Page 4 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

Truth be told, there were a few things Oliver found reasonable in D.R.’s work as well. But the theories being proposed were so new and outlandish that it was difficult not to point out every weakness in them. To D.R.’s credit, he never gave up. Ever. Every revision of his paper included creative explanations to the questions the Society put forth. It was almost a game at this point—D.R. would send the paper over, the Society would declare it in need of editing and send it back, D.R. would make the necessary rewrites and try again. Round and round they went with little end in sight. Oliver had given up on asking intelligent questions some time ago and had been amusing himself by leaving entirely unhelpful comments in the margins instead.

As likely as snowfall in Hell, he’d write.

In response, and much to Oliver’s interest, D.R. never took the bait. Instead, he would patiently flesh out the section in question, weaving such a tangled web of theory that even Oliver was unable to keep up.

He wasn’t fond of those—rare, naturally—occasions.

“What is science without theory?” Comerford mused, pulling Oliver out of his reverie.

Oliver sighed and began to head for the door. “You’re lucky I’m attending the lectures at all. I’ve far better things to do than hole myself up in the laboratory with you insufferable lot.”

“Yes, what will London do without you?” Comerford asked dryly, still behind his desk. “The time you spend in the laboratory will provide the town with some respite, at least.”

Oliver laughed. “But only some. Tell me, will Jennings be pleased now that you’ve told me off?”

“Away with you, Booth,” Comerford said. “Before I revoke your membership.”

“You wouldn’t.”

With a final parting grin, Oliver turned on his heel and began to walk to the university’s front entrance. In truth, he was bubbling with anticipation for the start of the series.

Not that he would ever admit as much to Comerford. It would ruin the fun.

Chapter Two

The following morning, Kalila awoke to find that she had once again fallen asleep at her writing desk. Her cheek was pressed against the dark wood, the tip of her pencil sitting precariously close to her right eye. Slowly, she shifted into a sitting position, wincing as her bones put themselves back into their proper places. She glanced down at her paper which, she had to admit, was coming along well. To her shock, she had received fair, thought-provoking critique, which had ignited a sort of excitement—or hysteria fueled by sleep deprivation, rather—in the late hours of the night. Whatever the source of her energy, it had been quickly snuffed out once she’d come across Mr. Booth’s comments. Had he written one word more, she would have been compelled to send him a missive demanding he take her proposal seriously.

A knock echoed throughout the room and Kalila’s mother peeked around the door. “Good morning, habibti. Do you want to come down for breakfast?”

Kalila bit back a yawn. “Is Dameer here yet?”

Jwan walked in and approached Kalila, running her hands through her daughter’s dark curls in an obvious attempt to render them presentable. Kalila looked up at her mother, taking in the honey-colored hair and pale skin that was so different from her own. “He came knocking a few minutes ago.”

When her mother was done with her fussing, Kalila straightened and pushed her hands into the achy small of her back before pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “Are you leaving after we eat?”

Jwan nodded. “We should have left at dawn, but you know how your father is about his sleep.”

“Dead to the world until there’s food on the table,” Kalila said with a giggle. “Go on without me—I’ll come down soon.”

After her mother had left, Kalila began to rearrange her work into a tidy pile in the center of her desk. Her eye caught the initials D.R. written at the top, and discouragement barreled through her with unexpected force. Although publication was her primary goal, a not-so-tiny part of her wished she could make it known that a woman had come up with these theories. As she went through her morning rituals, she began to think about the Society—or, specifically, what changes she would make to it if given the opportunity.

Women would be allowed, of course, she thought absently while braiding her unruly hair. As for her next idea, well—the more she lingered on the subject, the more she realized that every change hinged on women being welcomed into the fray.

But how could one go about orchestrating such a thing?

Knowing she did not have the time to settle on the answer, she went to the dining room to join her family for breakfast. Her father sat at the head of the table with Jwan to his right and Dameer to his left. Kalila could see that he was already talking her cousin’s ear off—something about the fine carpets that had been hung on the wall.

While Heatherden was a house of English construction, its insides were anything but. The paintings and tapestries scattered throughout the house were all Mesopotamian in origin and more than a handful of surfaces were littered with the metalwork their hometown province of Mosul was known for. It was what her paternal side had dedicated themselves to for a century, and it was what her father traded in now, relying on his familial connections to source the best inlaid brass and copper pieces to sell to collectors. Before Kalila had come into the world, he had invested his earnings in a series of clever ventures, which had left him able to care for both his immediate relations and those who had chosen to remain abroad. Kalila knew his success was a point of pride for him—and she also knew he hated to let that pride show.

“Kalila!” he said, his loud voice booming across the room. “Your meal awaits!”

Kalila bit back a chuckle and went to the sideboard, piling a slice of bread with cheese and arranging cold slices of tomato and cucumber around it on a plate. When she was done, she went to sit by Dameer, who was taking timid sips of tea while trying to explain to Khalid that he was not, in fact, interested in metalworking.

“A shame, a shame,” Khalid said before turning to Kalila. “Your mother says you were asleep at your desk. What were you working on?”

Kalila shrugged. While her parents knew of her research, she had never told them about her attempts to woo the Society into accepting her work. “I was taking notes on the specimens I collected from the old church yesterday.”

“Your daughter is a genius, Jwan,” Khalid declared, turning to his wife with an affectionate twinkle in his eye.