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‘Ass,’ Ramy muttered.
‘Do I look like I’m serving staff?’ Victoire asked anxiously. ‘And what’s a Tregear?’
‘Never mind,’ Robin said quickly. ‘Just – ignore Colin, he’s an idiot.’
‘And you look ethereal,’ Letty assured her. ‘We’ve all just got to relax, everyone – here.’ She extended her arm to Ramy. ‘Your shift’s done now, isn’t it? Dance with me.’
He laughed. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Come on.’ She seized his hands and tugged him towards the dancing crowd. ‘This waltz isn’t hard, I’ll teach you the steps—’
‘No, really, stop.’ Ramy extricated his hands from hers.
Letty crossed her arms. ‘Well, it’s no fun just sitting here.’
‘We’re sitting here because we’re already barely tolerated, and because as long as we don’t move too quickly or speak too loudly, we can blend into the background or at least pretend to be serving staff. That’s how this works, Letty. A brown man at an Oxford ball is a fun curiosity as long as he keeps to himself and manages not to offend anyone, but if I dance with you, then someone’s going to hit me, or worse.’
She huffed. ‘Don’t be dramatic.’
‘I’m only being prudent, dear.’
One of the Sharp brothers drifted by just then and extended his hand to Letty. It seemed a rather rude and perfunctory gesture, but Letty took it without comment and left, tossing Ramy a nasty look over her shoulder as she sauntered off.
‘Good for her,’ Ramy muttered. ‘And good riddance.’
Robin turned to Victoire. ‘You’re feeling all right?’
‘I don’t know.’ She looked very nervous. ‘I feel – I don’t know, exposed. Put on display. I told Letty they’d think I was staff—’
‘Don’t mind Colin,’ said Robin. ‘He’s a prat.’
She looked unconvinced. ‘Aren’t they all like Colin, though?’
‘Hello, there.’ A red-haired boy in a purple waistcoat swooped upon them. It was Vincy Woolcombe – the least awful of Pendennis’s friends, Robin recalled. Robin opened his mouth to greet him, but Woolcombe’s eyes slid over him completely; he was solely focused on Victoire. ‘You’re in our college, aren’t you?’
Victoire glanced around for a moment before realizing Woolcombe was indeed addressing her. ‘Yes, I—’
‘You’re Victoire?’ he asked. ‘Victoire Desgraves?’
‘Yes,’ she said, standing up a bit straighter. ‘How did you know my name?’
‘Well, there are only two of you in your year,’ said Woolcombe. ‘Woman translators. You must be brilliant to be at Babel. Of course we know your names.’
Victoire’s mouth was slightly open, but she said nothing; she seemed unable to determine whether Woolcombe was about to make fun of her or not.
‘J’ai entendu dire que tu venais de Paris.’ Woolcombe dipped his head in a slight bow. ‘Les parisiennes sont les plus belles.’
Victoire smiled, surprised. ‘Ton français est assez bon.’
Robin watched this exchange, impressed. Perhaps Woolcombe was not so terrible after all – perhaps he was only a prat in association with Pendennis. He, too, wondered briefly if Woolcombe was having fun at Victoire’s expense, but there were no leering friends in sight; no one was glancing surreptitiously over their shoulders and pretending not to laugh.
‘Summers in Marseilles,’ said Woolcombe. ‘My mother is of French extraction; she insisted I learn. Would you say it’s passable?’
‘You exaggerate the vowels a bit,’ Victoire said earnestly, ‘but otherwise, not bad.’
Woolcombe, to his credit, did not seem offended at this correction. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Would you like to dance?’
Victoire lifted her hand, hesitated, then glanced at Robin and Ramy as if asking their thoughts.
