If Paul hadn’t allowed Julia to push the button for the ninth floor, he would have seen her skin turn slightly green and heard her sharp intake of breath. But he didn’t.

Once they arrived on the ninth floor, he patiently guided her through the Dante collection, showing her both the primary and secondary sources.

And he watched with delight as she trailed her hand across the spines of the books lovingly, as if she were greeting old friends.

“Julia, would you mind if I asked you a personal question?”

She stood very still, fingering a quarto volume that had a tattered leather binding. She inhaled its scent deeply to keep herself calm and nodded.

“Emerson asked me to pull your file from Mrs. Jenkins and — ”

She turned her head to face him, eyes large and unblinking. Oh no, she thought.

He held his hands up to reassure her. “I didn’t read it. Don’t worry.”

He chuckled softly. “There’s nothing too personal in those files anyway.

Apparently, he wanted to remove something he’d put in there. But it was what he did afterward that surprised me.”

Julia raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to spit it out.

“He telephoned Greg Matthews, the chair of the Department of Romance Languages and Literatures at Harvard.”

She blinked slowly as she reflected on what he said. “How do you know?”

“I was dropping off some photocopying, and I overheard Emerson on the telephone. He was asking Matthews about you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you. He demanded to know why they didn’t have generous enough funding for their MA students. He’s an alumnus of that department, you know. Matthews was the chair when he completed his PhD.”

Holy shit. He was checking up on me? Of course. He wouldn’t believe I actually got into Harvard, just like him. Julia closed her eyes, her fingers clutching the bookshelf for support.

“I couldn’t hear everything that Matthews was saying. But I heard Emerson.”

She kept her eyes closed and waited for the other shoe to drop. She only hoped that Paul would drop it quickly and not directly on her toes.

“I didn’t know that you got into Harvard, Julia. That’s pretty amazing.

Emerson asked if you’d really been accepted into their program and how highly you were ranked in their admissions pool.”

“Of course,” she mumbled. “I’m from a small town in Pennsylvania.

I went to a Jesuit university of about seven thousand students. How could I get into Harvard?”

Paul frowned. Poor Rabbit. That sick fucker really did a number on her.

I should seriously kick his ass. And then I should go to work on him…

“What’s wrong with Catholic schools? I did my undergrad at St. Mike’s in Vermont, and I got a great education. They had a Dante specialist in the English Department and a Florentine specialist in History.”

Julia nodded as if she heard him. But she hadn’t really.

“Listen, you haven’t heard the whole story yet. The point is that Matthews tried to persuade him to send you back for your PhD. Said you were very highly ranked. That’s pretty good, considering the source. I applied to that department and was rejected outright.” He smiled somewhat half-heartedly, not knowing how she would react to that piece of information.

“So if it isn’t too personal, why didn’t you go to Harvard?”

“I didn’t want to come here,” she whispered, her voice low and guilty.

“I knew he was here. But I had no other choice. I have thousands of dollars in student loans from Saint Joseph’s…I just couldn’t afford to go to Harvard.

I was hoping to finish my MA quickly and go to Harvard next year. If I win a larger fellowship, I won’t have to borrow money for my PhD.”

Paul nodded reassuringly, and as Julia distracted herself by turning around to examine the books more carefully, he regarded her, entirely oblivious to the small piece of information she had unknowingly revealed. The piece of information that told him much more than why she hadn’t gone to Harvard.

As he watched her opening and closing the dusty volumes, her eyes widening and a smile playing across her lovely lips, he realized that the nickname Rabbit was an even better fit than he’d initially thought. For yes, she was very much like a rabbit one might find in a meadow or some such place. But she was also very much like The Velveteen Rabbit.

Paul would never have spoken such words aloud, and if you’d asked him if he knew the book, he would have lied while looking you straight in the eye. But Allison had loved that book, and early in their relationship she had demanded that he read it so that he could understand her properly.

And Paul, all two hundred plus pounds of Vermont farm boy, had read the damn thing surreptitiously because he loved her.

Although he wouldn’t admit it, he loved that story too.

In looking at Rabbit, he had the feeling that she was waiting desperately to become Real. Waiting to be loved, even. And the waiting had taken its toll on her. Not on her outward appearance, which was very attractive (although Paul would have said she was clearly too thin and too pale, something a good deal of Vermont milk and dairy products could have improved). Not that, but on her soul, which he thought was beautiful but sad.

Paul wasn’t even sure he believed in souls until he met Rabbit. And now that he knew her, he had to believe. He hoped privately that some day she would become what she wanted to be, that someone would love her and she would transform from a frightened rabbit into something else.

Something bolder. Something happy.

Not wanting to indulge himself in too many literary flights of fancy, Paul swiftly decided that he needed to distract Rabbit from her sorrows, and so he smiled at her again. Then he led her to a door that had a brass nameplate on it that said in very elegant cursive script: Professor Gabriel O. Emerson, Department of Italian Studies.

Julia noticed with interest that none of the other doors had brass nameplates on them. She also noticed that Paul had taped an index card with his own name on it underneath the nameplate. She imagined Professor Emerson coming along and ripping the card off out of spite. Then she noticed Paul’s full name: Paul V. Norris, MA.

“What does the V stand for?” She crooked a finger at the homemade sign.

Paul looked uncomfortable. “I don’t like using my middle name.”

“I don’t use mine either. And I can understand if you don’t want to tell me.” She smiled, turning her gaze expectantly at the locked door.

“You’ll laugh.”

“I doubt it. My last name is Mitchell. It’s nothing to be proud of.”

“I think it’s nice.”

Julia reddened but only slightly.

Paul sighed. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Of course. And I’ll tell you my middle name: it’s Helen.”

“That’s beautiful too.” He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he waited. When he could hold his breath no longer, and his lungs were clamoring for oxygen, he exhaled quickly. “Virgil.”

She stared incredulously. “Virgil?”

“Yes.” He opened his eyes and studied her for a minute, worried she was going to laugh at him.

“You’re studying to be a Dante specialist, and your middle name is Virgil? Are you kidding?”

“It’s a family name. My great-grandfather was named Virgil…He never read Dante, trust me. He was a dairy farmer in Essex, Vermont.”

Julia smiled her admiration. “I think Virgil is a beautiful name. And it’s a great honor to be named after a noble poet.”

“Just like it’s a great honor to be named after Helen of Troy, Julia Helen.

And very fitting too.” His eyes grew soft, and he gazed at her admiringly.

She looked away, embarrassed.

Paul cleared his throat as a means of lessening the sudden tension between them. “Emerson never uses this carrel — except to drop things off for me. But it belongs to him, and he pays for it.”

“They aren’t free?”

Paul shook his head and unlocked the door. “No. But they’re totally worth it because they’re air conditioned and heated, they have wireless internet access, and you can store books in here without checking them out at the circulation desk. So if there is anything you need — even if it’s reference material that you can’t check out — you can store it in here.”

Julia looked at the small but comfortable space as if it were the Promised Land, her eyes wide as they wandered over the large built-in workspace, comfortable chairs and floor to ceiling bookshelves. A small window offered a very nice view of the downtown skyline and the cn tower. She wondered how much it would cost to live in a carrel rather than in her not-fit-for-a-dog hobbit hole.

“In fact,” said Paul, clearing some papers off one of the bookshelves,

“I’ll give you this shelf. And you can have my extra key.”

He fished around and came up with a spare key, writing a number down on a piece of paper. “That’s the number on the door, in case you have trouble finding it again, and here’s the key.”

Julia stood, gaping. “I can’t. He hates me, and he won’t like this.”

“Fuck him.”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“I’m sorry. I don’t usually cuss — that much. At least, not in front of girls. I mean, women.”

She nodded, but that was not exactly why she was surprised.

“Emerson is never here. You can store your books, and he’ll think they’re mine. If you don’t want him to catch you, you don’t have to work in here.