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absurd: surely I should be more concerned for the survival of the me I was now than of what I might have been before? At any rate, I was glad to find my friendship with Mags still intact.
    “I’ve been reading through my research notes,” I said, leaning on the one square inch of her desk that wasn’t elbow-deep in papers—or trolls. “And I keep finding references to Sven’s work. Do you happen to know what angle he was working on? Was it just the werewolf thing, or was there something else?”
    “Me? Oh, no.” She said it as if the very idea was ridiculous. Then her face changed. “I’m sorry—you must be wondering what I’m on about. No, Sven was very, well, possessive about his research. I don’t think anyone knew what he was working on. Apart from you, of course.”
    “Of course?” Was it really self-evident? She hadn’t given me the impression of the sort of relationship where everything was shared.
    “Well, I assumed you did. At least…” She frowned. “Actually, I think that was one of the things you argued about. But I don’t really know ,” she added hastily.
    “We argued?” Was that what she’d meant by not comfortable ,when we’d spoken about my relationship with Sven earlier? “A lot?”
    “It was…” Mags looked around, her gaze falling on the window. “Like the weather. Here, I mean. Often cloudy, but it soon blows over, and the sun comes out.” She pursed her lips, frowned and straightened one of her little trolls. “But you never really told me what you quarrelled about. You’d come in with a face like thunder, and I’d ask what was the matter, and you’d throw up your hands and say Sven , and then you’d smile at me. And then later, sometimes, you’d say something cryptic about your work, and then I’d know it was Egil coming between you again. But by the next day, it’d all be forgotten.”
    Her expression was sunny again, but I had to struggle to match it. It sounded like these academic disagreements had been a regular occurrence.
    Odd, when it was Egil, she’d told me, who’d brought us together in the first place.
     
     
    Alex Winter appeared at my desk midafternoon—time enough to recover from that first, disconcerting meeting.
    Or at least, you’d have thought so.
    “I think I owe you an apology,” he said with a disarming smile. “I guess I came on a little strong this morning. I’m sorry if I freaked you out.”
    I swallowed, my heart racing. “No—I think perhaps I wasn’t quite as ready to come back here as I thought I was.” I tried to match his smile but was uneasily certain it fell flat.
    Alex nodded. “It must be kinda hard, not remembering anything about working here before. Hey, are you finding things okay? Need directions anywhere?”
    “No.” I shrugged. “It’s all pretty well signposted.”
    “You remember your Icelandic, then?” Was I imagining a sudden sharpness in his tone?
    “I seem to, yes. Although I don’t suppose I was ever particularly fluent in speaking it. I’ve always been better with the written word.”
    Alex just laughed. “That’s a language you wouldn’t want to have to learn twice. First time’s bad enough.”
    I had a strange urge to defend the tongue. “There’s a beauty to it, though, in its inflected nature, and the way it’s stayed almost unchanged for centuries. And of course it’s impossible to fully appreciate the poetry of the sagas in English translation.”
    “I’m only just beginning to realise that. The references, the layers of meaning—you peel back one, and there’s another half dozen underneath.” He flushed. “I guess I must sound like one of your students, learning all this for the first time.”
    “I wouldn’t know, would I?” I tried to keep my tone light. I didn’t want to sound bitter. “The semester hasn’t started yet.” It wouldn’t start for another month, by which time, I assumed, Alex would be gone. Back to whatever life he led back in Boston. He hadn’t