His eyes took in the scene—their bedraggled state and the mummy cocoon of dust and stone on the floor. He arched a brow.
“Well. Judging by your appearance, you’ve had quite the night. I imagine I’ll hear the full report in due course.” His gaze lingered on the makeshift sarcophagus. “And as for that ... I presume one of my students is inside? I can feel her emotions quite clearly, and she’s none too pleased with you, Professor Cole.”
Isla stood, a little embarrassed at being caught snuggling with another professor, but not too embarrassed that she wouldn’t do it again.
“I’m sure she’s not, Vice Chancellor. And I assure you, her professor is none too pleased with her.”
Chapter Fifty
December 31st
Lady Beatrice Hatherleigh reclined in her high-backed chair, the velvet of her gown whispering as she crossed her ankles. Her cane leaned casually against the armrest.
The drawing room, softly lit with the golden glow of candles, reflected the careful symmetry of her world: every object in its place, every visitor aware of their position.
“Reginald,” she said smoothly, “I hope you organized someone to dispose of the man from Whitcombe and Hawthorne insisting we reimburse him for the payments we received?”
The major nodded. “I did, my lady.”
“The cheek of that man! We killed a fair few of those connected to the penicillin circle. One must always be paid for work done, even if the job wasn’t complete; our group put in many hours.” She sniffed. “Though all this talk of pay is rather vulgar.”
“I think,” Major Ellison spoke up, “that we have to be careful, my lady. We can’t let word get out about our unsuccessful mission. We still need clients.”
Beatrice huffed. “We already have a new client who is far more interesting than the last and paying much more.”
“And what do you plan to do with Professor Cole?” the major asked, clearly thinking strategically.
She felt her fingers spark a little as her anger flared. “Unfortunately, going up against a Fated couple has caused too many losses. For now, we need all our focus on our new client. You are right: we have a reputation to uphold, and as much as it pains me to admit it, we need to repair some of the damage from our recent failure.”
She toyed with the idea of revenge—extinguishing the irritant Isla herself—but she was not a petty person, and now was not the time. The game was bigger than spite.
A soft knock and a maid poked her head in, her timid voice barely carrying. “Milady, I—”
The interruption broke her composure. Her hand twitched.
“I told you I am not to be disturbed,” she snapped. Sparks shot from her fingers, incinerating the girl. Flames leapt in tiny arcs—a controlled pyrotechnic ballet, an unintended indoor fireworks display, born from her anger. Lady Beatrice’s eyes followed the display with a slight, satisfied smile. It was New Year’s Eve after all.
She heaved a sigh. “I cannot seem to get decent staff these days.” Looking back at her two guests, she added, “Do not be distracted by the theatrics,” her voice calm again. “Revenge on Isla Cole will come, but money comes first. The professor can wait—everything will fall into place, eventually. And when it does... well.”
She was an excellent chess player. There was a time for action and a time for patience.
Her gaze swept the room, landing briefly on the two men who thought themselves her equals. “Power,” she said softly, “is the only measure that matters. Always.”
And with that, she rose, cane tapping the floor in a slow, deliberate rhythm—each tap a promise that the game was far from over.
Chapter Fifty-One
February 14th
Andrew’s skates danced along the ice with a secret in his pocket, Isla just ahead of him. Spring would arrive soon enough, and it was the last time he would be able to get away with freezing the pond behind the university campus before the locals thought to question how it was still frozen.
The night of the attack, after disclosing all to Harold, the large group of prisoners, including Olivia-May, had all been arrested, and a couple of all-night partiers had needed to have their emotions gently manipulated to convince them in their drunken state that they hadn’t seen a man floating on an ice board.
Andrew had wanted to whisk Isla to a chapel there and then to marry her before another day passed. But he held off; she deserved to be courted. She had continued to read his journal entries, but she didn’t have the visual reality of them. So he waited.
Now, the ring in his pocket made him nervous. He was 99.9 percent certain she would say yes, but ... a man had to sweat this part out. Even if he’d asked her countless times before. What if the remaining teeny, tiny percent was that she had come to her senses and realized she could do far better than him?
He circled her, and she beamed at him, looking like Bambi on ice. Taking her hands, he skated backward, his movements smooth while she wobbled after him.
