Hey, Mister Marshall (St. Mary's Rebels 4)

Needless to say, I’m not the only one disappointed. His legions of fans are too.

But I’m the only one who’s angry.

Angry enough to do this: break into his cottage in the middle of the night.

Because I’m done with this shit.

I’m done with him jerking me around. I thought we could be mature about this but apparently not.

So here I am, walking through the row of cottages.

Not going to lie, I’m not thrilled about making this excursion in the middle of the night. Mostly because these cottages have been abandoned for decades and it shows. Once upon a time they used to be housing for teachers, but now they are scary looking and shabby and are creepily adorned by overgrown ivy.

I hate that I have to enter one when I’d rather stay away from this whole gothic vibe-y area. The only consolation is that he isn’t home. Because when I was hanging around the office, hoping to run into him, Janet told me that I was wasting my time. He was back in Middlemarch for a city council meeting and then he was running back to New York for a lecture and he’d be gone for the rest of the evening and well into the night.

Which means that whenever he does return, I’m going to be waiting for him in his stupid cottage.

And this time, he’s going to listen to me.

I know I’m breaking a million rules doing this. If a little nail polish sets him off, I’m pretty sure this might blow his head right off. But I don’t care anymore.

When I reach his door, I get out a hairpin from my skirt pocket with firm, determined movements. I pick the lock expertly and then I’m inside his silent and dark cottage.

And I immediately know that I’m in the right place. I already knew that, but still.

It’s the air, see.

It’s hot. And it smells like him.

Leather and cigars.

The scent I once lived with for a year.

And I remembered it exactly right.

Only it’s more potent now.

Thicker and real.

Just like this heat.

It makes my fingers tremble as I fish a tiny flashlight from my skirt pocket. And my trembling fingers are joined by my heart that trembles also, when I switch it on.

Because it’s as if I’m back in his study.

Wall to wall bookshelves filled with thick leather-bound books. Leather couches and chair. A coffee table covered with loose papers and documents and notebooks. A long table by the wall carrying his favorite things: scotch and a box full of cigars.

And further up, there’s the reason for his broken nose.

Or at least I like to imagine that it is.

Because it’s a heavy punching bag.

Hanging down from the ceiling, just behind the leather couch. It’s brown and weathered, well used.

Just like that bump on his nose on his otherwise perfect face, this heavy bag is a contradiction too. A great contradiction to his scholar-with-two-PhDs persona.

I personally never would have guessed that he likes to punch things.

And the fact that he does, that he actually has a dedicated room at the mansion for his workouts that includes a heavy bag like the one hanging here, gives him an edge. Much like the bump on his nose.

I turn my attention to the kitchen adjacent to the living room. To the fridge, specifically.

Because I know what I’ll find in there.

A cherry pie.

Mo must have sent some. She knows how much he loves it, and I’m right.

It’s there. Sitting on the very first shelf.

Like the most perfect thing that I’ve ever seen.

And it sure is, especially as compared to the stupid cafeteria food.

So I don’t hesitate to dig in.

I find a fork and polish off at least one fourth of the pie in like five minutes. I wish I could finish it all by myself so there’s none left for him, but even I can’t eat that much. I debate just throwing it away but I can’t do that to Mo. No matter how much pleasure it might give me to deprive him of his favorite thing.

I do leave my used fork in there though. Just to annoy him.

And then I look for something that I can actually mess up.

I would’ve rearranged some books on his bookshelf but he’s already plenty messy when it comes to his books and notes. So it’s not very useful. I do find a knife sitting on the butcher’s block on the island so I grab that and move on.

Down the very short hallway lies his bedroom and I go inside.

Much like the bedroom in his mansion, this one holds a king-sized bed with a large wooden headboard and a nightstand with a lone lamp. While his room used to be all clean and put together thanks to his staff, here it’s messy. Sheets are wrinkled and unmade. Books and documents adorn the nightstand and the floor as well.