Which raised the issue of Analise Glover. Again, he thumbed through the sheets of white, with their black text. She had done a magnificent job. Using source texts and fables from two cultures, she’d linked them together. Others had postulated the travels between ancient worlds, but the child who sat in his social linguistics class had proven it. Her writing was crisp, eloquent. It brought the academic reader to the point quickly and thoroughly, but would not alienate the amateur. It was a brilliant document. Too brilliant.

“Dr. Rhodes?” Analise called out, following a light tapping on the door. Nathan did not respond immediately. One waited for greatness; greatness did not hurry. She said his name a second time, her voice growing less certain.

Nathan understood nuance, and he understood Analise. He wanted her intellect because it would suit his goals. He needed her idolization because otherwise, she would surpass him. The trick would be to cultivate them without losing control. Her third, more timid request for admission assured him he could have both.

“Come,” he instructed. The heavy wood swung silently on its hinges, and she peered inside. “Ms. Glover. Please sit.”

Analise moved to the leather chair opposite his desk and sat, legs crossed. The floral summer skirt covered her knees, but left toned legs bare. Glancing up, Analise thought she caught him staring. For an instant, she felt self-conscious, then dismissed the feeling. She may have a crush on Dr. Rhodes; however, he was too worldly, too handsome, to think of her that way.

Nathan pushed the pages across the desk to her. “Would you consider this your best work, Ms. Glover?”

Analise reached for the paper, but he did not release it. Instead, she rested tentative fingertips on the title page. “I think this is the most thorough research I’ve conducted. The idea is novel. I couldn’t locate other texts on the matter, besides supposition.”

“Is this your best work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I will kindly ask you to leave my program!” he bellowed suddenly, ripping the pages from her. In an instant, he reduced the hours of research to narrow shreds of paper. “How many times must I tell you? I have no time for dreamers. Either do the work or get out! Do you understand me?” Nathan’s fists pounded the table, close to her hand. The edge of his ring caught her skin, leaving a small mark.

“Yes, sir,” she stammered. The cut from the ring stung—less, though, than the destruction of her work. Language was all she knew. She’d been bred to understand it, trained and studied because of her rare facility for words. She wanted to protest, but anxiety crowded into her throat, and she didn’t move. If he sent her away, where would she go? “What’s wrong with the research?”