All of them. Of course. She tried not to look too pained at the prospect. She did crack the barest hint of a smile at his... well, it might have been a joke. "I said it should be been forty-two," she informed him, in what was also supposed to be a joke but probably didn't come across like one. "But I'm just an intern, so no one listened."
Her smile faltered when she realized he didn't even have a library card yet. "Well, you'll need a form of ID... like a driver's license, or anything with your picture and name on it, really. And something with your address, which can just be your license if the address is current. If you're going to be opening a faculty account, which I assume you are, I'll need your university ID card as well." Two things most people tended to carry on them, fortunately.
"Once I start gathering these," she informed him, picking up the list. "I'll be scarce for a bit, so if you need anything else, please, tell me now."
Evan waved her off. "I'll get along fine on my own, no need to worry," he reassured her. "I have work to do here," he added, gesturing to the books scattered on the floor and on his nearby table. As Bree walked off, Evan got to work. First he gathered all the semi-useful books from around him on the floor, stacking this lot on the table in order of the author's first name, before turning to his satchel. He rummaged around in it, putting bits of branches and piles of petals in precise points around the table.
Coriander, of course, for concealed merit, and witch hazel to strengthen the illusion, he mused. A bit of olive oil to stick the charm on, and for clarity. As he thought, he acted, pulling out a fluffy green leaf and dripping liquids from two small bottles onto it. He brushed the leaf across an old gift card he'd found long ago that usually served as his campus ID. Soon it was covered in oil, and he set the leaf aside and wiped the card off with a hanky.
Staring back at him was a faculty ID, proclaiming him to be "Evan Jackson, Humanities Department." Humming a bit, he buffed the card a little more, making sure no traces of oil remained.
A tidy job, if he did say so himself.
He packed his ingredients away and started flipping through the book about essential oils. If he was lucky, he could use those as a traveling kit instead of carrying around yard clippings like the world's stupidest drug dealer.
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If he could get along so fine on his own, why did he need her to run around the entire goddamn library for him? Hmph. Be incompetent or condescending: pick one. It took Bree the better part of an hour to get all the damn books together. She had to wheel one of those goddamn ladders around with her, because while she was perfectly capable of clambering up the sides of shelves without damaging them, that sort of behavior was frowned upon. Why did she wear skirts again? She was always paranoid someone would come up underneath her. Right. Professional attire, or whatever. There was a wider range of outfits she could get away with if she wore skirts and dresses instead of trousers. Really, though, if she was going to be dressing like this, she should invest more in leggings and less in garter belts, no matter how much cheaper stockings were.
She thumbed through the books idly as she gathered. What would be more interesting, if this was a pen name, or if it was one extremely old person? The information was so esoteric and ranged that she suspected pen name, but honestly? She knew weirder people now--well, one weirder person. It was possible that it was one person.
Also, the information seemed crammed into these books. And didn't look like utter garbage, from what little she knew of witchcraft. ...What? She was cursed, obviously she'd done research. She didn't have a magical bone in her body, though, save perhaps for the extra vertebrae magic had caused.
She hummed to herself, tapping thoughtfully on an illustration of a dissected crow. And he was a professor? She would definitely be taking note of his name and field... and address... Just as a precaution, of course. One had to avoid trouble, after all.
Finally, she had all the books stacked at the front desk. How in god's name was he even going to carry fifty-ish books out of here by himself? She was going to need to get him a box or something... She fetched that; she could stack them into it as she scanned. Lord. He'd better have all his shit on him, after all this. She was not going to spend the rest of her day reshelving because this dumbass forgot his ID. Unless exactly that happened, because it was well and truly out of her hands.
She found him still on the floor, still surrounded by books. Barefoot. Had he been barefoot the entire fucking time? She didn't make a habit of looking at--wait, no, there were his shoes. She wasn't even going to bother. She wasn't paid enough to ask some weird professor slash witch slash idiot to put his goddamn shoes back on and act like a civilized person.
"The books are ready for you at the front desk," she said instead. "Whenever you're finished. I left a note on them for my employees, so take your time." Please. Take so much time.
"Oh!" Evan exclaimed with a smile. "If you have Mr. Radaghast's books ready, I believe I have everything else I need. These books here--" he indicated the stacks around him on the floor. It was most of the ones she had gathered for him, as well as many he'd gotten for himself while she was off hunting. He'd flipped through them, noted any changes in meanings or symbolisms in his grimoire, and stacked them in order of newest to oldest. "--these ones I don't need any more."He waved towards his table, where his satchel waited alongside a stack of six tomes--the original Radaghast book that had sent her on her trek, the book on essential oils, one of the flower dictionaries Miss Bridget had brought, and three she hadn't, which covered the latest in fringe science health, copper jewelry making, and one with a half-naked man in a kilt holding a drawn bow.
That one was entitled The Highlander Werewolf and his Mate.
"The books on the table are the ones I'll be taking with me. Six here, and--how many up at the front?" It didn't really matter. He was sure it would be fine.
So much for being here all day. Well, perhaps he'd underestimated how good she was at her job. If he'd perused around the library by himself, it would have taken him all day, and he wouldn't have found half as much of use, she was certain. She was in her major for a reason. Of course, this just meant that she had to deal with him, and his aftermath. She picked up the books, glancing over them... and then over at him as she held the romance novel, one eyebrow rising in a perfect arch. She said nothing, though, and simply put it on top of the others in her arms.
"There are twenty-three up front. I've already brought a box to the desk, if you can't fit them all in your--" She wasn't supposed to call things men carried 'purses.' "Bag." She'd return the rest after he left. Now that she knew she'd have to deal with cleaning up his mess, he sort of just wanted to send him packing. "If you're ready, then, I can get your library card set up, Mr...?"
Twenty-three? Well that wouldn't do. "On second thought, I won't check this one out after all," he said, scooping his romance novel off the top. He put it on top of one of the "rejected" book stacks and hitched the whole mess up. Somehow, in so doing, the book slid from the stack into his satchel without a sound. "That should bring the total to twenty-eight, yes? Let's keep to lots of seven for consistency," he added.
"I didn't realize I'd forgotten to introduce myself. It's Jackson, Miss Bridget." He talked as he strolled to the circulation desk, casually stepping behind the counter to put down his rejected books. "Let's see, the in-house stack is... here." He put them down and looked at his librarian expectantly. "What now?"
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Jackson. What a very boring name. There had to be a dozen Professor Jacksons on campus. Hopefully his first name could narrow things down some. She carried his books to her desk as he carried his--a rather large stack, but one that he didn't seem to be having any trouble managing. She wouldn't thank him, but it would save her a few trips, at least. His thing with sevens had sort of gone from cute, to quirky, to just sort of weird. Maybe he was OCD, or something similar? Or superstitious, but she tried to give weird people a bit of a benefit of the doubt. She didn't want to give him any, but it was an instinct; she had idiosyncrasies of her own, after all.
Of course, he'd gone on the wrong side of the desk to set them down, and didn't appear to be moving. She bit back irritation.
"Now, Mr. Jackson, if you'll come to this side of the desk and hand me your IDs, I can get you set up with a library card, checked out, and on your way." She sounded perhaps a bit too enthusiastic about the "on your way" part. She stepped by him to get behind her own damn desk, unable to keep the irritation from her face, albeit briefly. She didn't appreciate being this close to people; she pointed to the other side of the desk firmly, then pulled out a blank library card and scanned it to begin the process. Hopefully she could get him out of here with little difficulty, although he seemed intent on making it as difficult as possible for her.
Even looked around as if surprised. "Oh, I am on your side of the counter, aren't I." He nimbly hopped over the counter and stood to attention on the "customer" side. It was just so easy to irritate her; she was so dreadfully earnest. Evan behaved himself all throughout the process of getting a card. He answered her questions politely, he smiled for his picture, and he didn't even jinx the computer when his picture turned out terribly. It was so easy to jinx something so complex--only one little thing had to go wrong. But no. He liked his new librarian, and he would try to stay on just this side of her good graces.
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Bree peered at his driver's license and faculty ID curiously. Evan. Evan Jackson. In the humanities? "If you don't mind me asking, Mr. Jackson," she said conversationally--or what she hoped was conversationally--as she entered his information. "What sorts of things do you teach? I'm in the English and Library Science graduate programs at that university." It was possible he was an English professor that she'd simply never run across, but it seemed... unlikely. Maybe history? She'd taken a lot of history classes--they made up essentially all of her electives--but not as many as she'd like, and it was a wide and esoteric field.
His information all went through with no issue. Everything worked perfectly, to her infinite relief. The only weird thing was that his ID smelled fucking bizarre, but she had a sensitive nose and he was weird. He'd probably spilled some stupid herbal concoction on it at some point. Or dropped it in a damn frying pan, from the smell. Whatever, though; not her problem, and it wasn't gross to the touch or anything.
"Alright, let's just scan these... would you like me to stack these into this box, or your bag for you, Mr. Jackson?"
"Oh, you're a graduate student? I don't teach graduate classes," Evan responded easily. "The Library Science program is tough--I've helped quite a few people out with their collection development projects. Of course, I doubt you need my help," he added. "You're clearly very talented, and getting good experience here in the field too! Tell me, what do you plan to specialize in? Academic libraries? Public? Archival works?""In the box is fine, please. I wouldn't want to disturb the contents of my bag." Well that sounded creepy. He reached in and pulled out the posy he'd made her earlier with a flourish. "I'm a gardener, you see, and I picked up some cuttings this morning. Here, these are for you."
He offered the little twist of flowers expectantly, as if there was no chance she wouldn't take them. A dogwood flower, pale pink and just at its full bloom, for durability for the rest of the day, and a Rosa Assisiensis in a slightly darker pink, for balance between pain and pleasure. He'd caused plenty of pain, so it should make the rest of her day pleasurable. A sprig of aconite, for misanthropy, and because the tall purple shoot set off the other two blooms nicely. All three flowers were tied together with a bit of white thread for clarity.
If Miss Bridget accepted the flowers, she'd find that people would avoid her for the rest of her shift, and a bit more energy to focus on her other tasks, as payment for the difficulties he'd put her through.
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She nodded along. That made sense, she'd probably missed him when she'd... Hm, he hadn't actually said what it was he taught, had he? She clicked her tongue against her teeth thoughtfully, but didn't press anymore on the issue. She was too busy being complimented, which was a rare enough sensation that it caught her off guard every time. She flushed slightly with the praise, and even smiled a bit as she answered. "Archival works, hopefully. I'm working on my English thesis right now so I haven't had too much time to start thinking about it..." Technically speaking, she'd started her Library Science degree this semester, but it was a summer semester and those were always a bit loose. "Although I'm hoping I can do something with the library's restoration program." She didn't mention she'd been the one to kick it off the ground with $5000 of very hard-earned money. He'd see the plaque eventually, if he kept lurking around this library, and it felt too much like bragging to call it 'hers,' even though it was certainly her passion project.
She blinked in surprise at the little bouquet, taking it automatically without even thinking about it. In Valesport, one really shouldn't accept things from strangers, but no one had ever given her flowers before, even such a... weird little bundle. They were pretty. She stared at them in confusion for a moment, turning a bit of a slight pink herself. "Um... Thank you...?" She'd better not get cursed or followed home or something weird. Maybe she should use one of those flower dictionaries herself, after he left, just in case. For now, she set them in her pencil cup, delicately, and began scanning and loading his books into the box. By size, the largest and heaviest on bottom, so that the most delicate could be spared any undue pressure.
"Here you go, Mr. Jackson," she said, her eyes tracing a bit glumly over the mound of books she needed to run through circulation and then reshelf. That'd be the rest of her afternoon, probably. She'd probably have to cut her run short so she could do more work on her paper at home while she still had thumbs. "Good luck with your..." She waved her hand vaguely at the box. "...Research."
"English too? You do have your hands full then," Evan smiled. "Preservation and restoration is very important... Old books, old ideas, old beliefs. It's important to remember to leave room for the new as well, though. Otherwise you'll end up an old codger like me, always trying to catch up."With that, he hefted the box of books, nodded in approval of her packing, and strolled out the door, bag askew, sandals flopping. All he'd left behind was a few flowers and the scent of herbs, but he wasn't worried about the impression he'd made. Instead, Evan was pondering two things; the books in his box, and the librarian who'd packed them.
The books themselves were fascinating--the newest one had been published just a year or so ago. Was it possible this author Radaghast was a true alchemist? A pen name, obviously. He'd have to look into that further. It had been so long since Evan had truly met a peer.
The librarian, now... She was interesting too. Fun to poke at, of course, and even more fun to compliment. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was a young person who wasn't enjoying all life had to offer. Given his druthers, he'd be able to convince her to let her hair down out of that hat of hers and have a good time. Not to mention how competent she was! A valuable research assistant didn't come around every day.
Yes, he might need to make a project out of Miss Bridget.
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Despite how annoying he'd been, Mr. Jackson left Bree with a decent taste in her mouth. The compliments helped, and, if she was capable of admitting it, so did the flowers. People didn't give her flowers. Most people never survived contact with her for long enough to dare try. She ran the little bouquet back and forth between her fingers on and off all day, and before she shelved the last flower dictionary, she checked out of work and sat down to figure out what they were, and if she should be worried. It took her a little while.
Her mood soured steadily as she read.
Dogwood.
Dog's rose.
And wolfsbane.
The bouquet went in the trash, as did her good feelings.
She was furious the rest of the day. She'd been thinking about seeing Jean, so good a mood was she in, but that was out of the question. Instead, she went for a good, long run, and fumed the entire time. He was definitely fucking something, or he never would have been able to tell. That goddamn prick. The next time she saw him, she'd make sure he knew where he could shove his goddamn flowers.
![[Image: c01fa1fa15306da3d6feed2c149a3e2a_fancy-l...70-198.png]](https://img.clipartfest.com/c01fa1fa15306da3d6feed2c149a3e2a_fancy-lines-go-racer-fancy-line-clipart-free-transparent-background_370-198.png)
There was no particular reason for this. Her first class wasn't until 10, and nothing on campus opened until 8 at the absolute earliest, save perhaps the rec center coffee shop, which was useless to her. But she didn't sleep, and Eric had been over the night before, leaving her eager to get the fuck out of her own house. She'd run instead of taking the bus, but still gotten there ludicrously early.
She was taking a breather now, on top of the history building, which was old and cool and fun to climb on. There was a balcony to make things easier, if one was lazy, but the building was still locked, so she'd, of course, just gone up the side. She was perched there, on the tallest part of the building, lounging on her back, staring up at the light blue sky, and listening to old songs on her iPod. Songs her great-grandmother had listened to when Bree was little, mostly, old Irish songs she knew all the words to by heart, and had for decades.
There was no one on campus, and wouldn't be for an hour, so she let herself sing along, first quietly, but as some of her favorite songs came on, louder and more earnestly. It was a fun way to pass the time; she could hardly sing at home. Her mother would have killed her, or one of the neighbors, certainly. And a city full of people had very few quiet spots for such privacy.
((Song Ref [for the -2 ppl reading along at home?]))
Evan strolled across campus in the early-morning dew, whistling a tune from his childhood. The party he'd been attending had broken up an hour or two ago, when it was still dark, but there was no point in sleeping after the rush of the party. Evan had simply drank one of his potions to give him a bit more energy for the next five hours or so and gone from house to house, blessing the window gardens and porch plants.Now that dawn had technically broken, it was time to collect a few dewdrops and other bits and pieces, maybe pick up a latte, and then head over to his office to change before the campus woke up properly. Evan was known for having highly available office hours, after all. It wouldn't do to turn away any hopefuls.
He hummed as he coaxed dewdrops from a shrub near the history building into a small vial. Strange... This morning his little notes seemed to carry further than usual. It was like someone was singing along on the wind.
Someone was singing.
Quite well, actually. He took a few steps back and looked around the quad. There wasn't anyone on the sidewalks, and it certainly wasn't coming from inside a building or car. Finally, he looked up.
There was someone perched on top of the history building, right next to the finial, singing and... dancing?
Delighted, Evan settled in to listen to his impromptu concert. What goes up must come down, and he would be thrilled to make the acquaintance of anyone who could both sing and climb to the top of a four story building before seven am.
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Bree stayed up onto the roof for another half an hour or so, walking back and forth, singing--maybe dancing a little, mostly to just prove she could jump and down on the crest of a roof without falling. She may have done a cartwheel. It was no one's business but her own. She had a tendency to do these sort of things, it was why she enjoyed freerunning as much as she did. But soon, people would be filtering into classes. Professors, at least. She should get down.
Which she did. In the most showy way possible, despite the fact no one was watching. That was kind of her whole thing. She swung down from the little figurehead at the peak of the building. Her feet hit a windowsill, which she then stepped off of, caught with her hands as she fell. Then she swung onto a balcony railing, took a few steps along it and then leapt, catching the top of a lamppost with one hand, then the shaft with the other, then spinning down it like she was in her own private production of singing in the rain. There was a cheeky grin on her face, like there always was in these situations.
She was dressed for class, shorts, a tank top, a baseball cap with her hair shoved back through the ponytail hole towards the top. Though, she still had a lot of time to kill before class--she'd probably spend it in the library, since it would be open in... ugh, 45 minutes. She stretched, yawning a bit--she hadn't slept the night before, because of course she hadn't. But she never napped as a human, that was just a waste.
That was when she realized she wasn't actually alone. There was someone further down, in the quad. She flushed--how had she missed him? How much had he seen? She hurried to turn and walk away, not wanting to deal with anything or anyone.
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