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Adrenaline dumped into my system. I went hot, then cold, then hot again. Sweat broke out, dripping down my neck and spine.
With trembling fingers, I went to my notes, calling up the series I’d taken the day she’d offered me the sketches. I clicked on it, expanding the document so I could rattle off the day and time, and what I’d completed when it just—disappeared.
One second, it was right there. On my screen. The next? Gone.
Okay.I sucked in a slow breath, trying to calm myself. I recited the steps in my head.Go to finder. Recents.
Nothing.
Okay.
Go to finder, type “Sprenger.”Nothing.
Without meaning to, I lifted my gaze to the panel and met Diana’s eyes. Those cold, blue eyes, such a shock of color against her pale skin and silver hair, met mine.
And she smiled.
“Dr. Ophidia?” Dr. Merton rapped on the table with his knuckles. “Do you have a record of your notes related to the Sprenger sketches you claim you read in the Bodleian?”
“No,” I croaked, but I did have record of the Al Mas’udi texts. That had been the same day. I was meticulous with my notes.
But just like what happened with the Sprenger note, my Al Mas’udi notes disappeared. One by one, I watched the documents I had open minimize, and then disappear from the screen.
I didn’t know how she did it, but Diana was responsible.
“Without proof of your notes, and with Mrs. Whitmore directly contradicting your statement, your faculty privileges are revoked. You will only have student access at the Bodleian, and the Ashmolean Museum. You may continue to teach your classes, but you will not mention your research, nor will you offer theories or evidence related to the shard discovered in Turkey. Once we discover the origins of the shard, and that you came by both the research, grants, and artifact honestly, and in keeping with our ethical standards, you may resume that topic.”
It was like I was trapped underwater, trying to make out what someone on shore was saying.
“She’s lying,” I got out. Narrowing my eyes, I stared at Mrs. Whitmore. “You brought me that text. You told me it was on loan from Princeton. There will be a record of it at the Bodleian.”
“I can assure you, Ms. Ophidia, we made certain there was no record before we brought it to your attention.”
I was sure he had. They’d probably found it, crumpled it up, and thrown it away.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked him. At no time had I gotten the sense that Dr. Merton was untrustworthy. All of our discussions had been polite and interesting. They’d gone out of their way to bring me to Oxford, and here I was, a month-and-a-half in, and they were trying to get rid of me? “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Diana replied. “You thought that you had gotten away with it, but you didn’t. After the debacle at Harvard, I asked Dr. Merton to give you a chance. Because despite what you think of me, Leonora, I only have your best interest at heart. Time and again, you disrespect me. First in my department, under my tutelage, and then you continue to dishonor me. You’ve brought me nothing but shame, Leonora. And you have no one to blame but yourself.”
The words went through my mind, over and over.Dishonor. Disrespect. Shame.
You have no one to blame but yourself.
My heart pounded, and I swallowed to keep myself from being sick. I hadn’t done any of those things, so why did those words get to me?
You have no one to blame but yourself.
I stared at my hands, replaying her words over and over, trying to rein in my emotions in order to respond. As I lifted my gaze, the sun reflected through one of the crystal sconces, flashing into my eyes.
“How dare you dishonor me? This is my temple.”
I stared at my hands, my broken nails, bloody knees and tried to pull the ripped edges of my gown over my breasts.
“Dr. Ophidia?”
An incessant ringing pulled me back from the vision.
“Yes?”
