Chapter Two
The following morning, Kalila awoke to find that she had once again fallen asleep at her writing desk.
Her cheek was pressed against the dark wood, the tip of her pencil sitting precariously close to her right eye.
Slowly, she shifted into a sitting position, wincing as her bones put themselves back into their proper places.
She glanced down at her paper which, she had to admit, was coming along well.
To her shock, she had received fair, thought-provoking critique, which had ignited a sort of excitement—or hysteria fueled by sleep deprivation, rather—in the late hours of the night.
Whatever the source of her energy, it had been quickly snuffed out once she’d come across Mr. Booth’s comments.
Had he written one word more, she would have been compelled to send him a missive demanding he take her proposal seriously.
A knock echoed throughout the room and Kalila’s mother peeked around the door. “Good morning, habibti. Do you want to come down for breakfast?”
Kalila bit back a yawn. “Is Dameer here yet?”
Jwan walked in and approached Kalila, running her hands through her daughter’s dark curls in an obvious attempt to render them presentable. Kalila looked up at her mother, taking in the honey-colored hair and pale skin that was so different from her own. “He came knocking a few minutes ago.”
When her mother was done with her fussing, Kalila straightened and pushed her hands into the achy small of her back before pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “Are you leaving after we eat?”
Jwan nodded. “We should have left at dawn, but you know how your father is about his sleep.”
“Dead to the world until there’s food on the table,” Kalila said with a giggle. “Go on without me—I’ll come down soon.”
After her mother had left, Kalila began to rearrange her work into a tidy pile in the center of her desk.
Her eye caught the initials D.R. written at the top, and discouragement barreled through her with unexpected force.
Although publication was her primary goal, a not-so-tiny part of her wished she could make it known that a woman had come up with these theories.
As she went through her morning rituals, she began to think about the Society—or, specifically, what changes she would make to it if given the opportunity.
Women would be allowed, of course, she thought absently while braiding her unruly hair. As for her next idea, well—the more she lingered on the subject, the more she realized that every change hinged on women being welcomed into the fray.
But how could one go about orchestrating such a thing?
Knowing she did not have the time to settle on the answer, she went to the dining room to join her family for breakfast. Her father sat at the head of the table with Jwan to his right and Dameer to his left.
Kalila could see that he was already talking her cousin’s ear off—something about the fine carpets that had been hung on the wall.
While Heatherden was a house of English construction, its insides were anything but.
The paintings and tapestries scattered throughout the house were all Mesopotamian in origin and more than a handful of surfaces were littered with the metalwork their hometown province of Mosul was known for.
It was what her paternal side had dedicated themselves to for a century, and it was what her father traded in now, relying on his familial connections to source the best inlaid brass and copper pieces to sell to collectors.
Before Kalila had come into the world, he had invested his earnings in a series of clever ventures, which had left him able to care for both his immediate relations and those who had chosen to remain abroad.
Kalila knew his success was a point of pride for him—and she also knew he hated to let that pride show.
“Kalila!” he said, his loud voice booming across the room. “Your meal awaits!”
Kalila bit back a chuckle and went to the sideboard, piling a slice of bread with cheese and arranging cold slices of tomato and cucumber around it on a plate.
When she was done, she went to sit by Dameer, who was taking timid sips of tea while trying to explain to Khalid that he was not, in fact, interested in metalworking.
“A shame, a shame,” Khalid said before turning to Kalila. “Your mother says you were asleep at your desk. What were you working on?”
Kalila shrugged. While her parents knew of her research, she had never told them about her attempts to woo the Society into accepting her work. “I was taking notes on the specimens I collected from the old church yesterday.”
“Your daughter is a genius, Jwan,” Khalid declared, turning to his wife with an affectionate twinkle in his eye.
“She’s your daughter too,” was her mother’s serene response.
A familiar warmth bloomed in Kalila’s chest. If there was one thing she had never doubted, it was the love her parents held for her.
Her mother had told her more than once how much of a struggle it had been to conceive—and how grateful they were to have her.
It was evident even in her name, the Arabic word for beloved.
“You can still change your mind about France, you know.” Khalid waggled his eyebrows at both Kalila and Dameer. “What say you?”
Kalila shook her head. “I shouldn’t. I have much to look into this summer.”
“And Dameer cannot be parted from his precious Kalila,” Khalid said, taking on a theatrical seriousness. “Understandable.”
“I can be parted from her,” Dameer protested. “I just—I don’t think she should be left alone.”
“Very noble of you,” Khalid said. “Where do you get that trait from, I wonder? Certainly not from your father—and you can tell him I said so.”
Jwan tut-tutted, though Kalila spotted her grinning behind her teacup.
Khalid slapped the table, making Dameer jump. “Right! We should be off to pick the others up. Do I need to ask the two of you to behave? Or is Dameer enough of a wet blanket to ensure that you do?”
“Baba!” Kalila exclaimed, choking on a laugh. “Be nice.”
Khalid came around to where she sat and planted a kiss on her head. “When have you ever seen me be anything but?”
A half hour later, Kalila and Dameer stood at the steps to Heatherden, waving at Khalid and Jwan as their carriage rolled down the cobblestone path that would take them to Northborough.
Once her parents had disappeared from view, Kalila went to the parlor with Dameer at her heels.
They sat in a pair of armchairs, the room silent.
Kalila picked up the copper ewer that sat on the table between them, examining the engraved surface.
It showed a mythical shape-shifter known throughout the Mesopotamian marshlands as the Tantal, a creature with sharp teeth and an alarmingly large body.
The pitcher showed it in its natural state and then in the form of a rich man, apparently trying to trick a mortal into insulting it so it might mete out some sort of punishment.
If only Kalila had the power to transform. Unlike the Tantal, she wouldn’t abuse the privilege. No, she would use it to stop having to rely on Dameer’s kindness. She would achieve all she wanted without having to think twice about it.
You could, a voice in her head whispered.
Could she? She stared at the Tantal a while longer, an idea beginning to sprout in her mind.
Dameer wouldn’t go to London, but she could. Not as herself, but as someone entirely different.
The thought sent an explosive spark of delight through her. This was exactly the answer to her problem. She could go, learn all she wanted, suggest that women be allowed to participate.
It was perfect.
“What do you think about London?” Kalila blurted out, voice hitching in her throat. She knew it would be impossible to leave Dameer behind, which meant the most logical thing would be for her to convince him to take a little trip with her.
She’d leave the details out for now, of course.
“In general?” Dameer asked, confused. “Rather noisy, but—”
“Not in general,” Kalila interrupted. “What do you think about going to London?”
“When?”
“Today!” she said, the word coming out on a squeak. She could do this. She would do this.
Dameer frowned at her, and Kalila wondered if she could mirror the expression. “What would we do in London?”
She knew what she would do. How Dameer would spend his time, she had no idea.
Thinking quickly, Kalila finally settled on a reason that would spur Dameer into action. “We could visit the Southcotts.”
He turned a rosy shade of pink at the mention of their family friends, shifting his gaze away in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “Why would we do that? We’ll see them this winter when they come to Gloucestershire.”
Kalila leaned over to push at his arm. “Come off it. I know you’re in love with Amelia.”
“I am not,” Dameer said vehemently. “Why do you want to go to London?”
“I’ve decided that a change of scenery will help me with my rewrites,” she lied.
Dameer stared at her for a moment before shrugging. “All right. I’ll go pack then, shall I? Send a letter ahead for my parents?”
“Yes!” Kalila grinned. She was surprised that he’d been so easily convinced. Dameer was not what one might call spontaneous.
“Tell my father I’m off to London? Have him insist I try to sell some jug or another to one of his customers?” Dameer continued in that same chipper tone. “Ruin my entire summer?”
Oh. Sarcasm.
“Fine.” Kalila placed the ewer back on the side table and pushed herself out of the armchair. “I’ll go on my own.”
“On your own!” Dameer sputtered, tripping out of his chair and following her out of the parlor.
Kalila came to a sudden stop in the hallway. Dameer, ever graceful, walked right into her.
“On my own,” she repeated. “It seems to me that you’ll have to suffer your father’s wrath either way.” She raised her voice an octave. “Why yes, Uncle Sami, Dameer did know I was going to London all by myself.”
She didn’t really think Dameer would run into any trouble, of course.
Even if he did incur his father’s irritation, his mother would undoubtedly intervene.
And there was nothing more predictable than the way her uncle melted in the face of her aunt’s intervention.
Dameer would escape without so much as a lecture.
Her cousin let out a sound of frustration. “Fine! Fine. We’ll go to London.” Stalking toward the front door, he said, “Those rewrites of yours had better be spectacular.”
“I’m sure Amelia will be delighted to see you!” Kalila called after him.
Once it became apparent that her cousin had ignored her, Kalila headed to her room to prepare her trunk for travel. On the way, she caught sight of herself in a mirror that hung in the hallway. She rearranged her face into a frown.
Simple, she thought. Straightening her expression into one of neutrality, she examined the angle of her jaw.
Maybe she could powder the flush out of her cheeks.
She wound her braid on top of her head, trying to imagine what she’d look like without the curls that always floated around her shoulders.
If she could fool herself, she could fool anyone.
Being adept at microscopy had helped her to develop her already extraordinary eye for detail.
She’d noticed the hopeful flicker in Dameer’s eyes at the mention of Amelia’s name a second before the blush had risen to his face just as she’d sensed the air of resignation that had come over him before he’d agreed to follow her to London.
She’d always had a sharp eye and an even sharper mind—a mind that was not easily fooled. She knew she could mimic Dameer’s mannerisms to perfection if she really put her mind to it. If she could convince herself, then she’d have no trouble attending the lecture series at the university.
Not as Kalila Darwish, but as someone else entirely.
“Mr. Dameer Rafiq,” she said, allowing her voice to dip in register. “At your service.”