After the close call in the vaults, Cassie focused on her lectures and first tutorials, which thankfully passed without event—Cassie staying mostly silent as her fellow classmates argued over their essays and dominated the professors’ time. She crept around the grounds with her heart in her throat, keeping one anxious eye out for the porter who’d chased her that night. She’d been wearing nondescript dark clothing, with her hood pulled low over her face—she knew it was unlikely he’d even caught a glimpse of her face, let alone be able to recognize her in the crowd—but still she couldn’t help but feel her pulse race every time she hurried past the gatehouse lodge, head down, eyes fixed on the stone ground.
Then came the test. She’d been in the mail room, sorting through the usual handful of flyers and committee invitations, when he’d stepped through the narrow doorway with a fresh batch of mail to deliver. “Sorry,” she stuttered, heart in her throat. She quickly stepped aside for him to reach a mailbox near her, bracing herself for his eyes to widen with recognition, an outraged scowl to descend over his face.
But nothing of the sort had come. “No worries,” he smiled at her, his eyes drifting over her face. “Blackwell?” He checked the label on her box. “I think I’ve got something . . . Yes, here it is.” He passed her a letter and then set about distributing the rest of his stack.
It wasn’t until he’d exited that she sank back against the shelf and exhaled the breath she’d been holding for days now. Reckless, that’s what she’d been, stealing Evie’s card and hurtling off to break into the vault without planning, without preparation. Cassie felt the ache in her ankle, fading now, and the sting of her grazed palms and knew she deserved them: punishment for risking everything she’d worked for. It had taken her years to gain entry to Raleigh’s battlements, and now that she was here, she could have thrown it all away in one night.
But it had been worth it. She was closer than she’d ever been to the truth about her mother, and despite her unease, Cassie’s curiosity burned too bright to be ignored. When the week had passed without incident, she gathered up her file and her newfound knowledge of Margaret Madison, and she returned to the Radcliffe Camera library in the city center.
“You’re back.” Elliot was pacing at the bottom of the steps of the library, one hand jammed in the pocket of his overcoat while the other, clad in fingerless gloves, clutched a cigarette. “Going to send me running up and down to the basement another hundred times?”
“If it’s any consolation, you’ll have the best thighs in the city,” Cassie pointed out.
He laughed. “Small mercies.” Stubbing out his cigarette, he held the door ajar for her. “So what are we looking for tonight?”
“Same as before,” she said, passing him the request slips she’d already filled out. He looked at them and frowned.
“But you’ve already seen these.”
“I need to look again. Sorry.”
Elliot sighed. “I hate this job,” he said, and disappeared into the back.
Cassie made her way into the main reading room, heading for the study carrel she’d adopted in the British history room. A figure emerged from the stacks as she entered, almost knocking into her. “I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly and looked up to find her professor, Tremain, with his arms full of books.
“My fault entirely,” he said automatically, then looked closer. “Ah, Miss Blackwell. A little out of your way, aren’t you? Philosophy texts are on the second floor.”
“I prefer it down here,” she explained. “Quieter.”
“Great minds think alike.” He nodded, his gaze drifting around the room absentmindedly before landing back on her again. “How are you getting on with the reading list? Any problems?”
“Only finding the books,” Cassie confessed. “They’ve all been checked out of the Raleigh library.”
“Ah yes.” Tremain grimaced. “It’s a bad habit among some of the other students. They check them out en masse the minute I post the reading lists. You can usually find them here, though, or at the newer Social Science library. It’s just a little more of a trek.”
“Thanks,” Cassie replied. “I’ll remember that.”
“Have you made it to any of the mixer events yet?” Tremain continued, juggling the books in his arms. “We have a thriving international community at Raleigh, lots of other transfer and study-abroad students.”
“Maybe one day,” Cassie lied.
“You should drop by. Some excellent discussions.”
Cassie nodded and smiled, until Tremain glanced past her. “Well, I better get these back to the front desk before that stern fellow gives me another dressing-down.” Tremain shot a look toward Elliot, then nodded at Cassie. “See you on Friday.”
When Cassie returned to collect the first set of yearbooks from Elliot, she found him mournfully gazing at his cell phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“I have a date tomorrow with a delightful boy from Balliol.”
“And that’s bad because . . . ?”
“The other clerk just quit on us yesterday and I have nobody to cover for me.”
Cassie paused, spying an opportunity. “I could do it,” she offered.
“Really?” Elliot narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What’s in it for you?”
She paused. The thought of scanning through five years of records all over again was a daunting prospect. Working in the library, she’d get access to all their records and vaults—plus Elliot’s help. And besides, she was probably being paranoid with her secrecy. It had been almost twenty-five years since her mother was a student. Whatever had sent her running was probably long gone.
She made a calculated risk. “Maybe you could help me with something. Or rather, someone. I’m trying to find out about an old student here, Margaret Madison.”
Elliot quirked an eyebrow. “This is what you’ve had me running around for? Who is she, anyway?”
“She’s a . . . family friend,” Cassie lied. “She died a few years back. I’d love to find out more about her time here, maybe talk to some of her old classmates.”
There was a noise; Tremain was by the doors, fumbling with an umbrella. Cassie watched him finally force it open and head out, slamming the door behind him.
She turned back. “Do you think you could help?”
“Cover for me tomorrow, and the information is yours.”
“Done!” Cassie felt her spirits lift. “Do you have time to look for anything now?” she asked hopefully.
Elliot snorted. “Easy, girl. I have five thousand returns to process before closing. I’ll get to this as soon as I can,” he added, tucking the slip in his pocket. “Thursday or Friday at the latest.”
Cassie bit back her disappointment. “Thanks,” she managed. She’d waited years to get the answers she needed; she could wait another few days. “I really appreciate it.”
With nothing to distract her any longer, Cassie spent the rest of the afternoon working on her essay for Tremain’s class. His tips about the reading lists paid off, and Cassie was able to gather most of the resources before settling in back at the attic, deep in theories of corporeal existence and proof of their own existence.
In a way, Cassie could relate to Descartes, and his philosophical kin. They were men in search of certainty and truth, desperate for a system by which to view the world and make sense of all its contradictions and falsehoods. They were enemies of assumption, soldiers for fact, willing to dismantle brick by brick everything they had once believed about themselves—and the world around them—in order to rebuild a more solid foundation. Descartes was asking not just what made him himself, but what, if any, of the external world could really be proven to exist.
Cassie knew his frustration. The story of her life, her mother’s life, had always been a fixed point on a shifting horizon—the basic frame of reference for everything she thought she knew about herself. If it was all a lie, then who was her mother? Who was Margaret Madison?
And more importan
t, who then did that make Cassie?
“What are you working on, your first essay?” Evie’s voice interrupted Cassie’s thoughts. She looked up to find her roommate digging through the laundry hamper, wearing a long, floating black dress with tangles of gold chain necklaces falling from her throat.
“Yup.” Cassie sighed. “My first philosophy tute is tomorrow. I think I’m done, but I don’t know . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” Evie reassured her. “They always make a big deal about the essays, but the truth is as long as you show up ready to discuss the reading material you’ll be fine.”
“I hope so.” Cassie thought of Professor Tremain. He’d seemed encouraging, but that was only because she’d barely said a word so far in class.
“You need a break!” Evie decided. “You’ve been hiding away for weeks now. Come out and have a drink with me.”
“That’s kind, but I’m not really in the mood for a night out.”
“It’s not ‘out,’ not really,” Evie argued. “The Senior Common Room is having a mixer. It’s barely across campus.”
“Would I have to put on pants?” Cassie countered.
Evie grinned. “C’mon. I’m not taking no for an answer, not this time. One drink,” she proposed. “All this work isn’t healthy. You need to pace yourself, otherwise you’ll crack before we get to Christmas break.”
Cassie smiled. “Fine,” she reluctantly agreed. It might not be a bad idea to go out with Evie, to take a break from her mother’s ghost and all the studying she still had left to do. “One drink.”
They arrived to find the room already hot, full of people talking loudly over music, clutching wineglasses and small china plates of crackers and cheese. Cassie looked around, curious. As an undergraduate, she was officially a member of the Junior Common Room. Undergrads had their rooms on the other side of cloisters: a large TV room filled with old couches, and a general room with a pool table and vending machines. Cassie had peeked her head around the door once to find a riot of noise and activity, the teenagers gathering to play loud music on the entertainment system and watch Australian soaps all evening.
The SCR was smaller, but more lavishly appointed, with views over the back lawns, leather seating, and a small bar area with polished countertops and rows of liquor bottles that glittered in the evening lights.
“Let me see who’s here . . .” Evie scanned the room as her cell phone let out a buzz. She glanced down, her expression dropping. “Oh shit, Paige got dumped. Listen, will you be okay if I run out for a sec? I promise I won’t be long!”
Cassie opened her mouth to object, but Evie was already gone, her handset pressed to her ear. “The bastard!” Cassie heard her say. “I’m on my way.”
Cassie was tempted to turn right back around again, but she’d changed into real clothes at Evie’s urging, and even run a brush through her hair. Her roommate had said she wouldn’t be gone long. Cassie could wait fifteen minutes, at least.
The room was packed, so she took a glass of red wine from the full table by the bar and slipped through the crowd, listening to snatches of conversation about European tax policy and South Pacific biological research. For the first time since arriving at Raleigh, she was mixing with people her own age, but now a new tremor of insecurity rose in her chest. These were the real Oxford students: brilliant scholars from all over the world. She couldn’t help but feel like an impostor next to their sincere dedication to their studies.
Cassie found a seat on the wide, cushioned ledge of an open window and sipped her wine, watching the crowd and waiting for Evie to return. Observing the scene, she noticed the lack of diversity in the room. In fact, Oxford in general had shocked her on this point: from the sea of pale first-year faces in the Raleigh matriculation photo to the overwhelming whiteness on the streets of the city. Just like the Ivy League, this was clearly still the home of the old elites, for all the self-satisfied talk of diversity and inclusion she’d skimmed through in the college brochures.
“Welcome to Raleigh.” A voice behind her made Cassie turn. A blond man in his late twenties smiled at her, earnest in a pin-striped shirt and corduroy pants. “I’m Miles. Whereabouts are you from?” he asked, before taking a large bite of cracker. Tiny crumbs cascaded down his shirt, and he swiped at them, flushing.
“Smith,” she replied.
He brightened. “Ah, Massachusetts. I spent a semester at Harvard as a research fellow, under Professor MacIntyre. Don’t suppose you know him?”
She shook her head. “No, sorry.”
“Ah well.” He took another bite. Another torrent of crumbs scattered to the carpet. “What brings you over here? I’m doing my postdoc in international law.”
“Junior year abroad,” Cassie explained. “I got the Raleigh Scholarship.”
His eyes widened. “Impressive!” Miles caught a woman as she passed, tugging her into our circle. “Devi, this is the one you were talking about, the girl who snatched the scholarship this year?”
The woman, who was Southeast Asian, raised an eyebrow, assessing Cassie. She had her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid and wore a severe navy shift dress. “Congratulations,” she said in a cool tone. “My cousin made it through to the final interviews. He already received his bachelor’s degree in biochemistry from Harvard and was named a young musician of the year for his piano concertos.” She offered a wan smile. “You must have a very impressive résumé to have won the prize.”
Cassie cleared her throat, feeling even more inadequate. “And lucky, I guess.”
Devi twitched an eyebrow again.
“Tell us about your summer,” Miles urged her, before turning to Cassie. “Devi was working with the refugee camps in Somalia,” he explained. “She’s studying displacement and rape as a weapon of—” He broke off, catching sight of someone across the room. “Hugo!” he cried, taking off through the crowd without a backward glance, his voice carrying. “What are you doing back, you old rotter? I thought they were finally giving you the heave-ho!”
Devi launched into a description of her time on the Ethiopian border, but Cassie’s gaze stayed with Miles, following him to a group of people holding court in the corner of the room. They were dressed for dinner, in formal suits and starched shirts, and the studied way they held their wineglasses and tilted back their heads in laughter made Cassie think of a scene from an Oscar Wilde play, or some foreign painter’s frieze. As she watched, their bodies shifted, revealing the young man in the center of the group, the focus of Miles’s adoring enthusiasm.
She froze.
It was the man from that night, the one who’d caught her in the courtyard. Now, even out of the darkness, he was as striking as before: dressed in another expensive suit, draped languidly over his frame, the crisp white shirt open at his throat, revealing skin a pale gold in the lamplight.
He looked up, catching Cassie’s gaze from across the room with his dark, piercing stare. She flinched back as if burned and quickly looked away.
“. . . security, you wonder what we’re paying for.” Devi was still talking, but Cassie could barely hear a word. Her heart was suddenly racing, a shiver of something new in her veins: panic, mixed with curiosity and fear. The potent cocktail sent adrenaline spinning through her bloodstream, and she felt too restless to stay still a moment longer.
She slipped down from the windowsill, bumping against Devi as the crowd shifted again. “I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly, glancing back across the room. The blond man had been swallowed out of sight, but Cassie’s unease remained, a hot surge prickling her skin.
“I said, did you hear about the break-in?” Devi repeated. “Apparently someone was rifling through the old archives the other night.”
Cassie snapped her head back around. “Hmm? Oh, no, I didn’t.” She cleared her throat quickly and made an effort to speak normally. “Did they steal anything of value?”
“Nothing was taken,” a petite woman with cropped hair said, joining them with a gossiping express
ion on her round face. “And Harris didn’t get a good look at him.”
“I wonder if it was a rival academic,” Devi mused. “The Raleigh libraries are first-rate.”
“Why not just sign up for a reading pass?” the other woman argued. “I think they were looking for rare first editions. You know the college has a whole stash of Raleigh’s manuscripts locked away somewhere.”
Cassie tried to focus on the conversation, but she felt a burning on the back of her skin again, a shiver of awareness. She glanced back across the room, already knowing she would find him watching her.
He was leaning against the bar, a wineglass tilted in one hand, his dark eyes fixed on her. She knew she should look away but was unable to drag her gaze away from the elegance of his face. The moment stretched between them, shimmering in the hot, packed room.
Then he raised his glass to her in a toast, his expression still unreadable. Cassie felt his curiosity even through the crowd. Curiosity, and something more, that same recognition that she’d felt when they met in the courtyard that night. His gaze trailed across her body, and Cassie felt as if she was naked.
Hunger. That was it: the sharp glint in his eyes. The realization broke Cassie from her trance. She reeled back. He was approaching now, weaving through the crowd toward her. Cassie grabbed for her coat. She needed to get away, and fast. She’d felt the urge to escape before, on dark streets, and in empty, echoing buildings. It had saved her too many times, and now it was beating so loudly she couldn’t ignore it if she tried.
She turned her back on Devi and the other woman without even a mumbled explanation, hurrying through the crowd back toward the exit. But as she approached the door, she found her escape blocked.
“Cassie!” Evie caught her in a hug. “Thanks for waiting; God, the drama never ends. Come meet everyone, I was just telling them about you—”
“I’m sorry.” Cassie tore away from the friendly embrace. “I have to go. I’ll see you later!”
If Evie replied, her voice was lost in the crowd. Cassie took the stairs two at a time. She stumbled down to the cloisters and fled into the dark of the college, until the noise of music and laughter faded into the night.
The Oxford Inheritance Page 7
