“My mother would kill me.” Her lips compressed. “But then… it’s not as if she wants to know. It’s awful to even think of it. Awful and selfish. To want this, even knowing what I’m risking.”
“So that’s a yes, then.”
She turned and looked at him. And then, because Sebastian had nothing to lose, he winked at her.
“God.” She waved a hand at him in dismissal, but he could see a hint of a smile tilting the corner of her lip.
So long as he could still make her smile, he hadn’t lost yet.
“You,” she said with a shake of her head. “Yes, then.”
SEBASTIAN BOARDED A TRAIN for Cambridge the morning after he talked to Violet. The familiar journey had calmed his cycling worries. He left the station, walked along the riverbanks, and then made his way up the cobbled streets wending up through the market, all the while telling himself that this was his usual journey, that he need not think of his mission. He made his way from there to his friend’s office, where he was greeted and ushered in with good grace.
Five years ago, Sebastian had sat on this precise chair, in this precise position, watching Professor Simon Bollingall read a paper he hadn’t written. In those first years, he’d provided advice. He’d helped Sebastian at every step of the way.
Since that time, Professor Bollingall had become a friend. Nowadays, he listened intently to Sebastian’s every word. And today, Sebastian needed his help to end the career he’d helped to start.
The man sat on his chair, his attention fixed attentively on Sebastian, his lips forming a too-eager smile. All that smiling attention was an illusion.
Sebastian glanced around the room. “Is that a photograph of your family?” he asked, gesturing to a frame that stood on a side table. It showed a grouping of five—man, woman, and three children in that awkward, spotty stage just before adulthood. Sitting for a photograph didn’t make them look any better; the children stared blankly ahead, no expressions on their faces whatsoever.
“Yes,” Bollingall said. “Alice made that one—you know she’s made quite a hobby of her photography. She’s become quite good. That one there is also hers—Trinity College from the backs in winter.”
Sebastian nodded, glancing politely at the other framed photograph.
“So, Malheur,” Bollingall said, “what have you come up with this time?”
Sebastian leaned back in his chair. “I’m giving this up.”
That eager smile faded into blank confusion. Bollingall leaned back in his chair. “Giving what up?”
“Scientific discovery.”
Instead of looking startled, though, the professor laughed. “Ah, you’re at that stage of your career, are you? We all feel that way from time to time. When the work isn’t going well. When we’re feeling overwhelmed.” He leaned forward. “You work too hard—that’s your problem. When was the last time you took a holiday? Go to the shore. Engage in a little sea-bathing. Relax for a week or two, and you’ll feel like a new man.”
Sebastian bit his lip. “It’s a lovely idea, but my problem is not that I work too hard. It’s that I do not work enough.”
Bollingall nodded compassionately. “That’s typical, too. There’s always something else to do, some other idea to explore. You can’t put the work down. You think of it all the time and feel guilty every minute you’re away. I only repeat my recommendation: Take a little time for yourself, and you’ll soon feel better.”
Sebastian had been afraid it would come to this. He trusted Bollingall implicitly. But he felt a little sick. He was about to expose himself his secret to a man who had put his own reputation on the line for Sebastian several times over.
“That’s not what I mean, either.” Sebastian took in a deep breath. “I am not weary of doing work. Hypothetically speaking, what would you say if you heard that I did not do all the work myself?”
Across the desk from him, Bollingall didn’t even bat an eye. “Most of us don’t. I have a servant take measurements for me. The point isn’t who performs the actual work—that’s mere manual labor. It’s the intellectual work that matters, after all.”
Sebastian expelled a sigh. “Let us suppose that the intellectual work that I have reported was not done by me. That it was done by someone else.”
Bollingall frowned.
“Let us suppose,” Sebastian said, “that it was done by a woman.”
The other man froze. Only for an instant—just long enough to stare at Sebastian in surprise. Then he exhaled and glanced at the door. It was shut firmly—something Sebastian had made sure of before he spoke. But even the books lining his office seemed to judge Sebastian—hundreds of volumes all penned by men who were not frauds. Sebastian’s pulse quickened, and he braced himself for Bollingall’s disappointment.
Instead the man licked his lips and leaned in. “Well,” he said softly, “that happens, too.”
Sebastian’s mouth went dry.