I closed the book, placed it on the table. "Do you remember what she said in the park, right before she attempted to fillet you? Something about humans being callous, about a human breaking her heart? Well, let me lay this out for you from a woman's perspective.
You're living in a foreign country with your English cousins because you've been smuggled out of France. You're considered a rare beauty, cousin to a duke, and at the age of nineteen, you nab the first son of a viscount. That's our George. You want him, maybe you love him. You certainly love that you've managed to entice him. But just when you think you've sealed the deal, noble George tells you that he's fallen for the daughter of a London merchant. A merchant, Ethan. Someone Celina would have considered far, far beneath her. You don't bear any particular grudge toward Anne. You may even pity her for being less than what you are." I put my elbows on the table, leaned forward. "But you don't pity George. George, who could have had you, your beauty, your prestige, by his side. He throws you away for London trash." I lowered my voice. "Celina would never let that stand. And what if, conveniently, George has an older cousin, a thirty-year-old cousin, who has an attachment to our dear Anne, who is all of sixteen? You and Edward have a conversation. Mutual goals are discussed. Plans are made, and George's body is found in a London slum."
"Plans are made," Ethan repeated, nodding, "and two members of the Presidium have a murder between them. The Presidium that released Celina, despite what she'd done in Chicago."
I nodded back. "Why bother enthralling Presidium members with your glamour, or relying on your charms, as you put it, when you've got that kind of shared history?
When you share a mutual belief in the disposability of humans?"
Ethan then looked down at the table, seemed to consider what he'd heard. A sigh, then he raised his gaze to mine again. "We could never prove this."
"I know. And I think this information shouldn't leave the House, not until we're more certain of who our friends are. But if we're trying to predict what she might do, where she might go, who her friends are, this is the best way to start. Well," I added, "this is the best way for me to start." I gazed across the table of books, open notebooks, uncapped pens - a treasure trove of information, waiting to be connected. "I know how to search an archive, Ethan. That's one skill I have no doubts about."
"It's unfortunate that your best source loathes you."
That made me smile. "Can you imagine the look on Celina's face if I called and asked her to sit down with me? Told her I wanted to interview her?"
He smirked. "She might appreciate the press." He glanced down at his watch. "And speaking of the press, the Masters should be here with the results of their inquiries within the hour."
It wasn't the best thing I'd heard all day, that I'd have to face down Morgan again, but I understood that it was necessary.
"I'd hoped to keep this contained, but we've clearly reached the point where the other Masters need to be brought on board." He cleared his throat, shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, then lifted ice green eyes to mine. "I won't ask what happened at your parents house with Morgan, but I need you there. Your position aside, you were a witness to the meeting with the Breckenridges, to their accusations."
I nodded. I understood the need. And I gave him points for diplomatically mentioning it.
"I know."
He nodded, then picked up the small book of history again, began flipping through the pages. I guessed he planned to wait in the library until they arrived. I adjusted in my seat, a little uncomfortable at the company, but once he was settled in, and when I was reasonably confident that he intended to read quietly, I turned back to my notes.
Minutes passed, peacefully. Ethan read or strategized or planned or whatever he did on his side of the table, occasionally tapping at a BlackBerry he'd pulled from his pocket, while I continued thumbing through the history books before me, searching for additional information about Celina.
I was beginning a chapter on the Napoleonic Wars when I felt Ethan's gaze. I kept my eyes downcast for a minute, then two, before I gave in and lifted my eyes. His expression was blank.
"What?"
"You're a scholar."
I turned back to my book. "We've talked about this before. A few nights ago, if you'll recall."
"We've talked about your social discomfort, your love of books. Not the fact that you've spent more time with a book in your hand than you have with your Housemates."
Cadogan House was apparently full of spies. Someone was reporting our activities to whoever had threatened Jamie, and someone had apparently been reporting my activities to Ethan.
I shrugged self-consciously. "I enjoy research. And given the ignorance that you've repeatedly pointed out, I need it."
"I don't want to see you hide yourself away in this room."
"I do my job."
Ethan returned his gaze to his book. "I know."
The room was quiet again until he shuffled in his chair, the wood squeaking as he adjusted. "These chairs aren't at all comfortable."
"I didn't come down here for comfort." I looked up, gave him a predatory grin. "You're free to work in your office."
I didn't have that luxury. Yet.
"Yes, we're all agog at your studiousness."
I rolled my eyes, pricked by the accumulation of subtle insults. "I get that you have no confidence in my work ethic, Ethan, but if you're going to think up insults, could you do it somewhere else?"
His voice was flat, calm. "I have no doubts about your work ethic, Sentinel."
I pushed back my chair, then walked around the table to the pile of books at one end. I shuffled through the stack until I found the text I needed. "Could have fooled me," I muttered, flipping through to the index and tracing the alphabetical entries with a fingertip.
"I don't," he said lightly. "But you're so - what did you tell me once?" He glanced up, looked absently at the ceiling. "Ah, that I was easy to prick? Well, Sentinel, you and I have that in common."
I arched a brow. "So in the middle of a crisis, because you're angry at Celina and the Breckenridges, you've come down here to get a rise out of me? That's mature."
"You've missed my point completely."
"I didn't realize you had one," I muttered.
"I find it unfortunate," Ethan said, "that this is what your life would have been."
We avoided, usually, the issue of my dissertation. Of my looming doctorate. Of the fact that he'd had me pulled from the University of Chicago after he made me a vampire. It helped me, and therefore him vicariously, not to dwell on it. But for him to insult it, to insult what I'd done, managed a new level of pretension.