Autor checked his watch again. Pique was late. He knew she was going to be late because women never show up on time when they can be late, and, here she was, late, and confirming all of his prior suspicions.

"Hey!" she said, bounding up the hill and waving at him. He noticed she was wearing something different: sensible shoes.

"You said three p.m.," he said, irritable.

She seized his wrist to look at his watch, and he recoiled against her shockingly strong grip. "It's two after," she said, scoffing.

He opened his mouth to get a word in before she spoke again, but found he didn't have much to say.

"You didn't dress up at all," she said, poking her bottom lip out.

Autor wanted to poke it back into place. "The school uniform is an all-purpose garment suitable for—"

Pique interrupted him with a groan. "No, it's not," she said, placing a hand on her hip. Gold bracelets clanged together on her wrist, drawing his attention. He noticed a pale green skirt clung to her legs. Her top was a billowy white blouse with ruffles at the neckline. Her hair was… elaborate.

Then he looked at her face. Her gaze made his skin crawl; she seemed to be assessing him. "You don't get out much, do you?"

"I don't see the point of it, no," he said, fidgeting.

"Okay," she said, and frowned again. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes," he said, stiffening. Now what?

"Are you hungry?" she asked, tilting her head.

"No," he said.

"Well, if you were hungry, what would you eat?" she asked, frowning.

"… Food?"

To his surprise, she took him by the forearms and shook him. "Are you always this difficult to talk to?"

Autor smiled at her, and he caught the sound of her breath hitching. "You tell me. You're the one who wanted to go out."

She punched him in the arm.

"Ow," he said, glaring at her as he disengaged from her grip. "Are bruises typical on a date with you?"

Pique stared at the ground. He noticed her fingers clench and steadied himself for another punch. "Look, I'm sorry," she said, and he began cataloging the different pitches of her throaty voice. Interesting, he thought. It's deeper than most girls'.

He had more chances to compare and contrast when she started ranting. "You're just so… augh! You've never been on a date before, have you?"

"Apology accepted," he sniffed, and placed a hand on his hip. "And no, I haven't. So, now what?"

"Well, you can compliment my hair or something," she said, and cocked her head to the side. Ringlets which he hadn't noticed before started bouncing.

He blinked rapidly. "Wait, what?"

"Autor," she said, sighing, "you have to learn how to properly treat girls. Compliment me. Offer to get me a drink. If you ever want to go out again, with anyone, this is what you do."

"But… I'm going out with you right now," he said, a bit confused as to how that happened in the first place. Ah, right, the French horn problem, he thought, frowning. He didn't much like the phrase 'going out,' either. It didn't sound like a temporary, threatened-date. It sounded more permanent. Committed.

"Um," she said, and coughed. "Yeah, about that… Let's call this a practice date."

I don't know if I like the sound of that, he thought, and then gasped as she jerked him forward by the wrist. "Pique, wait. Where are you dragging me to? Pique!"

She pushed the door to Ebine's open and cheerfully called out for two milkshakes. Still dragging Autor behind her, she found a small table near a window.

"Milkshakes? This is your brilliant plan?" Autor asked, wrinkling his nose.

Pique rolled her eyes. "Do you have a better idea?" she asked, and then grinned wickedly. "We could take you shopping for a better outfit."

"Absolutely not," he snapped, and shook his hand out of hers as they sat down.

"So, what are you into?" she said, smiling as she cupped her chin in her hands. Autor thought she looked like a cat about to pounce. "You're a music student and you like reading… but why are you in the library all the time, really?"

Autor leaned back, evaluating her. "I'm planning to conquer the world."

She laughed, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Wait," she said at his baleful look. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Of course I am," he said. "There's more than one way to pluck a duck."

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," Pique said hesitantly. "But how would you do it?"

"Well, there are a great many options available," he started, adjusting his glasses. "You can go with a financial coup, supernatural powers, diplomacy, threat of biological warfare, or even…"

It was only when he noticed that the ice cream in front of him had long since melted and that the sun was dipping down did he see that Pique was a bit… well, her head was lowered. Clearly he'd lost her interest somewhere.

He did the only reasonable thing that came to mind: poked her in the head. "Wake up. We should get you home before dark."

"Yeah," Pique said, sounding a bit resigned.

The walk back to the girls' dormitories was mercifully quiet, but Autor couldn't help but notice that Pique looked downcast. His fingers brushed the air near her head. "Your hair," he started, and then hesitated.

"Yes?" she said, stepping closer.

He stiffened. She smells of candy canes, he thought. A whole girl made of peppermint. Who knew. Peppermint… and nothing like Rue.

"Elaborate," he said to the girl in front of him. "Your hair is elaborate."

Pique smiled at him, and he couldn't tell if she was going to laugh or not. He was a bit surprised-and more than a bit unsettled-when she scrubbed away tears, instead. She was still smiling as she patted the bruises on his arm. "Thank you for the compliment, Autor."

"Good night, Pique," he said, itching to get back to the library, where things were familiar and nothing punched you and certainly nothing cried when you tried to tell them that they were pretty.

"Good night, Autor," she said and stepped into the gate leading to the girls' dorms.

He didn't call out after her.