Chapter Nineteen
We do work well together.
Kalila spared a quick glance at Oliver as he yawned in boredom. She nudged him in the ribs and was rewarded with a lopsided grin.
“What?”
“Try to be professional,” she admonished. “Comerford will be by at any moment.”
“Please,” Oliver sighed. “He’s been asking Dunn and Jennings questions for the past thirty minutes at least.”
Kalila craned her head to see that Comerford was indeed still interrogating the two men about the intestinal section that, she suspected, Dunn had prepared on his own.
“Poor Dunn,” she murmured.
“Indeed,” Oliver agreed. “And poor us, having to sit here and wait.”
As if deciding to finally take pity on them, Comerford moved to their bench.
“Well, gentlemen? What do we have here?”
“Eggs,” Kalila said, trying very hard to suppress a smile. “From a carp.”
Comerford bent to look through the microscope. “How unique.”
Kalila puffed with pride as Oliver nodded at her in encouragement.
That was Oliver. Always encouraging, always supportive, always—
“How did you come by such an interesting specimen?” Comerford asked with an impressed twinkle in his eye.
“We fished,” Oliver told him. “We fished for hours. Almost a day, really.”
“Pity you only caught the one, then,” Jennings said from across the room.
“You’ve all done well,” Comerford interjected, making his way to the front of the room.
“And you’ve all clearly benefited from my instruction,” he added in what Kalila thought a somewhat obnoxious, self-congratulatory nature, “but I must say that Booth and Rafiq have outdone themselves. Their slide is near perfect.”
Kalila held her breath, her hand dropping beneath the bench to wrap around Oliver’s wrist. They’d won.
And she’d done it by working with a man she’d been bickering with through the post for years.
It seemed a ridiculous turn of events, but now was not the time to dwell on the theatrical bent her life had taken over the past few weeks.
Instead, she rather wished she could grab Oliver by the lapels and press a kiss to his handsome face.
It was a shame about the disguise. And the laboratory. And the scientists who were grinning—or glaring, in Jennings’s case—in her general direction.
“But—” Jennings began before Comerford interrupted.
“Space in the journal is yours,” he said, nodding at Kalila and Oliver. “For an article on the slide you’ve just presented, to be clear.”
Kalila bristled. It wasn’t as if she’d thought otherwise. Her paper was a lost cause.
“And I said, however, you’ve all done well,” Comerford said. “As such, I’d like to reward you by extending an invitation to a seminar I’ve organized.”
Curiosity swept through the room as all the scientists redirected their attention to their instructor.
“Many a respectable person will be in attendance, so please ensure that you’re dressed in your best evening wear,” Comerford continued, sounding a bit like he was lecturing a room full of children.
“Who will be presenting?” Young asked.
“Considering the revelation we were introduced to the other day, I would like to invite Jennings to speak,” Comerford declared. To Kalila, he said, “Don’t worry, Rafiq. I’ll make sure you’re given due credit.”
Kalila did not respond. Not only was Jennings going to steal her work—the bastard—but now he was going to give a seminar on it? Anger began to bubble in her veins, white hot and relentless.
“I’m honored, sir,” Jennings simpered.
“Jesus Christ,” was all Oliver whispered from beside her.
“That will be all,” Comerford concluded. “I must be off, as there is still much to prepare. Make sure to clean up after yourselves. Dunn, you take care of the key. I will see you all tomorrow night.”
With that, he left the room, leaving the door wide open in his wake. Kalila could hear the violent beating of her own heart in the silence that followed. Without thinking, she turned to Jennings.
“Are you truly going to take ownership of work that isn’t yours?” she demanded. “Have you no shame?”
Jennings gave her a disdainful sniff. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Jennings,” Oliver warned.
“For Christ’s sake, Rafiq, you’ll get your credit,” Jennings said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “There’s no need for you to be such a bad sport.”
“This is ridiculous,” Dunn put in. “Even for you.”
“You stole it?” Talbot asked, crestfallen and clearly very much out of the loop.
“Yes.” Kalila was unable to shift her focus away from Jennings’s slimy face. “Those new details are mine. I am the one who—”
Jennings spoke over her. “Comerford seems to believe otherwise.”
“You—you can’t possibly give a seminar on it,” Kalila sputtered. “You don’t know the first thing about my theories.”
“Don’t insult me, Rafiq.” Jennings stood and retrieved his overcoat, five pairs of eyes tracking his every move. “You’ll only make a fool of yourself.”
Kalila’s mouth fell open as he sailed out of the room. He didn’t care that what he was doing was wrong, and there was nothing any of them could do to convince him otherwise.
“What can we do?” Young murmured.
“What’s the matter with Comerford?” Kalila burst out.
“He’s stubborn,” was Dunn’s hesitant reply. “And—look, in all honesty, it’s best not to argue with him too much if you want to stay in his good graces.”
“I don’t,” Kalila snapped.
Oliver contributed next, his words tinged with an uncharacteristic meekness. “His good opinion means quite a lot to people.”
Kalila frowned. Did Comerford’s opinion of Oliver truly mean so much?
Then, with crystal clarity, she remembered.
Remembered how when she’d asked Oliver why he hadn’t chosen not to leave comments on her work, he’d told her that if he hadn’t, if he’d admitted to his confusion, Comerford would have thought him a brainless fool.
He did care about Comerford’s opinion. And she could hazard a guess as to why.
“We might as well tidy up,” Dunn said. “Help me with these microscopes, Young.”
As the men began to mill about, Kalila lowered her voice at Oliver. “Let’s go into the hallway.”
He nodded and followed her outside.
“Kalila—” he began, voice as soft as she’d ever heard it.
“You must talk to Comerford,” she said. “For my sake.”
*
The first time Oliver had seen Laurence Comerford, he’d been giving a seminar on specimen preservation.
Oliver had stumbled across it by accident—he’d been floating about town one gloomy afternoon and had been lured into the lecture hall by a well-placed sign.
Comerford spoke with passion, had a response for every question, squashed critics with his razor sharp intellect.
And Oliver, charming as he was, had easily inserted himself into a conversation with the man once the seminar had come to a close.
For the first time in his life, he’d been listened to. Oh, Hughes listened to him rattle on about all sorts of nonsense, but the way Comerford listened was different. It took no time at all for Oliver to find himself under his wing.
He’d landed himself a mentor and made remaining in his good graces a priority. No matter that Comerford could be stubborn and scathing with his feedback. No matter that he sometimes only half listened.
No matter that he thought himself always, always right.
Oliver had allowed much to slide by because he was good at picking his battles. Or so he thought, anyway. And now Kalila stood before him, cheeks crimson with fury, begging him to pick a battle he felt completely unable to engage in.
“I can’t,” he said, knowing he’d be disappointing her.
“Why?”
“He’ll—he’ll be suspicious,” Oliver explained. “He’ll bring up my rivalry with Jennings, and—”
Kalila raised her eyebrows. “And you can explain to him what it’s truly about.” She shoved her hands in her pockets in a gesture of defeat. “You know he won’t listen to me, Oliver.”
“What makes you think he’ll listen to me?” Oliver shot back.
“You’re clearly his favorite,” she said. Pausing, she narrowed her brilliant eyes at him. “You told me you’d think of something.”
The accusation on her face brought forth a wave of defensiveness. “I told you I’d need time.”
“The only person who can stop this is Comerford,” she said. “And you’re the only person I trust to discuss this with him.”
The only person she trusts?
“He won’t think poorly of you for it,” she added.
At this, Oliver scoffed. “Come now, you know that doesn’t matter to me.”
Yes, it does.
“I think it does,” she said, frowning. “But you can’t have his approval all the time.”
Why not? I need it.
“I don’t have his approval all the time,” he told her.
“No, but I think you seek it.” She fixed him with a look that flooded him with discomfort, one that made him feel as though she was seeing into the very heart of him. “He isn’t your father, Oliver.”
He laughed. “I know that. What sort of fool do you take me for?”
She’s right.
“I don’t take you for a fool at all,” she said, her sudden sadness unnerving. “I just think you might be seeking approval you aren’t able to get from your father. Am I wrong?”
No, she was right. She was right, and his father permeated everything around him no matter how often or how far Oliver strayed from Rosewood.
He’d gone and found himself a replacement and was now being forced to reckon with the fact that his substitute was shaping up to be disappointing in an entirely different way.
A way he may not have had to confront had Kalila not barreled into the Society in her suit and wig. It was enough to bring a grown man to tears. Enough, but not quite, because Oliver chose to lean into anger instead.
Anything to blunt the pain.
“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “This has nothing to do with my father and everything to do with my knowing Comerford better than you do. Nothing I say will convince him he’s wrong.”
When Kalila took a surprised step back, he was instantly flooded with regret.
“I suppose when you asked for time, you only needed it to think of a way to convince me to let this go,” she murmured.
“Kal—”
“I sincerely hope you are never in my position,” she said, voice wavering. “Because not a single person in that room will do a dratted thing about it.”
“I’d do anyth—”
She shook her head, speaking over him once more. “Don’t say such things.”
“But it’s true,” he insisted.
“I shouldn’t have asked this of you,” she said, more to herself than to him. “It isn’t fair. You shouldn’t have to choose.”
“Choose?”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I understand.”
You shouldn’t. I’m being a coward.
“I know him, Kalila,” Oliver said. “That’s all.”
“Yes. And I know you, which is why I shouldn’t have asked.”
He folded his arms against his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said. “We should go help the others tidy up.”
Without waiting for him to respond, she reentered 107.
Oliver remained in the hallway, arms still held protectively against himself.
He’d always skirted around true confrontation with his mentor, that much was true.
The day he’d been called to Comerford’s office to be scolded for inviting Mr. D.R.
to the lecture series was as serious as it ever got between them—which was to say, not serious at all.
Their bickering was part of the game. Oliver had never truly defied him, not even then.
He’d known where the boundary was and had made sure not to cross it.
You shouldn’t have to choose.
God above, why had she said that? Had his cowardice really made her believe that he’d choose Comerford over her, the woman he was madly in love with?
You did choose him over her.
It wasn’t a choice, it was—
He didn’t know what it was. But even in the midst of his confusion, one thing was clear—it was time to tidy things up.
He’d start with 107, of course.
But he’d have to end with Rosewood, if only to prove himself that the web he was trapped in wasn’t nearly as tangled as Kalila said it was.