“Yes,” Alex said. “California.” She shrugged.
“Mmm,” he said with a nod, and Alex suspected that he’d long since written off the whole state, possibly the entire West Coast. “You’re an artist?”
“A painter.” Though she’d barely touched a brush or even a piece of charcoal since last semester.
“And how are you finding the start of the school year?”
Exhausting? Terrifying? Way too full of dead bodies? But people were only really talking about one subject on campus.
“This thing about Dean Beekman is pretty terrible,” she said.
“A tremendous loss.”
“Did you know him?”
“He was not a man who could stand to remain unknown. But I do feel deeply for his family.” He steepled his fingers. “I’ll be blunt, Miss Stern. I am what is fondly called a dinosaur and less fondly described as a reactionary. Yale was once dedicated to the life of the mind, and while there were diversions and distractions, nothing could be as diverting or distracting as the presence of the fairer sex.”
It took Alex a long moment to process what Walsh-Whiteley was saying.
“You don’t think women should have been admitted to Yale?”
“No, I do not. By all means, let there be higher education for women, but blending the sexes does neither any good. Similarly, Lethe is no place for women, at least not in the role of Virgil or Dante.”
“And Oculus?”
“Again, best not to create an atmosphere of temptation, but as the office is solely dedicated to research and caretaking, I can make an exception.”
“A kind of exalted nanny.”
“Precisely.”
Now Alex knew why Dawes had sounded so grumpy.
Walsh-Whiteley plucked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “I have lived long enough to see the supposedly harmless bleating of the counterculture
become the culture, to see venerable academic departments overtaken by prattling fools who would uproot hundreds of years of great literature and art for the appeasement of little minds.”
Alex considered her options. “Couldn’t agree more.”
Walsh-Whiteley blinked. “Beg pardon?”
“We’re watching the death of the Western canon,” she said with what she hoped was the appropriate amount of distress. “Keats, Trollope, Shakespeare, Yeats. Did you know they have a class focusing on the lyrics of popular songs?” She had come around to loving Shakespeare and Yeats. Keats bored her. Trollope delighted her. Apparently he’d invented the postbox. But she doubted Professor Walsh-Whiteley cared much about enjoyment, and she’d also really liked a semester of studying the Velvet Underground and Tupac.
He considered her. “Elliot Sandow was one such prattler. A repellent combination of self-righteous and spineless. I want it understood that I will have no trouble beneath the Lethe roof, no hanky-panky, no nonsense.”
It was hard not to get hung up on a grown man unironically using the term hanky-panky, but Alex simply said, “Yes, sir.”
“You have been without a Virgil or any kind of real leadership for too long. I don’t know what bad habits you’ve accrued in that time, but there will be no room for them under my watch.”
“I understand.”
He leaned forward. “Do you? During Dean Sandow’s ignominious tenure, a student went missing and is most likely dead. The societies were allowed to descend into a miasma of deprivation and criminal behavior. I wrote numerous complaints to the board, and I am relieved they did not fall on deaf ears.”
She folded her hands in her lap, attempting to look small and vulnerable.
“All I can say is that I’m grateful we’ll have a … uh … firm hand on the tiller.” Whatever the hell that meant. “Losing my Virgil was frightening.
Destabilizing.”
Walsh-Whiteley made a low chortling noise. “I can imagine that a woman with your background would feel quite out of place here.”
“Yes,” said Alex. “It’s been a challenge. But didn’t Disraeli say, ‘There is no education like adversity’?” Thank goodness for the wisdom of dining hall tea bags.
“Did he?” said Walsh-Whiteley, and Alex wondered if she’d gone too far.
“I’m no fool, Miss Stern, and I won’t be swayed by glib speech. There is no room in Lethe for glad-handers or charlatans. I will expect prompt reports on the rituals you oversee. I will also be assigning additional reading —” Her distress must have shown because he held up a hand. “I also don’t like to be interrupted. You will comport yourself as a deputy of Lethe at all times.
Should the barest whiff of controversy touch you, I will recommend your immediate expulsion from Lethe and Yale. That Michael Anselm and the board have let you stay on after your shameful performance at Scroll and Key is beyond me. I have let Mr. Anselm know this in no uncertain terms.”
“And?” Alex asked, her anger getting the best of her.
The Praetor sputtered. “And what, Miss Stern?”
“What did Michael Anselm say?”
“I … haven’t been able to get hold of him. We’re both very busy.”
Alex had to tamp down a smile. Anselm wasn’t returning his calls. And Lethe had avoided tapping him for Praetor until all their other options were exhausted. No one wanted to listen to good old Professor Walsh-Whiteley.
