A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science (Protocols for Gentility #1)

Chapter One

“Absolutely not. Have you lost your mind?”

Kalila Darwish, who was crouched among a patch of wildflowers, looked up in sharp annoyance. Her cousin Dameer sat underneath the shade of an ancient tree, whittling away at a piece of wood, his long legs stretched out before him.

Tipping her straw bonnet up, Kalila huffed. “I assure you, I have not.”

“Really?” Dameer asked, eyes still glued to his work. “Because I think you just asked me to join a series of stuffy Society lectures so that I might funnel the information back to you.”

To be completely fair to her cousin, that was what Kalila had asked. Not verbatim, as she certainly hadn’t used the word stuffy, but still. She stood, picked up her worn wicker basket, and marched over to where Dameer sat. Dropping the basket at his feet, she put her hands on her narrow hips.

“Find anything interesting?” he asked, still not looking up. He was referring to the plants Kalila had been painstakingly selecting for microscopic examination.

Kalila kicked the sole of his shoe, finally forcing him to meet her gaze with a frown. Dameer had his mother’s curly blond hair and round eyes, but when he frowned, he was every bit the picture of his father.

“What was that for?” he demanded. “I could have nicked myself with my knife.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Kalila said. “The lectures won’t be stuffy, and it’s only a few weeks. How else do you expect me to learn the latest techniques?”

“I don’t.” Dameer picked his whittling up again. “I expect they’ll eventually appear in those boring journals you read.”

Kalila joined him under the shade of the tree with a sigh. “It isn’t the same as doing them. And you know I can’t do that.”

Dameer put his project down again, sympathy coloring his features. “I know, Kal. I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Kalila considered for the thousandth time how wholly unfair it was that science was considered a male pursuit in English society.

She had spent the better part of her twenty-eight years absorbing everything she could about microscopy, only to find that not a single respectable group wanted a woman’s voice in their midst. She might have halted her research altogether if it weren’t for the thrill of discovery that blossomed in her chest every time she examined something new under her old brass microscope.

Because if Kalila was anything, she was a passionate scientist.

It was her father who had regaled her with tales of the myriad discoveries made by scientists from their homeland, fanning the flames of Kalila’s natural curiosity about the world around her.

If he wasn’t waxing poetic about the breakthroughs of mathematicians and physicians like Hasan Ibn al-Haytham and Abd al-Latif al-Baghdadi, he was reminding her of what women like her had achieved in the distant past. For almost a decade, stories about Tapputi, Babylon’s first chemist, and Enheduanna, a high priestess who made strides in astronomy by tracking the moon and stars, had refused to leave Kalila’s head, whispering to her that she could walk a parallel path of her own if she only tried.

Her parents had encouraged her, of course, and had funded every bit of her research without a second thought. But, as much as she continued to appreciate their support, it wasn’t enough. Kalila wanted to publish papers, to speak at seminars, to make herself known.

She had been receiving the quarterly journal from the Society of Microscopic Biology for the last three years and was itching to write for them.

Unlike Philosophical Transactions, the Society’s publication was wholly dedicated to her specific interests—namely, everything that was not visible to the naked eye.

A year into reading the journal, she had convinced Dameer to allow her to submit papers using his initials as her own.

It had seemed a clever idea—better to write under the name of a man who actually existed and could take credit if people stuck their noses where they did not belong than make up a fantastical alter ego.

She still hadn’t been accepted for publication.

Yet, she reminded herself stubbornly. Kalila had written and submitted paper after paper on cell-based theories and the ways microscopy might one day evolve to prove those theories.

Every time, her work had been sent back to her with endless comments from the members of the Society.

While she craved the criticism, some of it was particularly harsh, and some of it was—well.

“The Society returned my latest paper to me,” Kalila said, breaking the silence and digging it out from the pile of leaves and flowers in her basket. “Covered in ink as usual.”

Dameer tilted his head toward her. “Let me guess. Mr. Booth thinks your reasoning weak and your lack of proof borderline offensive.”

“How did you know?” Kalila giggled, handing the paper over to him.

It was titled The Origin of Adult Tissues, authored by Mr. D.R.

and submitted for publication in the journal’s Theoretical Explorations section.

Out of the four men who reviewed her proposal, Mr. Booth was consistently the most useless.

“They have no respect for my work,” Dameer said in mock offense. “Look at this!” He pointed to a sentence that Kalila recognized as having come from Mr. Booth’s hand. “Better suited to a book of fairy tales. The nerve of him.”

“Indeed,” Kalila agreed mildly, making sure to keep herself in check.

Criticism was meant to be constructive, and for a time, Mr. Booth’s had been just that.

Lately, however, he had become lazy with his feedback, which stood in stark contrast to the counterarguments given to her by the other members.

Those were the reactions of seasoned scientists who were being presented with something novel.

One day, they would run out of questions and would have no choice but to publish her.

Under Dameer’s name.

Kalila prickled as she removed her bonnet to rearrange her dark curls.

She was grateful to her cousin for allowing her to assume his identity, but it was frustrating that she’d even had to ask in the first place.

It seemed unfair that her sex could be used against her—that it could be used to invalidate her intelligence.

Dameer handed the paper back to her. “I assume you have an answer for every single one of these questions.”

“I’m sure I will,” Kalila replied, tossing the inked-up pile in the basket. “I haven’t taken a look at all of them yet.”

“Picky lot, scientists,” Dameer remarked, retrieving the mangled piece of wood from his lap. “I’m surprised they accepted your application to their lecture series given how often they tear your work apart.”

In the springtime, the Society had advertised a week-long series of lectures on the creation and examination of microscopic slides. Kalila had applied under Dameer’s name without consulting him, hopeful that he’d agree to go if accepted.

And accepted she had been. A shame that her cousin didn’t seem to grasp how significant an achievement that was.

“It means I’ve piqued their curiosity,” Kalila said with a prideful tilt of her chin. She peered over Dameer’s shoulder. “What are you making?”

“A bird,” Dameer said. “Can’t you tell?”

Kalila bit her lip. Dameer’s bird looked more like the beginnings of a hedgehog.

Unlike Kalila, her cousin’s heart did not belong to one particular pursuit.

Instead, he seemed quite content to explore skills in short bursts, never sticking to one for long.

Woodworking was his latest endeavor, and he was quite terrible at it.

“Indeed,” Kalila said kindly, pressing her finger to a pointy end. “Here’s the beak.”

“Tail,” Dameer corrected. “But I appreciate the effort.”

Another companionable silence settled. Kalila stared at the crumbling old church before them, the midpoint between her home and Dameer’s.

They had both been born and raised in Gloucestershire, the very same place their parents had left the East for.

The way her father Khalid told it, he’d decided to leave home to protect Kalila’s mother from the deep disapproval her in-laws had for her Kurdish roots.

Unable to bear the thought of separating from her sister, Kalila’s aunt had followed, her own husband in tow.

Kalila, for her part, suspected something else had pushed them from their homes—be it political instability or outright bloodshed—but had never been able to get her father to admit to it.

It’s a tale of romantic sacrifice, Kalila, he always said. You should be overjoyed.

“I’m bored,” Dameer said, tossing his half-finished bird to the side in an abrupt motion. “And hot.”

Hot, Kalila could agree with. It was the height of summer, and the sun had been rather unforgiving lately.

“You’re the one who didn’t want to go to France,” Kalila reminded him.

Dameer straightened his back in indignation. “Only because you didn’t want to, either!”

A giggle rose in Kalila’s throat. Their families were due to leave for their annual holiday and Dameer had refused to make the trip the minute he’d heard that Kalila was to remain in Gloucestershire for the sake of her research.

With only three years between them, they had been attached at the hip for as long as Kalila could remember.

“You could still go,” she teased. “I’m sure Farah is still pouting over your decision to stay here.”

Dameer snorted at the mention of his younger sister. “Farah was only putting on an act. She would hate to have me come along.” He stood, brushing the curled wood shavings from his pale trousers. “Come to Northborough.”

Kalila considered the idea for a moment before shaking her head. “I should go back and catalog these plants.”

“Oh, fine. But are you entirely sure you don’t want to pursue feminine accomplishments such as embroidery and music, cousin?”

“Are you entirely sure I won’t take a fist to your face for the suggestion?” Kalila shot back, picking her basket up.