Chapter Text
Being late is no way to make a good impression on one’s first day at arguably the most prestigious collegiate research university in the world, Áine chides herself as she races across the neatly clipped lawn of Bobellon Quadrangle, ignoring the please keep off the grass sign.
After sleeping through her alarm and missing her bus, she managed, at least, to make up some time by catching another that arrived almost immediately after. But, she had forgotten to take her morning medication and needed, as a matter of some urgency, a doubleshot coffee to stem the headache pulsing at her temples.
She lowers her gaze momentarily to take a sip from the lid of the takeaway cardboard cup in her hand, and finds herself in a forceful head-on collision with someone.
She hisses, cursing under her breath in Greek as she bounces off a wide, firm surface. The lid comes off her coffee cup, which gets shoved against her chest, and her open satchel bag falls from her shoulder, spilling its contents across the lawn.
‘Not supposed to walk on the grass,’ a deep voice rumbles, but Áine is too preoccupied with assessing the damage done to her outfit to pay attention.
Only a minute ago, she had been disappointment by the inadequate temperature of the coffee, but is now relieved that the beverage is only tepid, as it has soaked all the way through her rayon crepe blouse to her skin.
‘Sorry, I–’ she begins, looking away from the brown liquid staining her cream top and up into the very blue eyes of the minotaur towering over her.
His gaze is intense and unwavering. She crouches, craning her neck, finding herself unable to look away from his limpid, wintery-blue eyes as she scoops up her books and papers.
She has never seen a minotaur before, at least not in real life. Her small hometown had been populated primarily by human inhabitants, as well as a few families of nymphs and elves, some orcs, and one borough favoured by werewolves. But she has been living in Willow Vale for a fortnight now, and it has been quite an enlightening experience. The town boasts the biggest multispecies population in the West Midlands, and, for the first time in her life, she has met centaurs, nāgas, goblins, satyrs, trolls, gnolls, vampires, shadow creatures, and gargoyles, all within days of moving into her new flat.
This, however, is the first minotaur she has encountered. He seems to be a perfect specimen of bullish masculinity. He is massive; more than seven feet tall, with impossibly broad shoulders and sleek, sinuous, ivory-coloured horns that taper to dangerous points. She can tell that his arms and torso are well-muscled, even beneath the buttoned up navy cable-knit cardigan he wears. His bovine face, softened by his Homo sapien genes, has a shorter muzzle and his eyes are set closer to the centre of his face like a human’s. His wide, flat nose is grey, and he wears round-framed black acetate spectacles. From what Áine can see of his hide, it is smooth, short, and slate-coloured, shot through with flecks of black and white. His silky mane is dark and full and has been neatly combed back to keep it out of his eyes.
He is very smartly dressed; wearing a crisp-collared white shirt beneath his cardigan, and his charcoal grey slacks look to be made of fine gabardine – Italian, Áine guesses. She covets quality fabrics but can rarely afford to purchase garments made from them herself. The pants have been expertly tailored to accommodate his hocks and tail. His sable hooves are polished to a shine, and, as she had opportunity to discover when her face was buried in his wool-covered chest, his cologne is deliciously rich and woody.
Next to this elegantly attired bullman, Áine feels rather shabby in her polyester high-waisted pants and soiled blouse, with her long, unruly hair blowing in her face. Having had no time to brush out her wet set as she normally would, it’s more of a mess of Shirley Temple curls than the glossy, waved Veronica Lake look she sometimes manages to pull off with the right products and styling. She tucks a lock of it behind her ear self-consciously as she absently shoves her belongings back into her satchel.
The minotaur stoops to help her collect her things. Picking up the reusable diary her mother had gifted her as a graduation present, he holds it in his huge hand, studying it. Áine feels her cheeks heat, blushing as she watches him. She has complex, mixed feelings towards this particular personal item. Equally, she is sentimentally attached to it, and experiences frequent, strong stings of embarrassment about it.
This is because, instead of simply having the agenda monogrammed with her initials, her mother had had her whole name embossed on the front in gold so that anyone who caught a glimpse of it would know exactly who it belonged to, and, if they happened to look inside, could pore over its contents, scrutinising and judging. In this way, it reminds her of the badge she had to wear for her first job at the juice bar in the local shopping centre back home. She had been instructed by her lecherous boss to pin it on her shirt above her breasts, and male customers had always used it as an excuse to leer at her while pretending they were reading her name, which they invariably pronounced incorrectly.
‘Áine Rohan,’ says the bullman, reading the front of the diary before handing it back to her, and she blinks at him, utterly astonished that he manages to say her name correctly - Awn-yuh - rather than pronouncing it phonetically or calling her some variation of the name Anne, like most people did.
‘Er-’ she stutters, ‘yeah…’
‘So you’re the new Post-doctoral Research Fellow and Departmental Lecturer in Classics?’ he says, straightening up to loom over her once more.
‘Yes,’ she says, hefting the strap of her satchel over her shoulder and standing.
He utters one syllable in reply, intelligent blue eyes still studying her keenly. ‘Huh.’
Áine frowns, perplexed. What on earth does that mean?
Then, examining him more closely in return, she feels a frisson of recognition upon further inspecting his features. ‘You look familiar,’ she says. ‘I think I know you from somewhere…’
Their collision has left a smear of her trademark red lipstick on his cardigan. He is slowly swiping his big, blunt fingers over it, as if attempting to banish the stain while she squints up at the canopy of the giant redwood tree above them, trying to recall how she knows him. And, just as he turns on his hooves, ready to walk away, she remembers.
‘I think I watched your talk for the Classical Association Annual Conference in Brentworth through video link. Are you Professor Leo Abernethy?’
He turns back to face her. ‘Yes,’ he says, a trifle tersely. He speaks with a faint but recognizable Scottish lilt.
‘Oh my goddess,’ she says, the words spilling out of her mouth in a jumble, ‘I just finished reading your seminal paper on Demagogues and Popular Culture in Ancient Greece. That was really very good. I mean really. It’s by far the best account of the emergence of democratic popular leadership in ancient Greece that I have ever, ever read–’ she stops short when she finally catches herself gibbering.
The professor is staring down at her, remaining ominously silent, expression unreadable, thick arms folded tightly over his big chest.
You’re rambling, again, Áine, she hears the voice of her mother admonishing her in her head.
Professor Abernethy unfolds his arms, shoves the cuff of his shirtsleeve up, and glances at his large, gold-faced wristwatch.
‘I’m late,’ he says plainly, then turns and sets off at a fast pace across the path dividing the courtyard.
‘So am I,’ she mumbles uselessly, watching him stride away, attributing the lump in her throat and the wild thudding of her heart to her anxiety, but deeply suspecting some other underlying cause.