Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he stares at me for some moments, still slouching, still with his hands stuck in his pockets. Then he straightens and says to me, “No.”
There’s buzzing in my ears, and I don’t think it’s my good friend tinnitus. I clench my fists. “Is that why you told…” My brain scrabbles, trying to remember the new grad’s name. “That guyto send me home?”Shit.I didn’t even last one night.
There’s a long, weighty pause, his gaze now searching my face. “Yes.”
I knew it! The arsehole. It’s lucky I stayed, and didn’t quail, and—with his guidance, to be fair—managed to do it. Otherwise he’d still be thinking of me as a weak little mag.fam girl.
This time, it’s my turn to roll my eyes and turn away.
“Chan.” Harrisford’s hand encircles my wrist, spinning me back around. “I was thinking…”
“That’s a first,” I mutter, jerking my hand away. He shoots me a filthy look, so I give him my falsest, most saccharine smile. “Dogo on.”
“Since there are no signs of the tethers in the common room or the stables, perhaps we’re not thinking big enough.” He drags his fingers through his hair, making it stick up all over, though annoyingly even messy hair suits him. “What if the tethers are only needed to keep open the biggest holes? And cause the biggest explosions? What if all the other surges are like aftershocks—”
“Like an earthquake?” The idea is starting to invigorate me, in spite of my tiredness. “Briggs, you could be right! Maybe we should search the Natural History Museum.”
At this, he grins, in a weary sort of way. “How serendipitous,” he says. “Since I’ve just been told that they’re planning another gala.”
Being a veterinary student basically means being the bottom of the hierarchy—way below the nurses and interns.Shit flows downhill, our supervisors like to say as they leave us with full hospital loads and head out for beers, or have us clean up a temporally triggered invisible dog’s feces, or make us telephone the most vexatious clients, like Mr.Featherstone from Chelsea, who goes on long tirades about how unethical we were to implant a microchip into his beagle. He’s adamant that they have GPS capabilities and cannot be convinced otherwise.
So it’s for this reason that, despite being up half the night on call, neither Harrisford nor I get to rest before we’re expected to show up to class.
“You’re going to the gala?” Heloise says as we’re walking some dogs in the yards. “WithHarrisford?”
“Do I have to go, Heli?” I say, my voice pleading. “I don’t want to go.”
“Oh, come on.” Heloise stops to untangle the dogs’ leashes. “It’ll be fun. I’ll be there with Mum and Dad. We’ll get tipsy on wine and judge everybody.”
I chew my lip, thinking, as we resume walking. If Heloise is there, then perhaps it won’t be so bad. She’d be a bit of a buffer, at least, between Harrisford and me. And maybe if I can monopolize Nora Chapman’s attention for a bit, then I’ll be able to quiz her about the surges and how they’re impacting the medical community.
“Yeah.” I smile. “Sounds good, that.”
At precisely 7:00 p.m. that night, Harrisford raps on my door. It’s as though he wants to rub in the fact that he, unlike me, is a punctual sort of person.
I glance in the mirror, smoothing down my skirt. After I’d told him I literally had nothing in my wardrobe but jeans and charity shop cardigans (and a T-shirt from one fandom that shall remain nameless), Harrisford had arranged the delivery of a ball gown. An actual ball gown. I assume, like the tweed suit, it had been one of his mother’s, though this one seems much more modern.
The dress is one-shouldered and made of deep plum silk. It’s modest enough so that I don’t feel self-conscious, but it clings to my curves in every spot that matters. The skirt hugs my hips until itreaches my knees, where it flares out into what I’m pretty certain is called a fishtail hem.
And…it is absolutely stunning. In fact, I actually feel ridiculous wearing it. Despite trying all evening, I haven’t been able to do anything half decent with my hair, and my makeup skills are less than rudimentary. And now I’ve run out of time. The dress is so commanding that it seems to be wearing me, not the other way round.
With jangling nerves, I try to fix my atrocious updo, attempting to twist some loose bits of hair into my bun.
In my head, Percy gives me a disdainful sniff, from where he’s crouching atop the bar fridge that’s wedged beneath my desk.You look as though you are fighting a losing battle, Hairless One.
“Ugh!” I let out a sharp, frustrated sigh and let the bun go. It flops down, as flaccid and deflated as a neutered minotaur’s scrotum. Standing with my hands on my hips, I grimace at my reflection. Then, because I’m irritated, I unleash my ire onto Percy.
“Why do you call me Hairless One, anyway?” I snap, giving my hair one last tug. “Clearly I have hair, even if it does look like shit. And besides, that’s not my name. My name is Gwen. G-wen.”
Percy swooshes his tail back and forth, his ears flattening slightly. He narrows his eye at me.Yes, well, my name isn’t really Percy, you know. It’sactuallyLord Percival the Second, Purveyor of the Flesh of Small Defenseless Creatures, Destroyer of Carpet, Scratcher of Doors, and Usurper of Recently Vacated Chairs…but I don’t insist that you call me bymyproper name now, do I?
“Fine,” I grumble, my annoyance giving way to a sort of pained defeat. I guess he means the hair on my body, of which I have comparatively little. The rapping at the door resumes, louder and more insistent. “All right! I’m coming!” And, as though my heart rateis correlated with the speed of the knocking, my pulse begins to race.
Resisting the urge to rub my sweaty palms on my dress—my clothes are the only thing going right tonight, and I really don’t want to stain the silk—I finally cross to the door and yank it open.
I’ve no idea what to expect. When Harrisford had first seen me in his mother’s suit, his face had immediately turned cold: a lake freezing over in winter. I guess it had triggered some grief-stricken memories. As pretty as they are, I almost wish he’d stop putting me in Theodora Briggs’s clothes.
So, as soon as I fling open the door, I scrunch my eyes shut, waiting for him to make some haughty remark about my paltry lipstick, or perhaps the messiness of my hair. But there’s no sound so, apprehensive, I crack open one eye.
