She could even come back here for her final year.
Stop getting ahead of yourself, Jack. Aside from the one hint we dropped to each other last night about thinking this could be something long-term—or, more specifically, a hint I dropped that she never responded to—I have no idea if Harper sees this as a hookup or something more.
Besides, even if she did, she’d never leave her whole country behind just for a guy. Harper’s not that kind of person. She’d never throw what she wants away for a relationship, and I respect that.
So, I don’t leave a note explaining the pamphlet or anything. Let her make her own mind up.
Meanwhile, I have a meeting with Dean Perjurer, to give him an update on the Eliot papers. Harper and I have made good headway into the analysis, enough that I felt comfortable sending Pierson a rough draft of our report last night.
Of course he immediately called a meeting with me first thing in the morning to talk about it. Because he couldn’t just hit the damn reply button, or ask if I’m free before he sets up conferences.
The moment I walk into his office, I know it’s not good news. The lines around his eyes and mouth seem to have doubled since I saw him less than a week ago, and I could swear his hairline has recessed another full inch.
“What is it?” I shut the door behind me—I learned my lesson after last time, when Harper overheard us (though, to be honest, I haven’t hated the outcome of that eavesdropping).
“Letter from the warden about the latest allocation of funds.” He slides a print-out of a document across the desk toward me, with our school crest emblazoned across the top. “Read it. I’ll wait.”
Pierson leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the polished wooden surface while I scan the letter. My heart sinks farther with every sentence. In between the poorly-worded business-speak about wanting to fund scientific research and technological training, preparing our students for more competitive careers in their fields of choice, I can read the other implication.
De-funding the arts.
Because who needs to study literature, right? Does the world really need more art history majors to bum around? Clearly we should all just turn ourselves into programming robots who barf out code—until they figure out how to train robots to do that, and then what will even be the point of humans, anyway?
I clench my fist, wrinkling the letter in the process. They even printed it on the thick stationary, the one normally reserved for acceptance letters and offers of job placement. Happy news.
“How bad is it?” I say. Because, of course, they could never write a letter like this that just explained exactly what they planned to do. The letter needs to make it all sound positive and happy. They leave it to the rumor-mill to tell all of us lowlife academics what’s really going on.
“He wants to cut the poetry department almost completely. Bring us down to one full-time professor. No dean, no adjuncts.” Pierson drops his feet to the floor. He’s glaring, but for once, not at me. He scowls at the letter between us. We might not always get along, or agree with 90 percent of what the other one does, but we’re in the same boat now. Sink or swim.
If we’re defunded, he’ll be out of a job, and without any adjunct positions available, so will I.
“Are you supposed to be telling me this?” I lift an eyebrow. Pierson has no soft spot for me. But if they’ve not announced this department-wide yet, he was probably told in confidence from the warden. So why share with me?
“Not strictly speaking. I’m only telling you because I think you might be able to change his mind.”
I grimace. “The Eliot project.”
“It would bring poetry back to the forefront of people’s attention. You’d make an international splash, and with Merton’s name written all over it as the place we made the discovery. They wouldn’t dare cut the program, not with that kind of attention focused on it.” He bends over the desk, resting his elbows on it, the better to glare straight at me. “Assuming, of course, that you’re right about the author of those unsigned poems.”
“I’m sure, Daniel.”
“For all our sakes, I hope you are.” He sinks back into his seat and massages his temples. For the first time ever, I wish he was still glaring. This new, desperate Dean Pierson makes me more freaked out than his usual shouting. Because if he’s this worried, I need to be, too.
He grunts, seeming to snap out of the funk. “When can you have the analysis ready to present to the warden?”
Ah, there’s the pushy old git. “It’ll be ready for the end of term, like we said.”
He’s already shaking his head. “Not good enough. They’re pushing the restructure through before the Christmas break. I need this in two weeks.”