The Oxford Inheritance

by Ann A. McDonald

  “Then thank you for your concern,” she said, scathing, turning to walk away.

  “If you don’t like it, you can always leave.”

  She froze and turned back. “What did you say?”

  Tremain met her gaze, cooler now. “Raleigh isn’t suited to everyone,” he continued. “After everything you’ve been through, perhaps it would be better if you cut your study-abroad program short.”

  “Better for whom?” Cassie retorted. “The college? Sebastian? You?”

  Tremain’s gaze didn’t waver. “There’s no shame in admitting you’re unhappy here.”

  Cassie kept her jaw clenched. He thought she wasn’t cut out for her studies. That she wasn’t Raleigh material. “I’ll see the counselor,” she bit out. “But if you want me gone, expel me. I earned my place here, just like everyone else. I’m staying.”

  The address Tremain had given Cassie was a stark series of buildings on the edge of town: The Center for Psychology and Neural Research. Cassie entered through spotless sliding glass doors and looked curiously at the steel and chrome decor, a world away from the musty libraries of the rest of the university.

  “Cassie?” A woman breezed toward her, hand outstretched. “Thessaly Mortimer. You have perfect timing, I was just getting a coffee. Want one?”

  “Uh, no. Thanks.” Cassie quickly looked her over. Thessaly was in her late thirties, with a mane of glossy auburn hair and perfect makeup. She was wearing a silk blouse and a dark pencil skirt; a lab coat was folded over her arm and her stilettos tapped on the polished floor as she led Cassie down the hall to a coffee machine.

  “Terrible habit.” Thessaly sighed, filling a cup. “I should know better, especially in my profession. Everyone knows you feed rats caffeine and their brains just light up, they go crazy.”

  “So why don’t you quit?” Cassie asked. She was still studying the woman, trying to get a read on her.

  Thessaly took a sip and gave Cassie a rueful smile. “The eternal mystery of human behavior: we know something is bad for us, but we do it anyway.” She glanced at her watch, a thin gold band on her wrist. “We better get moving. My day is packed, and I’m sure you don’t want to hang around here a moment longer than necessary.”

  “Well, no,” Cassie answered, taken aback, but Thessaly was already striding off. She led Cassie back through a maze of offices and labs to a room that was as stark as the rest of the building: a leather couch and chairs, a glass-topped desk, framed sketches of the human brain on the far wall.

  “So let me tell you a little about myself,” Thessaly began as Cassie drifted around the room, examining the framed diplomas. Master’s in neurological, Ph.D. in psychology. “As you can see, I’m not a traditional counselor, but I like to offer my services to the university and give support to students dealing with emotional stress.” Thessaly gestured for Cassie to sit on the couch. When Cassie hesitated, she laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s not like psychiatry. I won’t ask you to lie back and talk about your parents.” She paused. “Unless you want to, of course. We can chat about anything.”

  Cassie took a seat on the very edge of the couch. “I thought you were supposed to talk to me about the attack,” she said.

  “Only if you feel like it.” Thessaly settled opposite her in one of the chairs and gave a reassuring smile, but Cassie didn’t relax. “It’s okay,” Thessaly added, as if reading Cassie’s reticence. “This is all private now, patient confidentiality. I’m not going to report back to Raleigh, or anything like that.”

  Cassie shrugged. “There isn’t anything to report. I’m fine. I don’t know why I need to be here.”

  “Probably because Raleigh doesn’t want to get sued for student welfare failings.”

  Cassie looked up, surprised at the other woman’s candor. Thessaly studied her a moment, then relaxed back in her seat. “Look, I understand. Something traumatic happened to you, and you’d rather not talk to a stranger about it. And that’s fine too, as long as you have your own way of processing it.” She paused. “Have you talked to anyone yet: a friend, roommate?”

  Cassie slowly shook her head. “I . . . was going to,” she replied. “But my roommate’s going through her own stuff right now. It’s not something you can just lay on a person, and she’s got her own problems.”

  “Oh?”

  “She just broke up with her boyfriend,” Cassie explained, “And I’m . . . worried about her.”

  “But not yourself?” Thessaly commented.

  Cassie paused. “No, I’m fine. I can handle it. But Evie’s . . . she’s fragile.”

  “It’s common to focus on other people after a traumatic incident, to distract oneself from your own problems,” Thessaly noted.

  “It’s not like that,” Cassie protested, but then she reconsidered. She had been focusing on Evie, on her mother, on anything to keep her from reliving that night over again. “Maybe,” she admitted.

  Thessaly gave a small smile. “So, if not Evie, is there anyone else you have to talk to? Friends back home? Your parents, perhaps.”

  “No.” Cassie shook her head. “That’s not . . . I mean, I’m fine.” She pressed her lips together determinedly. “It happened. It’s happened before. But I’m fine, I don’t need to talk about it.”

  “All right then.” Thessaly stood. Cassie blinked up at her in surprise. She’d been expecting more questions, an hour of well-intentioned interference, but instead, Thessaly was walking back to her desk and scrolling through her phone. She looked up, catching Cassie’s expression. “I’m not going to keep you here.” She smiled gently. “It sounds like you have a handle on things. Just know you can call and arrange to see me anytime.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” Cassie grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

  “And tell your roommate to come see me if she needs to,” Thessaly added. “Mental health is important, especially in these pressured environments. We don’t want anyone slipping through the cracks.”

  17

  CASSIE WORKED LATE AT THE LIBRARY THAT NIGHT, THEN HAD AN early-morning lecture and economics tutorial the next day. She turned her key in the lock around noon, hoping for a quiet afternoon by the fire, but when she stepped into the apartment, Evie was in the living room on her hands and knees, anxiously hunting through papers and files that were scattered and sprawled across the room.

  “Hey.” Cassie began the unwrapping of her coat, scarf, and extra sweater. “How are you feeling?”

  Evie didn’t look up. “It’s not here.” She flipped back and forth through folders and research books, her expression becoming more agitated. “It’s not here,” she said again, eyes darting across the debris, “Nineteen fifty, fifty-one . . . The Marlowe files, or maybe Hariot? No, Marlowe, Marlowe . . .”

  Cassie felt a tremor of unease. She drifted closer. “What is it you’re looking for?”

  There was no reply. Evie pulled another box closer and tore through the contents, carelessly discarding papers to the floor that Cassie could see were delicate and yellowed with age. “Easy there,” she told Evie, scooping up the papers and placing them gently on the coffee table. “Tell me what you’re after. Maybe I can help.”

  “But I saw it!” Evie exclaimed. “Right here; it was here. She had it all figured out!” She spun around and began to dismantle another stack of papers.

  “Evie,” Cassie soothed her. “Evie, stop!” But the other woman didn’t seem to hear her, of if she did, Cassie’s voice didn’t break through whatever panic she was swept up in, not until Cassie reached out and touched her gently on the arm.

  Evie sprang back in shock. “Hey, it’s okay,” Cassie soothed her quickly. “Just take a beat, and we’ll figure this out.” Evie’s breath was coming in fast, shallow pants. Her cheeks were flushed, but instead of being relieved that there was color back in her face after so many pale, translucent days, Cassie could only see the fevered spark in Evie’s eyes. “How about you take a break,” she suggested again, trying to steer Evie away from the mess. “I’l
l put the kettle on and we can break open those fancy biscuits you got.”

  But her roommate stood firm. “I have to find it!” Her voice was edged with a raw panic.

  “And we will.” Cassie was careful not to make any sudden movements as she guided Evie across to the kitchen area. “You just need a moment to clear your head. Maybe you should get out, take a walk. I find fresh air always help get me focused again.”

  Evie glanced up. “Wait, what time is it?”

  Cassie checked her watch. “Twenty after noon.”

  Evie let out a gasp. “I was going out! I was supposed to meet Olivia across town.”

  “Did she call?” Cassie asked. “That’s great.”

  Evie shook her head violently. “I kept getting her voice mail, but I said I’d be there. Now they’ll all think I’ve let them down.” She grabbed her purse from the sofa and rifled through it until she pulled out her cell phone, quickly scrolling through her messages. Cassie watched her face fall and knew the truth even before Evie exhaled. “She didn’t call.”

  “Well, then it’s all okay,” Cassie tried to argue. “You can see her later. And what about your other friends? You had some before you met Olivia and the gang, right? If you want to get out and about, why don’t you arrange to see them instead?”

  “You don’t understand,” Evie cried. “It’s not about party plans! Olivia can help, she can explain things to Hugo. I need to fix everything.” Cassie watched as Evie turned away, murmuring into her cell phone. “Hi, Livvy, it’s me. Sorry I bailed today, work got away from me. Let’s do lunch later this week. Or drinks. Or . . .” Her fake enthusiasm faded, and the desperation in her tone came loud and clear. “Whatever you want, just call me, okay? I miss you!” She hung up and stood frozen in the middle of the room.

  “It’s probably a good thing you stayed in today,” Cassie tried to console her. “I bet you’ve got tons of work done, and if you get a good night’s sleep too—”

  “Don’t.” Evie cut her off sharply. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some kind of fucking child.”

  Cassie took a step back. “I’m sorry,” she said, carefully. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Well, I don’t need your help.” Evie’s voice rose. “I can handle this for myself. Everyone always acts like I don’t see what’s happening, but I do.” She waved an accusing finger at Cassie, eyes bright. “I see it, okay; I got too close, but you can all stop pretending now!”

  Cassie held her hands out, palms to Evie, trying to calm her. It was automatic, a gesture of submission that brought back memories of her mother and the nights she’d raged over nothing. “Everything’s okay,” she said quietly.

  “It’s not okay,” Evie cried, backing away. “Just look at it!” She gestured wildly to the mess littering the room and the notes pinned to a board by the mantelpiece. “My proposal is due and nothing is adding up! I thought I could see it, the reason they were all bound together, it was so clear, but she’s the only one who found it, and I can’t . . .” Evie trailed off, grabbing at another stack of papers.

  “Who found what?” Cassie asked, but Evie was too far gone.

  “I don’t know what happened, it was here and now it’s gone and now nothing makes sense anymore.”

  “We’ll find it.” Cassie felt helpless. She didn’t know what to do—she didn’t even know how this storm had started, only that it was raging now, fierce and broken, reminding her of those awful days hiding in the bathroom, waiting for her mother’s panic and mayhem to subside. But she couldn’t hide from Evie that way, couldn’t close her eyes tight and count as high as she could to block out reality. She had to do something. “Listen to me,” she said, louder, as Evie began to sob. “I can help.”

  “I don’t want your help,” Evie cried. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, her torso shuddering with violent sobs. “I don’t want anything. I just need you to leave me alone! Why can’t you all just leave me alone?” With a final cry, she grabbed her files from the table and sent them crashing to the floor. Cassie jumped back as the pages scattered on the carpet. Evie released another sob and then turned and fled for her room, the door slamming behind her.

  Cassie sank down on the edge of the armchair, catching her breath. The attic was still now, distant traffic noise audible through the far open window. She hoped that Evie would sleep and then wake up refreshed and calm, just as her mother had done after her more treacherous episodes.

  But they weren’t the same, Cassie reassured herself, as she bent to the ground and began gathering up the mess of notes and paper. Her mother had been ill, unbalanced by chemicals that sent her reeling off a fragile tightrope, doomed from birth to ricochet to the extremes. Evie was simply tired, overworked, stressed from her studies and too many sleepless nights. Her roommate would be all right, Cassie told herself, sorting the scattered papers into neat piles. Christmas vacation was coming soon, just a few weeks away. Once she’d had time back with her family, away from the lure of Olivia and Hugo, she would be fine again, back to the old Evie, so effervescent and bright.

  Soon the room was returned to some semblance of order: cushions arranged back on the sofa, blanket straightened over the back of a chair. Cassie paused over Evie’s notes, scanning through the dense handwriting as she tried to pick out any familiar names or references to the School of Night.

  Evie’s research was more academic than narrative: she was tracing the evolution of ideas during Raleigh’s life, the conditions that allowed a hub of creative, revolutionary thought to flourish despite the suppression of the Crown and church. Astronomers, playwrights, mathematicians, and intellectuals all found a kinship in one another, and a pursuit of some higher purpose and knowledge in a society rife with religious persecution.

  So how did this group of intellectuals become the secretive society they were today? If such a group even existed in modern-day Oxford. It was still a shadow she was chasing, and part of Cassie couldn’t believe she was worrying about centuries-old rumors. They were superstitions, and Cassie was the last person to buy into those kind of fanatical conspiracies, but she couldn’t shake the fact of that photograph, with its ominous scribbled caption.

  Black is the badge of hell, the hue of dungeons, and the school of night.

  She was still no closer to discovering who had slipped it in her mailbox, who at Raleigh knew the truth of her identity, and the reason behind her quest.

  Cassie shivered, looking at Evie’s spread of chaotic notes. Maybe the answers were there, or maybe she was chasing after nothing, distracted from the real purpose of her trip.

  Her father’s identity.

  The college bells rang out, shattering her thoughts, and Cassie realized with a start that she was late; she was set to work the afternoon shift at the library. She sent an anxious look toward Evie’s bedroom. She didn’t want to leave her, but she couldn’t stay and babysit a locked door all afternoon. Scribbling a quick note to Evie, she grabbed her coat and let herself out, heading down to the main gates and along the busy streets toward the library. She hated to admit it, but since the attack she’d changed how she moved across the city, keeping to the main roads, staying away from the winding backstreets. She resented the new anxiety she felt, pulling her coat tight around her and walking fast, alert and ready, but she couldn’t help it. Sebastian had shown her that Oxford wasn’t the safe idyll it pretended to be.

  Elliot had left a note for her tucked in the circulations desk, telling her to meet him at Blackwell’s after her shift.

  I have news, his cryptic scrawl promised, and Cassie spent the afternoon on edge, wondering what he’d found. She’d had only a smattering of responses to her e-mails to Margaret’s old classmates, and all of them apologized for having nothing to share. They barely remembered her; she’d left before their first year was done; it was all so many years ago. Cassie tried not to feel frustrated, but coming up against another dead end was a frustrating blow. She’d thought discovering her mother’s real name would be all it took to
unlock the secrets of her past, but now she saw that although Margaret had been the most important person in her life, to the others she’d mingled with in college she’d been just one in a crowd of hundreds. She’d barely left a shadow of memory behind.

  At last her shift was over and Cassie walked the short blocks over to Blackwell’s, finding the crammed aisles busy with browsers, just one free seat to be had in the bustling café. Elliot was wedged into a seat in the corner, trying to protect the other chair from a determined-looking woman. “See, she’s here,” Cassie heard him say meanly as she wove through the pack. “Finally,” he exclaimed, greeting her. “I thought she was going to shank me.”

  “Over a free seat?” Cassie laughed, unwinding her scarf.

  “People have died here for less,” Elliot retorted. “Now, how about some cake?”

  Cassie obediently went to get them coffees and refreshments, parting with most of her afternoon wages before she shuffled carefully back to the table. “What you have better be worth it,” she said lightly, only half joking. “They’re charging an arm and a leg for the chocolate torte.”

  “Worth every penny, I promise.” Elliot made room on the table, pushing his newspapers aside. “How have you been getting on with the search, anyway?” He looked at her over his trendy spectacles. “Any new developments since last we spoke?”

  Cassie shook her head, taking a sip of hot, strong coffee. “Nothing from me. I wanted to talk more to my roommate about the group, but . . . she’s been busy.”

  “Well, I did a little more digging into your mysterious Margaret,” Elliot began, rummaging in his leather satchel and pulling out a dog-eared spiral notebook. “I know we tracked down her classmates, but I thought I’d widen the net. This one name kept coming up, Rose Smith. Ring any bells?”

  “No,” Cassie replied, but she felt a shiver. Rose was her middle name.