"Excuse me—are you reading that?" Caspian's voice cut through the stairwell draft.
Leonie looked up, squinting against the snow that had blown in the stairs' open shaft.
"Whitman," she said. "Leaves of Grass. You're early."
"You always read the same corner." He smiled and leaned against the banister like he owned the building.
"You make corners into libraries," he said.
"I make do with corners," she shot back.
"That's not the same thing." His voice dropped a degree, the kind of small change that turned a tease into attention.
Florence's boots clattered two flights below. "Leo, don't take all the good light—I'm coming up!" her shout bounced off the stone.
Caspian stayed. Up close, he smelled like smoke and something citrusy. He had a campus presence people noticed without meaning to notice him.
"Who are you?" a girl called from the landing as she paused with a stack of posters. "One of the union people?"
Leonie's chin went up on its own. "Just a student."
Caspian's grin tightened. "She's sharp."
The posters trembled in the other girl's arms.
"Sharp how?" the girl demanded. Her tone had been casual; now it bristled.
Leonie felt heat crawl up her neck.
"She reads things people don't expect to read aloud," Caspian said. "She listens more than she talks."
"That's not a qualification," someone else muttered from the doorway.
"I'll take her name." Caspian stepped forward as if arranging
