of the collection. There’s only room to display about ten percent of it in the museum, which is right over here.” He approached the desk and smiled. “How are you, Miss Irma? Do you need to see our IDs?”
“It’s fine, Mason,” the woman said, her stern expression softening. “Go on in.”
He led Vivi into a long, narrow room lined with display cases. “What kind of museum is this, exactly?” Vivi asked as her eyes traveled from a bejeweled tortoiseshell to an antique tobacco pipe to what appeared to be a musical instrument made from an elephant tusk.
“I think its official name is the Hewitt Collection of Oddities and Curiosities, but basically, it’s just a hodgepodge of strange and valuable stuff people have donated over the years.”
Vivi took a few steps toward a diorama of taxidermied mice dressed up for a tea party. “I can’t believe anyone would want to part with this.”
“There’s some good stuff in here, trust me. Come on—I’ll show you my favorite piece.” He led her quickly down the center aisle to a case in the back corner where a small, green clothbound book rested on a red cushion.
Vivi leaned in and squinted, trying to decipher the gold-leaf type on the front cover. “It’s a collection of Emily Dickinson poems.”
Mason nodded. “This was found in the pocket of a soldier who died in France a few weeks before the end of World War One.”
“That’s so sad,” she said softly, feeling an ache in her chest for the boy who’d never made it home. “Why’s it your favorite?”
“I love that he brought a book of poetry into battle with him. After all the death and destruction he must’ve witnessed, he was still able to find beauty and meaning in language. I think that’s pretty inspiring.” From the wistful look in his eyes, it was clear he meant it.