Page 2 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

“Picky lot, scientists,” Dameer remarked, retrieving the mangled piece of wood from his lap. “I’m surprised they accepted your application to their lecture series given how often they tear your work apart.”

In the springtime, the Society had advertised a week-long series of lectures on the creation and examination of microscopic slides. Kalila had applied under Dameer’s name without consulting him, hopeful that he’d agree to go if accepted.

And accepted she had been. A shame that her cousin didn’t seem to grasp how significant an achievement that was.

“It means I’ve piqued their curiosity,” Kalila said with a prideful tilt of her chin. She peered over Dameer’s shoulder. “What are you making?”

“A bird,” Dameer said. “Can’t you tell?”

Kalila bit her lip. Dameer’s bird looked more like the beginnings of a hedgehog. Unlike Kalila, her cousin’s heart did not belong to one particular pursuit. Instead, he seemed quite content to explore skills in short bursts, never sticking to one for long. Woodworking was his latest endeavor, and he was quite terrible at it.

“Indeed,” Kalila said kindly, pressing her finger to a pointy end. “Here’s the beak.”

“Tail,” Dameer corrected. “But I appreciate the effort.”

Another companionable silence settled. Kalila stared at the crumbling old church before them, the midpoint between her home and Dameer’s. They had both been born and raised in Gloucestershire, the very same place their parents had left the East for. The way her father Khalid told it, he’d decided to leave home to protect Kalila’s mother from the deep disapproval her in-laws had for her Kurdish roots. Unable to bear the thought of separating from her sister, Kalila’s aunt had followed, her own husband in tow. Kalila, for her part, suspected something else had pushed them from their homes—be it political instability or outright bloodshed—but had never been able to get her father to admit to it.

It’s a tale of romantic sacrifice, Kalila, he always said. You should be overjoyed.

“I’m bored,” Dameer said, tossing his half-finished bird to the side in an abrupt motion. “And hot.”

Hot, Kalila could agree with. It was the height of summer, and the sun had been rather unforgiving lately.

“You’re the one who didn’t want to go to France,” Kalila reminded him.

Dameer straightened his back in indignation. “Only because you didn’t want to, either!”

A giggle rose in Kalila’s throat. Their families were due to leave for their annual holiday and Dameer had refused to make the trip the minute he’d heard that Kalila was to remain in Gloucestershire for the sake of her research. With only three years between them, they had been attached at the hip for as long as Kalila could remember.

“You could still go,” she teased. “I’m sure Farah is still pouting over your decision to stay here.”

Dameer snorted at the mention of his younger sister. “Farah was only putting on an act. She would hate to have me come along.” He stood, brushing the curled wood shavings from his pale trousers. “Come to Northborough.”

Kalila considered the idea for a moment before shaking her head. “I should go back and catalog these plants.”

“Oh, fine. But are you entirely sure you don’t want to pursue feminine accomplishments such as embroidery and music, cousin?”

“Are you entirely sure I won’t take a fist to your face for the suggestion?” Kalila shot back, picking her basket up.

“Such behavior,” Dameer said with faux disapproval, dropping his hat on his head. “Your father would applaud you.”

Kalila grinned. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

“Shall I come to Heatherden tomorrow?”

Kalila tied the ribbon of her bonnet into a messy knot. The walk home would give her ample time to think about her paper. “Only if you think about joining the lecture series.”

Turning to leave, he said, “Absolutely not.”

Sighing, Kalila turned in the opposite direction and began to walk to Heatherden. It was frustrating enough that she couldn’t convince her stubborn cousin to attend the lectures on her behalf, and even more frustrating that she couldn’t simply go on her own. She glanced down at the paper in her basket. It would take half an evening to read and respond to the comments, and another week to put together an even more robust proposal.

Feminine accomplishments, indeed.

*

“You wanted to see me, Comerford?”

Oliver Booth leaned against the doorway of Laurence Comerford’s office, barely able to see the other man’s shock of gray hair from behind the piles of papers and books that littered his desk. A pair of icy blue eyes appeared over the top of a stack.