St Albans University, West Wing, 2:38 p.m.

You sit on the parapet, studying the plans for a new recording studio—your course project. The wind rustles the sheets of paper, trying to lift them and carry them away to the bronze statue of the university's founder, whose finger is forever pointing at a clock with lagging hands.

He appears, as always, suddenly.

Vexatio wears a double-breasted wool coat in dark brown, a silk-lined waistcoat beneath it, and perfectly ironed black trousers. His hair is black and too curly, yet polished, falling over his forehead—though not enough to hide the scar running down to his left cheek.

Some say it was an attack in the middle of the night, but you know the truth: he fell from a horse when he was six.

"Hello, darling," he says. In his hands is a battered leather satchel with a gold lock. "If the dean of your faculty asks me one more time why you are skipping class, I swear I'll finish you off."

You do not look up, continuing to shade the columns with a pencil, but you grin insolently. Your arms are encased in metal-studded wristbands, and your jeans are stained with paint from the dorm wall you decorated last week. He sighs heavily at your silence but plops down next to you, pulling a silver cigarette case from his pocket. A Camel is his only concession to modernity. The man lights a cig with your lighter, the one with Burn It All scrawled on it, and blows smoke into the sky.

"Lady Morrigan is seeking to meet you."

Lady Morrigan is a woman in her mid-forties, a friend of your mother's who adores Vexatio far too much—eager to get him into her bed by any means necessary. And this, despite the fact that he is twenty-one years younger than she is.

"Let her ask for a date with that idiot who offered her a place in the cemetery for the future," he snorts, clearly unimpressed, turning his grey eyes towards the fountain with its peeling nymphs.

Then he slides closer, resting his head on your shoulder. "Want to hang out at mine today? I want to read you Dante. In Latin."