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Someone had ransacked his room, stolen his notebook and poured oil on the stairs. Jem wished with all his heart he had never put in his resignation, never left London, never done this bloody stupid thing in the first place.
He made his way back down the treacherous stair, with a pounding heart and a death-grip on the rail. He had to stop for a moment at the bottom, leaning on the banister, both because his foot was really hurting now and because he didn’t want to go out in the cold and the dark where someone who had tried to kill him might be waiting. If he’d had anyone to ask—a stranger, a scout—he’d have begged them to accompany him outside, but there was nobody.
He took a single step outside into the darkness, and a voice said, ‘Jem.’
He yelled aloud, whipping round and stumbling. A hard hand caught his arm. Nicky.
Nicky had been there, waiting outside Bascomb Stair, and the terror and pain and betrayal were so overwhelming he couldn’t speak, couldn’t try to run, couldn’t do anything but think, desperately,Not Nicky, not like this…
‘Jem? Are you all right?’
‘No,’ he managed. ‘I’m bloody not.’
Nicky stepped into the pool of light from the door, brows snapping together. ‘What in God’s name has happened to you?’
Don’t you know?Jem wanted to snarl. He felt himself lurch as his legs almost gave way, and Nicky’s hand tightened. Taking his weight, keeping him up.
Nicky had always, always been careful of his foot.
‘There’s oil on the stairs,’ he said. ‘Lots of it. I fell. And my room’s been vandalised, broken into, my books torn up, and I need to tell the Lodge but—but my foot hurts.’
Nicky hissed. ‘Wait here. I’ll go and look.’
‘No!’ Jem couldn’t be left alone, not out in the dark. He saw Nicky’s expression and moderated his voice. ‘No, please. Could you—could you just walk with me to the Lodge?’
Nicky gave him a long look, up and down. ‘No, you bloody fool. I shall walk you to my rooms, which are warm, dry and secure. I will then go and look at whatever’s happened, and bring the porter to you before you know it.’
Jem wanted that, very badly, and resented the fear and the pain that made him want it. He stared up at Nicky, unable to agree or refuse.
Nicky sighed irritably. ‘Do come on. It’s freezing.’
If he’d wanted Jem in his rooms for nefarious purposes, he’d had plenty of opportunity before now. Jem gripped his arm, leaning heavily on him, and half-hopped three paces before Nicky said, ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Come here.’
‘What do you mean?’
Nicky bent forward. ‘Arm round my neck. Don’t be stupid, I won’t drop you.’ His arms went round Jem, he straightened with a grunt of effort, and then Jem was off his feet, being carried past the Master’s lodging at a briskly determined pace.
‘Nicky!’ he protested weakly, because Nicky couldn’t just pick him up like this, and because he’d have liked to bury his face in Nicky’s gowned shoulder. He hoped nobody was watching, and wasn’t sure he cared if they were.
‘You really do weigh an extraordinary amount.’ Nicky strode through the arch, lean muscles tense with effort. ‘You must have lead bones. Nearly there now. I very irresponsibly put the kettle on before I came out looking for you, so it should be boiling shortly.’ He let Jem slip down, bracing him carefully, unlocked the door, and ushered him in. ‘All right, let’s have your coat. Good God, you’re filthy. Sit. I will return with a porter, remember.’
Don’t be waiting naked in my bed, Jem supposed that meant, though he had no intention of that. He let himself collapse into Nicky’s armchair in front of the fire, a filthy, exhausted mess, as Nicky went out and turned the key in the lock behind him.
That had been an attack on him, and the only question was by whom. Jem would have loved to believe it was a student rag, or that he’d been targeted by the sort of person who wrote anonymous letters. That would have been a comforting conclusion, given the alternatives.
Aaron, Ella, Nicky. Hugo, even, because, although he was far from likely, he was here. Maybe Prue had come to Oxford too and they had the full house. He almost laughed.
Nicky reappeared some time later with the duty porter, who looked decidedly harried, as people tended to when Nicky started in on them. He seemed to have persuaded the unfortunate man that Jem was on the verge of launching an expensive lawsuit.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry, sir,’ the porter said, several times. ‘It’s a shocking piece of spite. There’s nobody else on that floor, but I’ll go and put sand down at once. Do you need a doctor called?’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’
‘For now,’ Nicky said. ‘If his foot’s playing up tomorrow, we’ll naturally call one at the college’s expense.’
‘Er, yes, DrRook. I’ve seen to your things, MrKite. Was there anything missing that you noticed?’
‘Notebook,’ Jem said. Between the bad night, the warm fire, the shock, he was barely able to form words. ‘Card binding. Did you find it?’
