The Ballad of Iced Coffee and Tweed

The Rare Books Archive at Blackwood University was less of a library and more of a cathedral to silence. It smelled of vanilla, oxidizing paper, and the crushed dreams of undergraduates who hadn’t cited their sources correctly. It was a place where dust motes danced in beams of filtered light, terrified to make a sound.

Arthur Penhaligon liked it that way.

Arthur, the interim Dean of History and Head Archivist, was currently inspecting a 17th-century illuminated manuscript. He was wearing a charcoal three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and a silk tie knotted in a perfect Windsor. He held the vellum with the reverence most men saved for their firstborn children.

"Exquisite," he murmured to the empty room. "Truly exquisite."

The heavy oak doors at the top of the stairs burst open.

It wasn't a creak. It was a *bang*.

Arthur didn't flinch, but his eyebrow twitched—a sign of extreme distress.

"Hold the door! Hold the door!" a voice shouted, followed by the clatter of what sounded like a plastic avalanche.

Lily Chen was running. She was late for Professor Halloway’s seminar on *The Kinetic Energy of the Baroque*, and she was currently embodying the kinetic energy part a little too literally. She was carrying a three-foot-tall wire sculpture project, her backpack, and a thirty-two-ounce iced coffee with extra caramel drizzle.

She hit the top step. Her neon green Croc caught the edge of the carpet.

Physics took over.

"Whoa!" Lily yelled.

She went airborne. The sculpture went left. The backpack went right. The iced coffee, defying all laws of aerodynamics, went straight forward.

Arthur looked up just in time to see a brown, sugary projectile hurtling toward the 1642 *Codex*.

He didn't think. He acted.

With the speed of a man protecting the Crown Jewels, Arthur spun around, hunched over the table, and shielded the manuscript with his own body.

*SPLAT.*

The cup exploded against Arthur’s back. Cold brew, milk, and caramel syrup soaked into the fine wool of his jacket. Ice cubes skittered across the polished floor.

Silence returned to the Archives, heavier than before.

Lily lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, tangled in wire. She looked up, horrified.

Arthur slowly straightened. He checked the manuscript. It was dry. Pristine.

He turned around. Liquid sugar dripped from his coattails onto his oxfords. His expression was one of arctic politeness.

"Miss Chen," Arthur said, his British accent clipped and cool. "I believe you have mistaken the Archives for a jungle gym."

Lily scrambled up, adjusting her glasses. "Oh my god. Professor Penhaligon. Mr. Penhaligon. Sir. I am so sorry. I tripped. My Croc... the traction isn't what they promise."

"Your footwear is the least of my concerns," Arthur said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at a spot of caramel on his cuff. "You have just assaulted a three-thousand-dollar suit and nearly destroyed a priceless artifact."

"I can pay for the dry cleaning!" Lily squeaked. "I have... well, I have a meal plan."

Arthur sighed. He looked at the girl. She was a riot of color in his sepia-toned world—yellow sundress, green shoes, pink hair clip. She looked like a highlighter that had exploded. She clearly didn't belong here.

"Money will not suffice," Arthur said. "And the Board of Trustees is reviewing the budget for assistants next week. Until then, I am short-staffed."

He walked over to his desk, leaving a trail of sticky drips.

"Fifty hours," Arthur announced.

"Fifty hours?" Lily gasped.

"Of filing assistance. Under my direct supervision. To work off the damages and to ensure you learn the value of... pacing yourself."

"But I have my thesis!"

"Then I suggest you learn to multitask without throwing beverages," Arthur said. "Report tomorrow at 8:00 AM. And Miss Chen?"

"Yes?"

"Wear quieter shoes."

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