Prologue
Then
There were many myths told about Cambridge. Stories woven from rumour and skewed half-truths, the thin fabric passed from hand to hand in the shadows. Students whispered them along the queues in the throne-room-like dining halls, lecturers recited them to the rows of awed and faintly anxious faces seated before them, anecdotes embroidered for each new class.
Most of these stories skimmed barely a hair’s breadth across the surface of the truth. The true secret-keeper was Cambridge itself. The city and its winding lanes, and above all, the university. The buildings that gleamed gold, the lawns braided through the stone fabric of the colleges, the smooth-flowing Cam.
The lifeless heart of the city was the most vital part of it, because for centuries it had outlasted generation after generation of students. It had watched as countless, different yet similar faces passed it by, while its own face altered little. No wrinkles, only a weary blink of the eyes as the years went by and wafer-thin layers of its façade were worn away.
The university kept the true, unfiltered secrets of this place. Only a select few were capable of understanding what it had to tell. People like us. We understood, because we were part of it. Because we were the biggest secret of all.
***
‘Are you hiding from us?’
I held back a sigh. It had only been a matter of time before one of them found me here. We knew each other too well: our minds were maps we had studied closely over the years, and by now none of us needed signposts to know what the other person was thinking or feeling. Or where they were.
I turned to face the young woman striding purposefully towards me down the aisle. ‘Like that’s even possible. Sometimes I just need a break. Crazy, huh?’
She stopped in front of me, grinning broadly. The light falling through the stained-glass window cast blue shadows on her symmetrical face, the gap between her teeth a dark chink in a row of luminous white. ‘You can take a break when you’re dead.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Considering what you guys have planned, that’s sounding less far-fetched by the minute, don’t you think?’
‘Well, now you’re just being insulting.’ She gave me a teasing look, her fingers toying with the thin chain around her neck. The plain ring that hung from it glinted every time the vivid moonlight struck the gold. She must be thinking of the person who wore an exact duplicate of it. ‘And don’t be a wet blanket, okay? Not today.’
‘What’s so special about today?’ Our days were beads on a never-ending necklace. All of them were beautiful, precious, unique, yet at the same time somehow … alike. Sometimes I wondered to myself if one could tire of beauty. Or of happiness. It wasn’t always at the foreground of my mind, more an underlying anxiety. A muted fear of the future, which I was always quick to fill up with as much of the now as possible.
‘Nothing. I just want … I need this. All of you.’ Coming closer, she put her hands to the collar of my shirt and smoothed the fabric. An oddly tender smile played across her lips. ‘My best friends,’ she whispered, the pads of her fingers brushing over the scar on my temple. ‘The four-headed love of my life.’
I took her hand, which was burning hot, and squeezed it gently. ‘Your life isn’t over yet. Maybe you’ll find something better than us.’
‘No, never.’ Her smile widened, but something behind her eyes clouded over. If I hadn’t known her better, I’d have mistaken it for sadness. I frowned. ‘Is everything okay?’
She was silent for a moment, then pulled away from me and took a step back. Red light instead of blue, an exaggeratedly cheerful grin instead of genuine happiness. ‘Sure. Always. I just want to make this a night to remember – if that’s all right with you?’
I was briefly tempted to ask more questions, but I knew her as well as she knew me. ‘Of course,’ I said, with a glance at my watch. ‘Let’s—’ I broke off, realising that the hands weren’t moving. I tapped the golden dial, but nothing happened. ‘My watch has stopped.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Holy shit.’
I looked up, narrowing my eyes. ‘Don’t.’
‘I can’t help it, that’s so obviously a sign.’ She tapped the glass with a fingertip, clutching her other hand theatrically to her chest. ‘Ex hoc momento pendet aeternitas.’
My mouth twitched at the corners: the meaning of that phrase was always on the tip of my tongue, nuzzling itself up against my lips in the same pleasingly warm way. It was just an empty phrase, an old Latin platitude – but to us, it was also a promise.
Eternity is poised upon this moment.
Nobody loved or lived those words quite like the woman in front of me. She spoke them often, mostly when they were demonstrably untrue. On nights like this, when we were planning to break God knows how many rules, climbing onto the roof of the university’s tallest building to see the meteor shower, it would have been more accurate to say: our lives are poised upon this moment. Still, I never contradicted her. None of us did. And sometimes, in the very best moments, it felt like the same thing anyway.
This time I simply shook my head and followed her out of the chapel. The evening outside smelt of rhododendrons, of the water in the Cam and the aromas wafting from the open windows of the student housing: incense sticks, paper and ink, washing powder and perfume. Fragments of innumerable lives, all of them throwing into greater relief how exceptional ours were.
I tilted back my head until my face was bathed in pure moonlight. And I smiled and breathed and lived, realising yet again: eternity might not depend upon this moment, but our whole lives did.
Later, much later, I came to wish I’d realised something else: if our whole lives rested on a moment, then a moment could bring them crashing down as well.
Chapter 1
Mabel
‘Wait for me!’
I wrapped my coat around me more tightly as I trotted to keep up with Zoe. Her blonde hair fluttered in her wake, bouncing in time with the glittering silver tulle of her dress. The tip of my nose was stinging in the icy evening air by the time I caught up with my best friend and fell into step with her. ‘This is a really bad fucking idea.’
Zoe sighed and hooked her arm through mine. Her coat was expensive, cut in some velvety fabric, and significantly warmer than mine. My own hole-ridden black jacket was really only meant for spring and autumn, so in winter I combined it with thick woolly jumpers, my sole protection against the cold. It was still only October, but the crisp autumn air was doing a pretty good job of creeping through the material and bringing the gooseflesh out on my skin.
‘All the best stories start with bad ideas.’
Grinning broadly, Zoe handed me the half-empty bottle of wine, and hesitantly I took it. I’d had no time to cook between getting back from the library and when Zoe came striding into the kitchen, reminding me that I’d promised in a moment of weakness to come with her tonight. I’d had nothing but half a bar of chocolate since breakfast, so I knew the wine would go straight to my head. Then again, I’d never get through tonight if I was sober.
Making up my mind, I took a long gulp. ‘Name one,’ I choked, stifling a cough.
Zoe began to chew on her full bottom lip, steering me around a corner. ‘When I was fifteen years old, I had this idea to throw a party at my neighbours’ house while they were on holiday. That night was the first time I kissed the hottest guy in the whole school.
‘Didn’t that story end with you falling off the balcony, breaking your leg and getting grounded for three months?’
I smiled faintly, my eyes fixed on our shadows darting across the walls next to us. We had reached Trinity College, younger but much bigger than Trinity Hall, where Zoe and I lived and studied. I felt a lot more at home there: the buildings were more compact, the courts ringed by pale stone, and dotted in summer with rose bushes left to run wild. The river Cam flowed just outside the windows of our rooms, and in the evenings, we watched the sun sink slowly into the water. I loved it for its cosiness, the way it had immediately felt like home. Trinity College, only a few minutes away on foot, was larger, more imposing, wealthier. Less charming, I had thought on my first visit to the University of Cambridge. Although it did have a better library.
The Wren Library was closing, the last handful of people leaving the building and scurrying away down the colonnade. In the lamplight they looked like ants, scattering across the college grounds and back to their rooms. Most days, I was one of them. One of the students, startled from their work by the gong, hastily packing up. Slinging book-crammed satchels over stooped shoulders, the bags so heavy it felt at any moment like you might collapse onto the paving. Hair stuffed under the collar of your coat, because you’d forgotten in the morning sun that you might need a scarf once you’d left the library. Just then, I wished I was one of them, instead of hurrying next to Zoe.
‘I was just a kid back then. We’re adults now.’ She clacked her fingernails against the bottle, imperious.
I reluctantly obeyed and took another sip. The wine was too sugary, but that was how Zoe liked it. Semi-sweet. A word that happened to suit Zoe herself. With those big cornflower-blue eyes, long lashes and pale blonde hair, she was femininity incarnate. All her outlines were softly drawn, as if seen through a filter. Her movements were lithe, her laugh never too boisterous, her clothes beautifully fitted and flowing. She was always wearing something with a sparkle. Today it was the oversized hoop earrings, which had snagged several times while she was getting dressed.
‘We’re twenty, Zoe. And last week I saw you trying to melt butter in the microwave with the wrapper still on,’ I reminded her, passing back the bottle.
She rolled her eyes. ‘And did anything bad happen?’
I snorted. ‘No, because I unplugged it in time.’
‘There, you see.’ She gave me a wink. ‘And that’s exactly why I asked you to come with me tonight. So, you can pull the plug, if it comes to that. But only if it does – and not before anything’s actually happened.’
She gazed up at me, an eloquent look. Her gold-painted eyelids shimmered as we passed beneath one of the rust-eaten lamps. She had offered to put some on me as well, but I’d declined. The only make-up I owned or ever used was my collection of lipsticks. Whenever I wanted to reward myself, I went to the department store in the town centre and treated myself to one of their overly expensive products. I knew it was unwise to spend so much money on something I could have bought for less, something I barely used day-to-day. Yet I loved everything about them: the innumerable shades, the frivolous names, the extravagantly designed packaging. Most of all, I loved the way it felt to go through the world with their borrowed flush on my lips. I felt beautiful. Beautiful, sensual and strong. Lipsticks were the only luxury I allowed myself. Today I was wearing Mona Lisa Smile, a dark matte red that reminded me of the brick buildings in my hometown. A colour for trips to the museum, autumnal walks in the woods, or cosy nights in with a film. Not particularly suitable for an exclusive and highly illicit party in a university building.
I was pretty sure the college administration knew nothing about it. The rules didn’t leave much room for interpretation when it came to what was – and was not – permitted on college grounds. Unlike Zoe, I had read every last paragraph of them, and I’d tried to point out to her that our plan was in direct violation of at least a dozen regulations. Not that it had any effect, of course.
It was less than a week since Zoe had come bursting into my room while I was getting ready for bed. Her hair was tousled, her eyes glassy with alcohol and anticipation. It’s like super secret and exclusive, she had said. She’d seemed nervous, her voice even higher than usual, but this was less about the party and more about the person who’d invited us.
I cleared my throat. ‘Wait, remind me again where you met this guy?’ I was trying to hide it from Zoe, but somehow all my misgivings ended up spilling over into that one teeny little word: guy.
She heard it, of course. And suddenly she sounded annoyed. ‘At that party the other day, the one you wouldn’t come to. And for the last time: Ashton is not a dangerous psychopath!’
I grabbed the bottle and took a swig, trying to wash down all the strings of letters I didn’t want to come blurting out. Zoe wasn’t the most pleasant person to argue with. Even when she didn’t have a leg to stand on, she always managed to get the last word. And usually it was one that bothered me for days. ‘I never said that.’
‘But you were thinking it.’
I rolled my eyes but said nothing. As far as I was concerned, all the guys we met at student parties were potential psychopaths. Or arrogant, self-absorbed arseholes, at the very least.
Our outlines, drained of colour, were reflected in the tall windows as we left the library behind us and turned towards Great Court. The rest of the way we were silent. When Zoe was upset it was best to leave her alone. She wasn’t one to bear a grudge, and I knew she was too excited about the evening ahead to stay angry for very long that I didn’t feel the same way. We’d only been friends for a year, but since we were both studying English, we knew each other pretty well.
The building we arrived at after a few minutes’ walk was not one I knew. Most of the university’s architecture looked more or less the same: Gothic structures that loomed like castles into the sky. Long, stone passages that cast back your footsteps in a never-ending echo. Spiral staircases that coiled vertiginously upwards and twisting corridors that made you feel like you might at any moment stumble onto something hidden.
The ivy-clad façade ahead of us looked like any other in Cambridge, except that a few windows were lit, even though the college had long since gone to sleep. Before we reached the wooden door, Zoe turned to me. She looked me sternly up and down, fiddling with my dark hair and picking some lint off my coat. I was well aware that her fingers were always itching to dress me up in her own clothes when we went out. Not because she was ashamed of me, but because she thought I was ashamed of myself. Except I wasn’t. I made no secret of the fact that I didn’t have much money. Zoe’s parents were rich, mine were dead. That’s just the way it was.
‘Look, try and make an effort, okay?’ she said, putting the empty bottle behind a pillar. ‘Just keep an open mind, don’t start judging them straight off the bat. They’re nice people. Really.’
I didn’t trust my voice, so I went with a dutiful nod. Zoe had only known this guy a couple of weeks, and frankly, there were a lot of people she considered ‘nice’ who I’d have preferred to give a wide berth. Zoe approached everybody with an open mind, unbiased. She could find the good in anyone within minutes. I, on the other hand, had a knack for nosing out the bad. Not that I was especially proud of that. I’d have preferred to be more like my best friend, although at the same time I sometimes wished she was more like me. Then we wouldn’t disagree so much on how to spend our Friday nights.
Zoe shook out her hair and undid the top button of her coat before she straightened her shoulders, strode determinedly up to the door and knocked. A few seconds later, it swung half-open. The dull thud of music flowed out of the gap, in which a broad-shouldered boy leant against the frame, his hood pulled up. His eyes wandered down our bodies. When he reached the run in my tights, he frowned. ‘Password?’
I bit my lower lip to hold back a snort.
Zoe jabbed a warning elbow into my ribs and beamed at him. ‘Sturnus vulgaris,’ she said, voice lowered.
He nodded slowly and opened the door wider. ‘In you come. Down the corridor, turn right. Just follow the music.’
Before I could think better of it, Zoe grabbed my arm and yanked me inside. ‘Stu … what?’ I asked under my breath.
‘Sturnus vulgaris.’ She was dragging me impatiently down a long corridor. The floor was patterned like a chess board, the walls hung with gold-framed portraits in oil. Whatever kind of building this was, it certainly lived up to the college’s traditionalist reputation. ‘It’s the scientific name for the common starling. You know, like the bird.’
This time, I didn’t bother holding back the snort. ‘Seriously?’
Zoe threw me an exasperated look. ‘Mabel, you promised!’
‘Fine, fine.’ I was undoing my coat as we turned the corner. ‘At least we didn’t need to bring birdseed to get in, I guess.’
‘Starlings are a lot more impressive than you think,’ said a deep voice ahead of us.
Zoe and I both stopped short, staring at the young man leaning against a plinth a few yards in front of us, his head level with the bust on top of it. Both had wavy hair and a faint smile on their symmetrical faces. His eyes swept over Zoe before he turned his attention to me. While her face broke into a radiant smile, I felt the skin pucker on my arms. This must be Ashton.
‘Oh, yeah? How’s that, then?’ I asked.
With a languid movement he stepped away from the plinth and walked towards us. ‘They’re incredibly intelligent and very observant. They also have the best-trained syrinx of any songbird, which means they can mimic almost anything.’
‘They usually move in flocks, don’t they?’ With an effort I dredged up the only piece of information I had about the species. ‘I think I read that in many places they’re considered vermin, so people take measures to keep the population down.’
‘People often tend to destroy things they feel threatened by. In this case it seems like a rather vain effort. There are still starlings everywhere.’ He smirked, then his eyes were scrutinising Zoe again. Reaching out, he brushed a stray lock of flaxen hair from her face with the tips of his fingers. ‘If you ask me, they’re the true kings of the sky.’ Gently, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hello, Anima.’
I didn’t even bother to ask if that was a term of endearment or if he’d simply forgotten her name. Probably it was just another one of those sturnus type things.
Zoe blushed, murmuring a soft ‘hi’ and smiling rapturously. She seemed to
have forgotten I was there.
Ashton had not. He turned, looking at me with interest. ‘So. You must be the fabled friend. Zoe’s told me a lot about you. Says you’re the cleverest person she’s ever met.’
I couldn’t quite tell if that was a trace of mockery I caught in his voice. Everything about him was so perfect, so glossy, in a way that felt unreal. It was like I was staring at a façade, and there was no telling what – or who – was concealed behind it. Erring on the side of caution, I made no attempt to return his smile. ‘If I was, I wouldn’t be here. I’m not keen on being kicked out of uni because I got caught at an illicit party.’
Zoe stared at me, aghast, but Ashton laughed, the sound flowing warm and golden through the dim passageway. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. We never get caught.’ He winked before turning around and beckoning us to follow.
We made towards a room at the end of the corridor, the music drifting from underneath plain double doors. Ashton waited until we came to a halt right behind him before pushing them open.
If Zoe hadn’t dragged me over the threshold, I probably would have stayed there, rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by all the sensory input. It was just so … unexpected. I didn’t go to a lot of student parties, but I knew they weren’t generally like this.
A large room, almost a hall. Music, slow, not much bass, and not so loud that snatches of conversation couldn’t filter through. Dim pools of light around candles placed on wooden tables. Velvet sofas and dark carpets. Oil portraits on the walls, the faces scowling down at us disapprovingly. Muted tones, both the furnishings and the clothes of the guests. Swaying dresses, blouses with ornate stand-up collars, skirts tight at the waist. Plain rollneck jumpers, here and there a jacket tossed over the back of a chair. Straight-cut trousers, leather shoes, socks with embroidered hems.
In seconds I had spotted the odd ones out. Roughly a dozen of them, actually: people who did not fit in. Shirts too pleated, dresses too colourful. Zoe was one of them, because her dress gleamed silver. So was I, because … well, everything.
I curled my fingers into the stretched-out hem of my grey wool jumper, ill at ease. The safety pin I’d used to fasten my skirt poked uncomfortably into my waist as I followed Zoe.
I couldn’t get a sense of how many people were there. Some were lounging on soft furniture, others reclining against the pale grey walls. Two young men played chess at a table at the back of the room, while on the opposite side a couple kissed by the slightly open window. In the middle of the room, two women were playing a piano, the lid of which was cluttered with glasses and candles.
Well, this is weird, I thought, as Zoe whispered to me, her eyes huge, ‘Isn’t
it the coolest thing you’ve ever seen?’
I was about to answer when I saw I’d already lost her attention. Ashton had taken her hand and was drawing her towards an old drinks trolley at the other end of the room.
As I lost sight of her tulle dress among the mass of shadowy figures, I had a bad feeling. Zoe had met her fair share of oddballs, sure, but this one seemed to be in a class of his own.
For a minute or two I just stood there, worrying at the fabric of my jacket, which was draped over my arm. The more I looked, the more I began to feel like this wasn’t a party at all. More of a cult meeting. What I really wanted was to fish out my mirror compact and take a look at myself – that was the only thing that even remotely helped when I felt this isolated and out of place.
I jumped as someone appeared in front of me. A boy with shoulder-length black hair and a sly face. Or maybe it was just his smirk, which deepened as he scrutinised me more closely. ‘Hello, Anna Karenina. You look lost.’
‘Yeah, well I’ve got no interest in being found.’ I took a step back. ‘And I always choose war over peace.’
I heard a whistle, and moments later a second boy was standing in front of me. His reddish hair was shorter, but his grin was just as wide as his eyes slid from me to his friend. ‘Books and bite. The perfect combination. Your contribution, Victor?’
Contribution? I was too perplexed to think of a retort. The other boy shook his head regretfully. ‘Sadly not. Jack?’ He tapped the guy standing behind him on the shoulder, and he turned around. ‘She one of yours?’
It just kept getting better. My mouth opened, but yet again I was too slow. Jack took two steps towards me, his eyes sweeping over my face. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But if no one’s called dibs, I will.’ Lifting his hand, he ran a lock of my hair through his fingers.
Right. Enough was enough. I slapped his hand away, stepping back. ‘This might be difficult for you to get through your head, but not everything in this world belongs to you, all right? The next person who lays a finger on me gets smacked upside the head with one of these fancy candlesticks.’
They didn’t seem very impressed, their collective grin only growing more challenging. Victor sighed theatrically and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulders. ‘Damn, we’ll have to find out who she belongs to. I’ll give my latest winnings at poker for a share.’
My cheeks flushed with heat. I had only two options. Either I really did grab the nearest blunt object, or I got the hell out of here. At least temporarily. My eyes darted towards Zoe. She was with Ashton, leaning
against a wall, laughing at something he was saying. She didn’t look like someone who wanted to be rescued. And she probably wouldn’t be too thrilled about me starting a fight within five minutes flat.
I turned on my heel without a word and barged my way through the crowd. Music and voices drifted in my wake until the door fell shut behind me.
The more distance I put between myself and the strange party, the more my pulse began to quieten, and after a couple of minutes I was calm enough to examine my surroundings. If I ignored the reason I was here, maybe I could get something positive out of the whole fiasco after all. It wasn’t every day I got to spend time alone in a building like this. There was a loftiness to the halls of Cambridge even during the day, and by night they were more enchanting still.
I went up a spiral staircase and began to wander down the corridors, past dark walls and copper-coloured light fittings. There were doors left and right, all of them unlocked, opening onto studies and empty teaching rooms furnished with nothing but chairs. When I reached the end of the corridor, I paused.
The last door was the only one that was locked. Gingerly I turned the handle, but nothing happened. Biting my lip, I glanced back over my shoulder. Apart from the distant music, all seemed quiet. Vacant. I should have gone back to find Zoe, but something stopped me. It wasn’t just the prospect of another pointless conversation – I was itching to know what was behind that door. Curiosity had always been my fatal flaw.
Muffling a sigh, I gave in and removed the hairpin that held my overlong fringe in place. I was breaking the rules just by being here, so I thought I might as well go all in. And anyway, there are certain skills that benefit from practice.
After my mum died, I moved in with my aunt and her son. They lived in a small town not far from Brighton, where there wasn’t a whole lot for teenagers to do. Which is probably why, before he’d even left school, my cousin had amassed a substantial criminal record. I was fifteen when he taught me how to open a lock with a piece of wire. Or a hairpin.
It took me thirty seconds to pick the lock, which opened with a click. Smiling triumphantly, I slipped inside. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the dim light from the corridor.
It wasn’t a large room. The only items of furniture were a heavy oak desk and matching chair, placed in the middle of the room, and a velvet wingback with a side table by the window. The night outside was barely visible through the ivy growing over the pane.
The room was full of books, the air thick with the scent of old paper and printing ink. My pulse slowed and my shoulders dropped as I took a few deep breaths. The bindings were muted, mostly grey or black. A few had gold numbers on the spine, elaborate initials or words in Latin or Ancient Greek. This was no ordinary college library. The books exuded a certain nobility: each one seemed exquisite and important. Even this pocket library was elite.
I set the pin down on the desk before wandering closer to the floor-to-ceiling shelves. I ran the tips of my fingers cautiously over the spines hesitating for a long time before I ventured to pull out a book. It felt like removing an organ from a body. These volumes formed a work of art; one I desperately wanted to understand. Carefully, I stroked the anthracite-grey binding. The gold lettering embossed on the cover gave shape to words my schoolgirl Latin wasn’t good enough to read. I smoothed one damaged corner consolingly.
Before I could open the book, I heard a cough behind me. I whipped around, startled, the book clamped protectively against my chest.
He was standing in the open doorway, his face in shadow. I looked him hastily up and down, taking in his build, his tall, lean body, his crossed arms, his faintly tousled hair. When he took a step towards me, I saw his face. A decidedly attractive face, with a defined jaw and a pair of expressive dark eyes. They narrowed slightly as they surveyed me.
His voice, however, was calm. ‘Strictly speaking, this area is off-limits to guests.’ He stepped unhurriedly into the room, the door falling shut behind him with a creak.
‘And you’re not a guest?’ I replied with equal composure, although my heart was pounding. Whoever he was, he didn’t seem overly intent on chucking me out. Which could be either good or bad. Good, if he simply wasn’t interested in me. Bad, if he had something else in mind.
‘Not as much as you are.’ I felt his eyes on me, although his features had sunk back into darkness. By now he was almost at the window, leaving my escape route well and truly clear.
My muscles relaxed. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. I just got lost,’ I said, giving what I hoped was an embarrassed smile.
‘Lost?’ He sat down in the reading chair. The green velvet matched the olive shade of his pullover. ‘Usually that door’s kept locked.
‘Then I guess someone must have forgotten.’ I was slowly stroking the tattered corner of the book, trying to avoid his searching gaze.
‘You’re not a very good liar.’
I thought perhaps I heard the trace of a smile in his voice. Annoyingly, I knew he was right. I’d never had an issue telling the truth. The opposite, actually, although it would have done wonders for my social life if lying came more naturally. ‘I don’t get much practice, I suppose.’
He leant forward, resting his forearms on his knees. ‘I see. An honest burglar. Were you planning to steal anything?’
I shook my head. ‘I was just curious.’
He frowned, a deep crease appearing between his brows. They were dark, like his hair and eyes, which were framed with thick lashes. There was a quiet, classical quality to his face. It reminded me of the silhouettes illustrated in old novels. ‘Curious about what?’
‘About what someone who has everything is most eager to protect.’ I nodded towards the bookshelves. Their energy was pressing up against my spine, pushing me to stand taller, and my eyes wandered over them with unaccountable pride. ‘I’m pleasantly surprised. Protecting books, that’s … sweet.’
He laughed – a harsh, throaty sound. ‘I don’t want to disappoint you, but I don’t think it’s to do with their intangible value. These are all first editions. The one you’re currently holding is on its own worth more than any painting in the front hall.’
I jumped, staring at the book I’d been fidgeting with for the last five minutes. Hurriedly I turned and slid it back into place before it could crumble to dust in my hands. ‘Dammit.’ I wiped my fingers on my jumper, as if to remove any lingering evidence of my potential guilt. ‘They should put up a warning.’
‘I think the locked door is supposed to clue you in,’ he answered sardonically.
I sighed and pulled out the desk chair to sit down. Perhaps it would have been wiser to go back, but for some strange reason I enjoyed his company more than the others’.
‘So,’ I began, after I’d got comfortable. ‘What brings you up here?’
‘Peace and quiet. And whisky.’ He reached over to the side table and picked up the half-full crystal decanter, raising it enquiringly in my direction. I shook my head and watched as he poured two fingers of the golden fluid into a bulbous glass. ‘Which college are you at?’ he asked, settling back into the chair.
‘Trinity Hall. And you?’
He gestured at the room. ‘Trinity College. Which makes us neighbours. Although, I don’t think I’ve seen you around.’
I laughed. There were nearly 25,000 students at the university. I spent most of my time outside of classes studying, so except for the people on my staircase, the only students I really knew were the ones I kept bumping into at the library. ‘Probably best to forget you did. I’m pretty much just a parasite at a fancy party like this, anyway.’
‘I’m sure my friends would be impressed by your choice of words.’
The corners of my mouth drooped. Friends. Of course. Not sure what I’d secretly been hoping. That he was a cleaner’s son who’d snuck in unnoticed? I should have known; he wasn’t the odd one out here, he fit in perfectly. His presence here meant he belonged. Another explanation for why we’d never met. Even if I got out more, I’d never have crossed paths with someone like him. Some things just aren’t meant to go together.
‘Got it. You’re one of them.’
He raised his eyebrows, leaning towards me so that the light fell across his face. There was a faint scar across his right temple. A silvery thread on his otherwise perfect skin. ‘When you say it like that it sounds like a crime.’
‘No.’ I gave a half-hearted smile. ‘At least, not one I can blame you for. We don’t choose the world we’re born into.’
‘And what world were you born into?’
‘Not one you’d like to get better acquainted with.’ My fingertips were groping along the run in my tights, which ended in a blob of nail polish above my knee. Seeing the quizzical look in his eyes, I sighed. ‘Fine. Just look at me.’ I stood up and moved past the desk, stopping a few steps away from him. ‘Look at my clothes. Worn tread on my shoes, dull patent leather. A hole in my tights, and I’ll still be wearing them until the day they fall apart. Vintage skirt – not because I shop at hip second-hand shops, but because it belonged to my nan.’ I lifted the black fabric, which I’d hemmed myself. Then I gestured to my tattered fringe. ‘See how uneven that is? Looks suspiciously like kitchen scissors, doesn’t it? Dark circles under my eyes, ink stains on my fingers.’ I gave him a nod that was both invitation and challenge. ‘What does all that tell you, then?’
He didn’t hesitate. ‘That you got here on some sort of scholarship?’
I bowed with a smile and leant back against the desk. ‘Total cliché, isn’t it?’
‘We’re all clichés in one way or another. Everything about us is inherently repetitive, no matter how special and unique we’d like to be. We’re only ever a copy of someone else.’ For a moment the expression on his face was so forlorn that it disconcerted me. I swallowed, hard. Before I could answer, he shook his head gently. ‘But at least you’re a cliché to be proud of.’ And that was all. No jeering, no arrogance, no mock-approval. His reaction astonished me. And I liked it. More than I wanted to let on.
I tilted my head, contemplating him again. Everything about him was clean and neat. His clothes weren’t flashy, but although I could see no obvious branding, they were clearly expensive. His skin looked healthy, flawless, even – except for the delicate scar. His hair was glossy, and I knew that if I looked at his hands, they’d be soft and well-manicured. Every aspect of him was somehow like a painting. A perfect snapshot of a human being. Yet I couldn’t help thinking that the most perfect-seeming images were usually the ones with the most chaos underneath the surface. And I’d have bet money there was chaos under his. I could see it in his eyes, in the subtle, pensive air he’d emanated ever since he set foot in the room. Everything about him saddened and fascinated me all at once. I’d never met anyone like him before. Someone who felt so present, even as a part of him was clearly elsewhere.
‘Mind if I take a stab at your cliché?’ I didn’t know why I was asking. I only knew that I wanted urgently to find out if what I saw in him was the truth.
He sipped his drink, caught a little off-guard. ‘You’re welcome to try.’
I twisted a lock of hair, grasping for the right words. ‘You’re the son of wealthy parents. The kind who had your whole life planned out before you were even born. You’ve always done your best to live up to their expectations, but you’ve never had the chance to figure out what you really want. You don’t know who you want to be, and it’s eating you up inside. You’re studying…’ I paused, examining him closely: the impassive face, the slightly tense shoulders, the glass gripped tightly, the melancholy cast to his features. ‘Philosophy. You’re hoping it will guide you to the right questions, but the more you learn, the fewer answers you find. You’re afraid of wasting your life, but it’s even more difficult to admit that you don’t actually know what you want to use it for.’ I stopped and gave him a quizzical look. ‘Am I on the right track?’
He said nothing, but gradually his shoulders relaxed as he held my gaze. I even thought perhaps I saw the trace of an appreciative smile at the corners of his mouth.
‘So, what brought you here, then, if you think so little of our world?’ he asked at last, dodging the question. Maybe I should take it as a sign of how close I’d got – very.
‘The same thing that always makes people put someone else’s needs first.’ I lowered my voice to the dramatic tenor of a horror movie. ‘Love.’
‘Your boyfriend?’
‘Oh no, I’m talking about a much deeper connection than that.’ My smile felt more genuine when I thought of Zoe. Hotheaded, impulsive, heart-onher-sleeve Zoe – although we often disagreed, she was the closest confidante I’d ever had. ‘My best friend asked me to come.’
‘Ah, I see,’ he responded softly, running his little finger along the rim of the glass. ‘And where is she now?’
Good question. Glancing at my watch, I realised it had been more than an hour since I’d left the party.
‘With the reason she wanted to come in the first place, I suppose.’ Ashton’s name was on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it. There were a lot of people downstairs, but I couldn’t be sure the two of them weren’t friends. ‘The guy who looks like a Michelangelo statue come to life,’ I said instead, deliberately vague.
He frowned, as if something I’d said had surprised him. Or displeased him. ‘So you were invited.’
‘How else do you think we got past the guy at the door? Convoluted scientific names for animals aren’t part of my standard vocabulary.’
‘I thought you had a knack for getting into places that are technically off-limits to you, Pica.’ Despite the restlessness in the shallows of his eyes, this time I was sure I saw a smile on his elegantly curving lips.
‘Pica?’ I replied, baffled.
He didn’t respond, merely sipped his whisky and eyed me thoughtfully.
Reluctantly, I went on. ‘I mean … yeah, I am. But this isn’t an event I’d attend by choice. I didn’t last two minutes down there.’
The smile was wiped abruptly from his lips. ‘What happened?’
‘Your friends.’ I shrugged casually, although the memory brought back a surge of fury. ‘It’s the principle, you know? I don’t like being referred to as a “contribution”, or treated like something you’d win at poker.’ It was meant to sound sarcastic, but I could feel my bottom lip quiver.
We were silent. My anger pulsed between us – I could see the waves of it lapping against his face. His expression twisted into a faint grimace, as though the emotion had crawled beneath the skin. ‘I’m really sorry about that. I’d like to tell you they didn’t mean it that way, but—’
‘But you’re not a good liar either?’
‘I’m an excellent liar. I just prefer not to,’ he corrected me flatly. It didn’t seem like he was proud of it – more like it was a fact he simply couldn’t deny. Something about it made me smile.
I looked again at my watch. It was time to go. Partly because I didn’t want to leave Zoe alone any longer, but also because I didn’t like how comfortable I was getting. This conversation was going to be a one-time thing, and the more intense it got, the longer it would take to put it behind me. I didn’t have time for distractions – I needed to focus every glimmer of attention on my studies.
‘I should go.’ I snatched my hairpin off the desk with a determined gesture and turned towards the door, but something stopped me in my tracks, and I looked back at him again. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Cliff.’ The word was barely out of his mouth before he clamped his mouth so tightly shut that I saw the muscles in his jaw go rigid. He wouldn’t meet my eye, frowning as though annoyed.
I gave a terse nod and strode over to the door, although everything about the room was tempting me to stay. It was absurd, but leaving it knowing I’d never see it again, felt deeply, painfully wrong. It was like I’d forgotten something. Something my mind didn’t remember but my emotions did. It was almost literally blocking my path, and I had to force myself to keep moving. ‘Well, I hope you have a lovely evening, Cliff.’
‘Wait.’ His voice held me back. When I turned again he was standing beside the armchair, his hands buried in his pockets, his enigmatic gaze fixed on me. ‘You didn’t tell me your name.’
I tucked the slightly bent pin back into my hair. ‘What’s the point? You’re better off forgetting all about this conversation, anyway. A name without a face means nothing, right?’
He shook his head earnestly, taking a step towards me. ‘I don’t see it that way at all.’ The glow from the corridor fell in a slender oblong across his face, illuminating the deep brown of his eyes.
For one long moment I stared at him, felt myself committing him to memory. A snapshot of a snapshot of a human being, someone I knew I would remember much longer than I cared to admit. Then I turned and opened the door wide. ‘Don’t forget to lock up when you leave. You never know what kind of riffraff might be prowling the halls.’
As I walked off down the passageway, I thought I heard him laughing softly.
To find out what happens next in Starling Nights, you can purchase the book here, in paperback or eBook format.
Starling Nights : ©️ Merit Niemeitz 2026