Ethan Brooks sat down beside me in the library on a Tuesday morning with the unceremonious ease of someone who had decided we were already friends and was skipping the procedural part.
"You're in the Victorian literature module," he said. Not a question.
"Yes," I said.
"Me too. I sit in the back." He put his bag on the table. "I'm Ethan. I've been meaning to introduce myself for three weeks, and I kept missing the window."
I looked at him. He had the particular quality of someone who was intelligent and knew it, but had not made this into a personality, which was rarer than it should have been. Open-faced, easy manner, the kind of person whose company created a comfortable atmosphere without requiring significant effort from anyone involved.
"Aurora," I said.
"I know," he said. "You
