Chapter Seven
I don’t care how or why I got here.
Kalila left the townhouse the next morning, stopping at the door to position her hat on her head.
And I will not indulge Oliver Booth’s curiosity about me.
Walking down the steps, she took a right and began her daily trek to the Polytechnic University.
I’m here now, and that’s all that matters.
She ran a hand over her face, exhausted from having stayed up all night overcome with embarrassment. She hated to feel embarrassed. And it wasn’t just humiliation that had set up a home in her chest. It was—well. She also felt a bit silly.
“Admit it to yourself, at least,” she said under her breath.
Fine. She felt silly because a very, very, very small part of her had been prepared to push aside all of her disdain for Oliver Booth and fully replace it with the fondness that had planted itself somewhere deep inside of her a few days ago.
It was hard not to find him endearing, what with his effortless, lazy charm and devastating smiles.
And although Kalila liked to see herself as purely logical and in control of her composure, she was still human and just as much at risk of losing herself in someone as anyone else.
Annoying, that.
He’d told her that he’d been curious about her, that her work had merit.
And, damn her, it was so easy to focus on that rather than what she had come to London to do.
She had a set of objectives to meet. There was no time to linger on what Mr. Booth really thought of her and her work.
And besides, she’d declared herself officially done with men after her last debacle.
Wrong direction of thought, she chided. Her mind was insisting on taking a romantic bent when there was nothing romantic about the situation at all. Even if she presented herself as Kalila, there was no reason to believe that Mr. Booth of all people would be falling at her feet.
Please. The one man who had pretended to fall at her feet had only been looking to stifle her. And Kalila would not be stifled.
She walked into 107 with renewed purpose, careful not to make eye contact with Mr. Booth.
Still, she could feel his gaze boring into her back as she took a seat at a bench.
She knew he felt a touch guilty, what with the apologetic manner he’d approached her in last night.
While her softer side was appreciative, she forced herself to dismiss it, reminding herself once again of her true goal at the university.
“Rafiq—” His voice came from behind her, quiet and desperately sheepish.
So sheepish, in fact, she could already feel her defenses crumbling. What was wrong with her? Had she learned nothing?
“Take a seat, gentlemen,” Comerford barked from the front of the room. Oliver retreated, and Kalila almost sagged with relief. Her resolve would live to see another day thanks to Comerford’s accidental, yet timely, intervention. “Today we will be discussing the craft of theorizing.”
Kalila perked, her body alight with curiosity. Like magic, all thoughts of her weakness for Oliver Booth dissipated and were replaced with shrewd academic interest.
“Craft?” Jennings repeated incredulously from his bench which, naturally, sat closest to Comerford.
“Indeed.” Comerford propped himself on a stool. “The process of piecing a theory together requires creativity and skill, especially if that theory is to withstand criticism.”
Without thinking, Kalila spoke. “And there’s no such thing as a perfect theory. Useful criticism should be part of development.”
“Quite obviously,” Jennings put in, tone dripping with condescension. “You would know about imperfect theories, wouldn’t you, Rafiq?”
“I can’t say that I do,” she said with a prideful tilt of her chin.
“There is something to Rafiq’s theories,” Young interjected. “Questions surrounding tissue development ought to be explored.”
Kalila gave him a grateful smile, pleased that he’d gathered up the courage to champion her.
“But there is no proof.” Jennings looked to Comerford for support. When he received none, he shot a glare in Kalila’s direction. “All Rafiq has done is exhibit his very overactive imagination.”
“I should think imagination is needed for such a thing,” Talbot said.
Kalila added him to her mental list of advocates. Perhaps she had more of the Society’s support than she’d initially believed.
“Where are you going with this, Jennings?”
Kalila and the other men shifted their attention to Oliver, who had been so quiet that Kalila had almost forgotten that he’d been there. Almost being the key word, given that a sliver of her was always aware of his presence in the room.
Jennings raised a snide eyebrow. “I think it’s clear.”
“To you, perhaps,” Oliver said. “It seems to me that you’re hellbent on insulting Rafiq. You seem to think yourself the superior theoretical biologist, so I think it’s high time we heard your theories.”
A deafening silence fell and Kalila had to bite back the grin that threatened. Oliver Booth was, for some unearthly reason, annoyed.
And on her behalf.
So much for being sensible, she thought as she once again felt that stubborn stab of fondness in her chest. It was possible, of course, that he simply couldn’t stand Jennings. It was also possible that he felt the need to stand up for her.
Not for her, actually. For Dameer Rafiq.
The realization caused her to deflate a bit.
Oliver’s gaze never wavered from Jennings. “Nothing?”
“That’s enough, Booth,” Comerford said, standing up again. “We’ll leave this discussion for another day. Let us take five minutes to compose ourselves before we move to the technical portion of the session.”
A low murmur broke out between Young and Dunn, and Kalila leaned against the bench, wilting with sudden exhaustion. A shadow fell across the benchtop, and she lifted her head to see Comerford’s overwhelming form.
“My office, Rafiq.”
He turned on his heel and walked out without further explanation. Kalila followed, Jennings’s scoff trailing her out of the room. Ahead of her, Comerford threw open a door. As she approached the room beyond it, she saw a dusty, cluttered office piled with books and slide boxes.
Comerford gestured to a rickety chair. “Take a seat.”
Kalila positioned herself on the edge of it as he gave the door a gentle push, leaving it open a crack. A sigh escaped her as she recognized that she wouldn’t quite be sealed in the room with him. He sat behind his desk, his icy eyes barely visible over a tower of loose paper.
“Sir?” she prompted after a moment’s silence. A low thrum of anxiety began to invade her veins as he studied her with a cool, analytical air.
“I’ve been watching you these three days, Rafiq,” he said finally. “You’re clearly an intelligent lad.”
Kalila remained alert. While it was possible that he’d brought her here to compliment her, it was also possible that he was in the process of setting her up for a thrashing. Comerford stared at her expectantly, as if waiting for a response.
“Oh, uh,” Kalila stammered, “thank you, sir.”
“Which leads me to ask—why are you so dedicated to that paper of yours?”
Kalila knit her brow. “How do you mean?”
“You’re a fine biologist.” He pushed the papers out of the way and gave her a pointed look. “You needn’t rely on novelty to move ahead.”
“Novelty?” Kalila forced out, feeling as though she’d been kicked.
“Not that it is entirely such,” Comerford continued, twirling the end of his gray mustache. “I can see the logic in some of your ideas. But—you have never, for example, submitted work to the journal’s Current Techniques section.”
Kalila paused for a moment, crestfallen. Then, as the awkwardness of the silence settled upon her, she brought herself back to the conversation. “With all due respect, sir, I have never been interested in contributing to the Current Techniques section.”
Comerford sat back and folded his hands over his stomach. “Give it more consideration when you’ve the time. Being the sole champion of new ideas attracts more negative attention than one might expect.”
Kalila shook her head, unable to understand. Did he think he was protecting her from something? From the likes of Jennings?
Or did he just not like any tension in his precious group?
“I can’t say I follow, sir. And I’m not sure I’m willing to let go of what I’ve worked on for years.”
For a beat, Comerford did nothing but hold her gaze. Kalila responded in kind, refusing to crumble.
“As you wish,” Comerford said. “Return to 107. I will follow shortly.”
As soon as Kalila had returned to her bench, Young murmured, “What was it?”
“Nothing of note,” she said, avoiding his curiosity by peering into her microscope. “Guidance about my theories.”
“Lucky you, Rafiq.” Young reached over to pat her on the back. “Not everyone is able to capture Comerford’s interest like that.”
Kalila bit back a sigh. She was inviting the wrong sort of attention, but she couldn’t say that to Young. If it wasn’t Booth coaxing her into forgetting why she was here, it was Comerford trying to derail her life’s work.
“I have here a box of marine slides.”
Kalila jumped at the sound of Comerford’s voice, having failed to notice his reentry into the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Booth slip back into the laboratory. He glanced at her as he passed, his face taking on a momentary expression of sympathy. What for, she did not know.
As the session proceeded, the other men’s energy rubbed off on her, leaving her lighter, a touch more inspired, and hungry for more work. When they were dismissed, she approached Comerford and asked to have use of the lab for the evening.
“Taking my advice, Rafiq?” he asked.
“Yes,” she lied. It wasn’t about moving onto something else, of course, but rather that she wasn’t ready to abandon the luxury of the lab for her attic at the townhouse.