Elodie’s eyes widened as she considered the several trees within view. All had begun shivering, their dry red and gold leaves scratching against the crisp air.
Gabriel caught sight of a young man bearing the hallmarks of an undergraduate student: shabby suit, the pallor of a hangover, hair so glossy with pomade the sunlight was reflecting off it. “You!” he shouted, pointing at the youth.
“What? Me?” The youth clutched himself, eyes bulging with the instinctive terror of a student who might be studying medicine but had nevertheless heard all about Professor Tyrant.
“Do you know the police station on High Street?”
The youth flushed scarlet. “What do you mean? Whyshould I know it? I didn’t break the office window of Balliol’s dean.”
Gabriel exhaled impatiently. “I don’t care if you did or not. I need you to run to the police station and tell them Professor Tarrant invokes Protocol D.”
“But—but I have a train to catch!”
“Come on, lad,” Elodie said encouragingly. “Think of what Jeremy Bentham would say about your duty of beneficence!”
“Bentham?” Confusion glazed the young man’s terror. “Is he captain of the rowing squad?”
Gabriel glared at him.
“Eep!Yes, sir. I’ll go right away, sir. Protocol D. Thank you, sir.” And he dashed away as if his life and, more importantly, his enrollment depended on it.
Gabriel turned back to Elodie. “Are you sure we shouldn’t be going to the Geography School to find the professors?”
“On an afternoon during Noughth Week?” Elodie huffed a laugh. “Absolutely not. Far too much risk of having students turn up. They’ll be at the pub, mark my words.”
“Hm.” Gabriel had heard whispers among the faculty about outings to drinking establishments, and he understood that they were whispering so he didn’t hear them and ask to come along. For which he wasgrateful. And not the kind of grateful that covers up feelings of hurt and unhappiness. Pubs were noisy. Smelly. Fraught with an unrelenting joviality that made reading impossible. Gabriel far preferred a snifter of brandy in one of the quiet lounges of the Minervaeum Club, primarily because no one there was stupid enough to approach him.
On the other hand, did the professors invite Elodie to these pub gatherings? Did they laugh with her, exchange anecdotes with her? If so, there was only one logical conclusion.
He needed to get such gatherings banned.
Or, a wild thought—perhaps he could join in one day. After all, he’d go to the ends of the earth for Elodie; he could spendan hourhalf an hour in a pub.
Providing, of course, Oxford did not burn to the ground this afternoon.
“Let’s go.” Grasping Elodie’s hand, he began to run.
“Wait,” she said, tugging on him to stop. “I have a better idea.”
As he gave her an inquiring look, she grinned in such a way his blood shook with alarm. When Elodie grinned like that, shenanigans were almost certainly to ensue…
—
Toot!
Elodie pumped the velocipede’s horn, causing students to scatter off the road. Steam clouds billowed up from the shuddering engine, and behind her, arms clinging around her waist, Gabriel groaned as his dignity imploded. Elodie laughed.
“It was the sensible option!” she told him—but considering she had to shout over the clanking and rattling of the contraption, inspiring any passersby who weren’t already staring at them to do so, it must be conceded that “sensible” really had no place in a description of the scene. “It’s faster than running!” she tried instead.
“Only if we survive!” Gabriel shouted in reply.
“Don’t worry, it’s perfectly saf—”
Alas, Elodie could not finish this assurance due to Gabriel clutching her tightly, impeding her breath, as she swerved precipitously to avoid a classics professor who’d been attempting a pedestrian crossing. With roars of“Cruentum stulti!”followingthem, they sped on through the city, leaving their good reputations far behind.
Minutes later, they arrived at Beaumont Street, wherein was located the Bacon Butty, a public bar favored by Oxford’s science professors (mostly because Oxford’s science students hated it). Upon entering rather unsteadily, Gabriel trying without success to tidy his hair, and Elodie filled with stars at having had her husband’s arms around her for the journey, they found a half-dozen tweedy geographers clustered around a table laden with plates of fish and chips. The men were enjoying a loud (Gabriel winced) and jovial (Gabriel frowned) debate about whether Descartes was influenced by Eratosthenes, while a large portrait of Roger Bacon on the wall behind their table looked on in boredom. All were equipped with beer tankards of a size known asthe lager majus, and had evidently emptied them enough that they slurred the phrase “Cartesian equations” into something that sounded quite ribald indeed.
Seeing them, Elodie drew a taut breath like she always did when faced with these men, anticipating insults or lecherous stares. As if he sensed this, Gabriel reached to grasp her hand, squeezing it encouragingly; surprised, she flung him a grateful smile. He smiled back fleetingly, and her internal stars flashed and spun.
