I own nothing. Also the algebra is probably all wrong. Hell, it's July, what did you expect?

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December 14th, 1885

Margaret Duncan was a good student. She really was, honestly. Her parents were very proud of her good marks. Maybe she would even go to a women's college like her Aunt Dot. But one wintery afternoon, she was having a hard time focusing in class. It was because she had skipped her breakfast. No, that's a lie. She ate a proper breakfast of oatmeal and raisins, with a mug of black coffee. It was because she was cold in the schoolroom. No, that was a lie, too. Maggie was wearing a thick shawl, one she knitted herself.

Oh, she might as well admit it. It was because she was watching the boy next to her draw. He held the pencil poised above the paper, brow furrowed. Then, an idea seemed to hit him, and, forehead smoothing, he lightly sketched a circle. A curve beneath the circle, and there was a head. She felt like she was intruding on something private and secret. It was a wicked thrill. What was his name again? Something odd. Apollo, or something.

It was like he was breathing life into the face on the page. A pointed nose was created in two strokes. Thin lips with a few swipes of the pencil. Quite suddenly, he put his pencil down and started to look up. Maggie flinched, and sat up straight as a ramrod, staring at the blackboard. The picture of an attentive student, she began to copy down lessons, lessons she no longer really cared for. Using functions and exponential growth in everyday life. Functions can be useful, but only when written... She stopped. Her seat mate had gone back to the page, and evidently had not noticed her watching him.

The face was becoming more detailed. High cheekbones. Freckles. Squinty looking eyes. Light hair in two plaits. Her breathing began to quicken. She lost a bit of her cautiousness and stared unabashedly. If she leaned just a bit closer, their shoulders would touch. It felt like she was paralyzed with electricity. Maggie wanted so desperately to move her shoulder, but she couldn't move a muscle. Why had she worn her shawl? The schoolroom was so hot. Her palms were sweaty. Far too hot for December. She was about to combust.

"Miss Duncan?" said a stern voice. Her only response was an involuntary choking noise of surprise. The boy looked up at her, gaze a little mocking. Oh, God, his eyes were so beautiful.

"Um. Yes, Mrs. Campbell?"

"What axis is represented by 'C' in the expression?" Hot, burning, shame flooded into her cheeks. Every stare in the room was aimed at her. She shrugged off her shawl and felt no cooler.

"I don't know."

"Look at the graph," said the teacher, looking almost amused with Maggie's torment.

"I don't know," she whispered.

"Look at your notes."

"I didn't take any notes." It was not worth this, watching him draw. She had been daft to think otherwise. Her eyes darted guiltily back to his notes, desperately seeking some sort of answer.

"If you can't tell me, perhaps Mr. Sharp can? Or was he busy drawing?" The boy next to her sat up straight, looking confident.

"No. I was busy drawing. Would you like to see it? I think it's pretty good," he said proudly. His friends all laughed, and Mrs. Campbell's eyes narrowed.

"You will both see me after class and make up the notes," she hissed, "And Artemis Sharp, you will stand in the corner for the next hour."

Maggie's eyes welled up with tears. She had never stayed after class before. Sharp, however, nodded as if he expected their teacher's reaction. Before he got up for his punishment, he scrawled a caption beneath the face. He left his notes behind. Once he reached the corner, she stared at the boyish scrawl, and her chest seemed to constrict.

He had written, "The Bonny Margaret Duncan."