Chapter Twenty-Three #3
The Dameer Rafiq.
*
When Kalila had said she was done impersonating her cousin, she’d meant it.
It was Dameer who’d found her pacing around the attic with nervous energy. He’d sighed and said, “Let me accompany you to the seminar, Kal. You’ll combust if you stay up here.”
And that was how they’d ended up in the university’s great hall.
A number of seminars were scheduled to take place, and a lavish dinner was to follow.
Dameer’s name had, of course, been on the list. Kalila stood beside him in a dress of navy-blue silk trimmed with ribbons and lace, scanning the room.
“Where is he?” she murmured.
“Who?”
“Jennings.”
“Rafiq!” a voice boomed, startling both Kalila and Dameer. They soon caught sight of Comerford cutting through the crowd, attendees parting before him like the Red Sea.
“I regret everything that has brought me to this moment,” Dameer mumbled as Kalila took hold of his arm, gripping onto it for dear life.
“Just play along,” she whispered.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d attend,” Comerford said, coming to a stop before them. That he did not realize he was speaking to a completely different Dameer Rafiq almost came as a surprise.
But Kalila supposed it made sense. Laurence Comerford was not the type to pay attention to details that did not concern him.
“I wasn’t sure myself,” Dameer said. Without pausing for breath, he continued. “Might I introduce you to my cousin, Miss Kalila Darwish?”
Comerford’s pale eyes shifted to Kalila. As expected, his face betrayed no sign of recognition. He smiled at her from underneath his bushy mustache. “Cousin, you say?”
“Yes…?” Dameer said, the word sounding more like a question than a statement of fact.
“Tell me, Miss Darwish,” Comerford said in what Kalila thought was an oddly condescending tone. “Are you the young lady who convinced Rafiq here to ask me to let women into the Society?”
“I wouldn’t own up to it even if I had,” Kalila said, her tone cool and controlled, “considering how swift you were in your rejection of the idea.”
Comerford let out a sharp bark of laughter. “She’s a spirited lass, Rafiq.”
“She’s a scientist,” Dameer corrected.
Kalila gave his arm a gentle squeeze in thanks, even as she contemplated stabbing Comerford with a dinner knife. He spoke as if she were not there, and when his words were directed at her, he spoke as if she were nothing but a silly child.
A bell chimed in the distance, signaling the beginning of the lectures. The crowd began to scatter, distributing themselves into neatly arranged rows of chairs.
“Well, I must be off.” Comerford straightened his waistcoat with a sharp tug of his hands. “I hope you enjoy the seminars, Rafiq.”
I’m still here, Kalila thought sourly as the man who seemed insistent on continually disappointing her left them to move toward the podium.
“We may as well find a place to sit,” Dameer said, leading Kalila toward an empty pair of chairs. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she grumbled, her skirts billowing about her as she dropped herself into the seat.
“He seems a bit brainless,” Dameer said, referring to Comerford.
Kalila sighed. “He’s a disappointment. And, really, I—”
She was interrupted by the first presenter, a scientist who had prepared a lecture on proposed improvements to Michael Faraday’s electromagnetic generator.
Kalila was quickly absorbed in the seminars, though she did have to nudge Dameer once or twice to stop him from falling asleep.
Every time the audience was allowed questions, she whispered her inquiries into her cousin’s ear for him to parrot.
To Dameer’s credit, he repeated her questions to the room without argument.
At least I’m participating, Kalila thought. In my own way.
Four presentations later, Comerford took to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I have the distinct pleasure of presenting to you a researcher who has blossomed under both my guidance and that of his fellow scientists at the Society of Microscopic Biology. He has developed unique theories on tissue development at the cellular level that will be new even to the most seasoned of us. I would, of course, be remiss not to mention the scientist who laid the foundation Mr. Andrew Jennings was able to build upon: Mr. Dameer Rafiq.”
The audience clapped politely as Kalila sank down into her seat, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole.
Jennings regarded the crowd with a look of smarmy delight as he took his place at the front. In his hands, he held Kalila’s paper, which he began to read.
Verbatim.
“This cannot be happening,” Kalila whispered. “All of that fanfare and he’s just reading?”
“What else is he to do?” Dameer asked, ignoring the shushing coming from the person seated behind them. “He doesn’t know what to make of anything you’ve written.”
Kalila took note of the audience, who appeared—the only word that popped into her head was enraptured. It was as if the room now existed in a vacuum where all that mattered was her research.
Her research, which was being passed off as Jennings’s.
Oh, let’s not forget the shred of credit you received, Kalila, she thought.
“A question, if I may,” a loud voice said, ripping the entire room out of its reverie.
Kalila knew that voice.
Jennings trailed off, his eyes darting around the room before settling on Oliver, who stood in the back.
What is he doing?
“I don’t see how your first and third theories relate to one another,” Oliver said with unflappable calmness. “Would you elaborate?”
“I believe questions will be taken at the end of the seminar, Booth,” Jennings hissed.
Oliver smiled. “I’m sure Mr. Comerford doesn’t mind.”
“A touch impolite, to be sure,” Comerford put in from the front. “But as Booth has asked the question, you might consider answering it.”
“But—”
“All other inquiries will be posed at the conclusion of the presentation,” Comerford interjected. “Do I make myself clear, Booth?”
“Indeed,” Oliver replied. His gaze met Kalila’s, and he winked.
Winked.
Why was he winking?
“Your answer, Jennings?” Comerford prompted, after an awkward hush fell.
“I—well—” Jennings began to shuffle through Kalila’s paper.
“No need to locate it in the text,” Oliver said, his voice charming and relaxed. “I only want to hear your thoughts.”
Jennings glared from the podium, the silence deafening. Kalila’s heart began to hammer in her chest.
“What is he doing?” Dameer whispered.
“Perhaps another question, then,” Oliver said, explicitly ignoring Comerford’s earlier instructions.
He interrogated a different theory, and another silence followed. This cycle repeated itself for a torturous two minutes, during which Jennings looked as though he wouldn’t mind murdering Oliver in front of everyone in the hall.
“It’s odd,” Oliver said, tapping his chin, “that Mr. Jennings cannot seem to answer a single question about his own work.”
“You—you caught me off guard,” Jennings ground out. “That is all.”
“Oh?” Oliver pushed himself off the back wall and strolled to the front, his gait lazy. “Or could it be that this work belongs to another?”
An interested murmur broke out as people bent their heads to whisper to one another.
“Booth,” Comerford said in warning.
“What is he doing?” Dameer asked again.
Kalila took hold of his sleeve for support as she tracked the spectacle unfolding before them. If Oliver was about to do what she thought he was going to do, then—
“That is ridiculous,” Jennings snapped. “This work is mine.”
“And Rafiq’s,” Oliver added.
“Indeed,” Jennings growled. “You cannot credit another living soul for this work, Booth. So sit down.”
“Of course I can.”
This time, gasps and chatter rippled through the room.
“Stolen work?” someone to Kalila’s right whispered.
“What proof is there?” another person asked.
“Well, I think—”
“The credit is not yours, Jennings, nor is it Mr. Dameer Rafiq’s,” Oliver continued, unruffled even as Jennings turned an unbecoming shade of crimson next to him.
“Good God.”
That was Dameer, his mouth hanging open in shock.
Kalila couldn’t move, could barely breathe.
“What?” Jennings spat. “Have you gone mad, Booth?”
“The credit,” Oliver said, ignoring him, “goes entirely to one Miss Kalila Darwish who, I believe, is sitting in this very room.”
At this, the room exploded in activity and loud chatter. People began turning their heads, attendees placed their hands over their mouths in amazement, and more than one person uttered the words, “A woman?”
Kalila, meanwhile, was beginning to feel lightheaded.
“That is enough,” Comerford thundered, shocking the crowd into submission. He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, the seminar portion of this evening has concluded. Please move to the adjacent room for dinner. Now.”
Dameer stood, his arm wrapped protectively around a dazed Kalila and made an attempt to join the file of people that were leaving the room.
“Rafiq!” Comerford barked.
Dameer froze.
“You will come with me,” Comerford said, his voice dripping in fury. “And you,” he said, turning to Jennings and Oliver, “will follow.”
“But—” Dameer attempted.
“Now.”