The Oxford Inheritance (18 page)

Hugo looked at her, his dark eyes glittering black in the neon streetlight. “You mean, since the last time you saw me? I want to apologize for the way I acted. Olivia was right; I was drunk, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you.” He reached out and placed his hand on hers.

“It's fine.” Cassie stared at his hand, overlapping hers in the dark. His fingers were pale, but they burned hot against hers. She felt a shiver from the contact and quickly drew her hand away. “It was a hard day, for all of us.”

“But especially you.” His voice had something in it, a note of careful observation that made Cassie look up again. Hugo was studying her, his gaze unwavering. She remembered her moment of weakness, confessing the truth about her mother's death.

“Forget I said anything.” She turned her attention to her food, scalding her lips with a quick forkful. “We were all acting out of character.” To her relief, Hugo didn't press the issue. They sat in a companionable silence for a moment more, eating in the streetlight. When nothing was left but a congealed mess, Cassie rose to her feet. “I better get back. I have a tutorial in the morning.”

“I'd have thought they'd be giving you a free pass.” Hugo got up and discarded their wrappers in a trash can nearby.

“They are,” Cassie admitted. Her tutors had clearly had some kind of private meeting, because for the past few weeks her lack of essays or class participation had gone without note—even from Tremain. She showed up, sat silently through her classmates' discussions, and left
without a word when the session was up, feeling everyone's eyes on her and the knowing looks of speculation. “But still, I can't let it all slide. I should at least show my face.”

“I'll walk you.” Hugo fell into step beside her as they crossed the street. Cassie didn't argue. But when they passed into the courtyard, instead of leaving her there, Hugo stayed with her all the way to the lower door.

“I'm fine here,” Cassie told him, reaching to unlock the door, but it swung open without resistance. She hesitated, remembering the last time the door was left unlocked.

Hugo saw her expression. “Does anyone else live here?” he asked, moving ahead of her into the stairwell.

Cassie shook her head. “It's just classrooms down here. And then our apartment.”

Hugo began climbing the stairs, Cassie following close behind. “I'm sure it's nothing,” she protested. “The porter said he'd send someone to pick up Evie's things. They probably just left the door unlocked.” Hugo stopped suddenly, and Cassie bumped right into his back. “What is it?” she asked, and Hugo stood aside.

The door to the attic was swinging wide open. Cassie took a breath and stepped into the flat.

It had been ransacked, torn apart. Chairs upended, the table swept clean. The floor was littered with broken china and books, and the taps had been left running in the kitchen, flooding the floor with a sodden gush.

Hugo swiftly moved to turn the faucet off. “Did you keep anything valuable up here?” he asked, grabbing a clump of dish towels to try and mop up the flow.

Cassie, stunned at the mess, picked her way through the debris, trying to process it. “Nothing. I mean, I have my laptop, but it's barely running. There's no jewelry or cash . . .” She looked around, before suddenly realizing. “Evie's things!” She rushed to the bedroom, but it was a disaster zone. The boxes she'd painstakingly packed full of Evie's
clothing and belongings were torn open, the room strewn with the delicate silk dresses and pretty scarves she'd so carefully folded away.

“They left the artwork,” Hugo called from down the hall.

“I never even noticed it,” Cassie called back. “Is it worth anything?”

“They didn't think so.”

She remembered her own valuables and quickly went to her room. It too had been upended, but when she felt her way to the back of the wardrobe, the panel there was in place, untouched. The files on her mother, the photographs and ticket, were untouched, along with her passport, tucked safely away.

“Everything okay?” Hugo's voice came from the doorway. Cassie quickly stuffed the files inside her bag and emerged from the closet.

“I don't understand it,” she said, looking again at the mess. “How did they get past the gate? What did they think they'd find?”

“I don't know. Cash, maybe. Laptops, iPhones.” Hugo carefully righted the desk chair that had been thrown aside. “We've had a bunch of break-ins since term started. I guess the thieves think all Raleigh students must be hoarding away the crown jewels, and if you left the front door unlocked . . .”

“I didn't,” Cassie insisted. “At least, I don't think I did . . .” She tried to think back to the morning, but she'd rushed out so fast, she couldn't picture herself locking up as she left. Every morning was a sprint, to get out of the damn attic before she could pay too close attention to the beam up overhead and the empty silence of the place.

“You can't stay here,” Hugo said. “Pack up what you need. You can crash with me.”

Cassie opened her mouth, but he fixed her with a steely look. “You're really going to fight me on this?” he demanded. “We can report it in the morning. It's too late now.”

She thought the better of protesting. She couldn't imagine sleeping there, not in the midst of such chaos. “I don't need anything.” She looked around again and shivered. Who had been here, picking through
her things, disturbing Evie's last possessions? The sooner she was out of the flat, the better. “Let's just go.”

Cassie assumed Hugo lived on the college grounds, but he walked them out
of the front gates and half a block away, down a winding residential side street set on the edge of the Magdalen fields. He stopped at a sandstone-fronted town house at the end of the row and opened the front gate. Cassie followed him up the path, through an overgrown front yard, to the ornate blue front door.

“This isn't student housing,” she realized, stepping inside. Hugo flipped the lights on, illuminating a foyer that stood two stories high. In a stark contrast to the antiques and disheveled elegance of the Raleigh accommodations, Hugo's home was a modern, loft-style home, all white and chrome and glass. Cassie looked around the open-plan living area, spotless save research papers and books strewn around the leather couches.

Hugo gave a wry smile. “How did you guess? They lost patience with me, kicked me out.”

She nodded, suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Of course.” Hugo directed her up the wrought-iron spiral staircase to the mezzanine level, where there was a bed and nightstand. “There are fresh linens, extra blankets in the closet over there. Bathroom's just behind that screen. I'll be downstairs if you need anything.”

“Oh.” Cassie stopped. “I didn't think. I can take the couch—”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Hugo softened. “I've fallen asleep there so many times, it's curved quite nicely to my back. Sleep well.” He gave her a crooked smile, then returned downstairs.

Cassie sank down on the edge of the bed. Everything was white, a blank slate, not like the rooms back at Raleigh, dancing with shadows and memories, looming in the dark. She barely managed to kick off her boots and crawl into bed before falling into an exhausted sleep.

She ran.

Through the tunnels, her feet bare on the stone floor. Torches blazed along the main pathways so she veered deeper into the labyrinth, tripping down hidden stairs and along the dark, winding corridors until the air became heavy with decay and doors groaned their protest as she heaved them open. Still, she ran.

The chanting was getting closer, a dizzying hum that echoed off every wall, no matter how far she fled. It was all in her mind, she told herself. It had to be. A shadow suddenly reared up in the gloom and she stumbled in fear, falling hard in a bloody scrape of skin on sharp stone. But there was no time for pain, not with the knife gripped, slick in her hand, or the faint clatter of footsteps getting louder. Closer.

She hurled herself around another corner and up another flight of stairs, almost crying out with relief when she saw a familiar carved archway. Beyond, she knew, was a side tunnel, and past that, freedom.

He stepped out of the shadows—

“Cassie!”

She awoke with a scream, still caught in the terrible fear driving her on through the tunnels. He was there, the dark shadow, but there was no escape. He held her, his grip biting into her arms, shaking her, relentless.

“Cassie, look at me. Wake up!” Hugo's voice broke through the blackness. Cassie gasped, jolting back into her skin to find she was in his bed, tangled in his sheets. Daylight flooded through the windows, illuminating the concern on Hugo's face as he gripped her arms tightly.

Cassie caught her breath, shaking. “I'm sorry, it was just . . . I was . . .”

“A nightmare,” Hugo finished. “You scared me.” He slowly released her.

Cassie swallowed. Slowly, her heart rate slowed, her blood pounding steadily in her ears.

Hugo sat back with a rueful laugh. “Well, that's one way of waking me before ten. What were you dreaming about?”

“I don't remember.” Cassie blinked as the threads of the vision dissolved away under the light. Everything around her was smooth and crisp, comforting in its stark modernism. “But it was so real . . .”

“After Evie, I couldn't sleep for a week. Nothing but falling dreams. Falling into an endless dark.”

Cassie slowly shook her head. “This was different. It felt like I'd been there before.”

“Where?”

She frowned, trying to remember. “I . . . It's gone.”

There was a pause, and Cassie realized she was gripping Hugo's hand. She released it quickly.

Hugo rose to his feet. “It's nearly six. I'll go call the porters, tell them about the break-in.”

“I can do that,” Cassie objected.

“It's fine. You get yourself together,” Hugo told her gently. “Take as long as you need.”

When Cassie saw her reflection in the gleaming bathroom mirror, she
understood why Hugo had looked so concerned. Her skin was pale, with dark shadows blooming under her eyes. She looked thin and
gaunt, her dark hair in tangles. She'd been so distracted and anxious since Evie's death, was it any wonder Thessaly had seemed so worried about her?

She showered under the powerful jets and dressed, taking one of Hugo's shirts to wear with her jeans. He was on the phone out on the back patio when she made her way downstairs, so she turned to the kitchen instead, searching out eggs in the refrigerator and flour and baking supplies in the cupboards that lined the galley.

“I didn't know you cooked.” Hugo found her whisking batter in a bowl, a griddle pan already set on the range.

“Barely.” Cassie shrugged. The truth was, she'd never had access to a kitchen like this, with its expanse of marble countertops and space-age stove. She still felt on edge from the night and had reached for familiar tools, a comforting routine. “My mother taught me a couple of recipes. Pancakes,” she explained, ladling the thick batter onto the griddle. “American style.”

Hugo fetched down plates and cutlery, laying the dining table for two. Now that the exhaustion of the night had been washed away, Cassie looked carefully around the apartment, noticing the modern artwork and touches of life around the room: a bronze globe on the mantel, clothbound books on the shelves.

“How old did you say you were, when . . . ?” Hugo asked, then quickly corrected himself. “I'm sorry, you don't have to talk about it.”

Cassie paused. “Fourteen,” she finally replied, focusing on the food preparation.

“I'm sorry.”

She looked up. Hugo was watching her, his dark eyes full of quiet sympathy. Cassie shook it off. “Have you lived here long?” she asked brightly. “Olivia said you'd been at Raleigh for years, right?”

“Seven years.” Hugo's reply had a note of self-deprecation in the tone. “Three as an undergraduate, then another four churning through
my master's, and now a Ph.D. I got this place a while back; Livvy helped me find it. She helped decorate too,” he added. “As you can probably tell by all those baking implements I've never once used.”

Cassie noticed the casualness with which Hugo referred to his purchase of the property; it wasn't a rental, and he didn't mention his parents' support. He probably had a trust fund depositing a monthly stipend in his account every month like clockwork. “Why do you stick around?” Cassie asked as she flipped the pancakes from the pan and brought them to the table. “It can't be the academics. I don't think I've ever heard you even mention your studies. What is your doctorate, anyway?”

“Oh, something about logic and pure mathematics, I won't bore you with the details.”

“So why stay?” Cassie took a seat. The china was matching, heavy and white, with orange juice in cut-glass tumblers and silverware like the kind they used in the grand hall at college.

Hugo gave her the ghost of a smile. “You sound like my family. ‘Why won't you grow up and take responsibility?' ‘You're destined for greater things than an adjunct professorship.'”

“Ah,” Cassie breathed, realizing the truth. “You're hiding.”

“I'm pursuing higher learning,” Hugo argued.

“You're hiding,” she corrected him. “Well, Oxford's the best place for it. It's this . . . bubble, away from everything. The normal rules don't apply.”

“The world keeps spinning.” Hugo gave a slight smile. “But here everything stays exactly the same. Well, most things.” He dropped his voice at the end of his sentence, looking down.

Cassie paused, acknowledging Evie's absence. “So what do they want you to do? Out there in the real world.”

Hugo shrugged, his hair falling forward over his eyes. “Join the family business.”

“Which is?”

“Power.” Hugo's expression twisted. “The Mandevilles . . . we run things. Companies, newspapers, countries.”

“Olivia's father.” Cassie remembered. “He's in the British parliament.”

“Uncle Richard. My father passed when I was young, so he's like a father to me too.”

“I'm sorry.” Cassie felt a pang of empathy. No wonder he seemed so understanding when she talked about her mother. He'd lost someone, too.

Hugo shook his head. “I was too young, I don't even remember him. My mother didn't cope too well, so I spent most of my childhood with that side of the family. Grandfather has a family estate in Sussex; we all just piled in there.”

Cassie could picture it, a clatter of children, all together. Would that have been her fate, had she known her real father? Instead of the progression of lonely house, stepfather, and then the angry isolation of one foster home after the next. “And now?” she pressed. “Are you still close?”

“What is close?” Hugo replied lightly. “We're family. That's all that matters. These are good.” He changed the subject deftly, taking another helping. “How do you get them so fluffy?”

“Secret ingredient.” Cassie smiled, remembering her mother, bright-eyed in the kitchen, humming along to country songs on the radio. For a moment she felt her mother's presence, stronger than ever, not a shameful secret or burden to carry, but comfort.

They ate in peaceful silence for a while longer, until a sound came from the front foyer, the key turning in the door and the clatter of a new arrival. Cassie tensed. “Hugo? When are you going to have that front step fixed? I've told you a hundred times.” Olivia breezed into the living room with grocery bags and an armful of newspapers. “Hi, Cassie.” She smiled, seemingly unsurprised to find Cassie there. “Who wants fresh bagels? I went by the place on my way here.”

Hugo looked irritated. “Liv, I told you I was busy this morning.”

“I know, but when I heard about the break-in, I had to come right over.” Olivia turned to Cassie. “Are you okay? Did they take anything? I can't believe someone walked right in like that.”

Cassie wondered how news had spread so fast. “I'm fine. They were long gone by the time we got there.”

“Thank god Hugo was with you,” Olivia said. “We should file a complaint against the porters. Security is a joke; they just sit around watching TV all night.”

“No, it's fine,” Cassie protested. “Like I said, it didn't look like anything was taken.”

“Good.” Olivia went to the kitchen and put on the radio, unloading her bags and getting extra plates, filling the space with a bustle of noise and activity. “I invited Paige and the rest over for brunch,” she called. “Miles is having a tantrum again, but he promised to bring some good champagne.”

Hugo turned to Cassie. “I'm sorry,” he murmured. “I told her not to come.”

“It's fine.” Cassie got up. “I have to get back anyway. I'll need to follow up on the report about the break-in, and classes . . .”

“Oh.” Hugo looked taken aback for a moment. “I understand.”

“But thank you for letting me stay.” Cassie felt a strange tug of regret. She would have happily lingered for the rest of the morning, leaving the outside world behind.

Hugo nodded. “Anytime.”

Back at Raleigh, Cassie went through the official report with a bored-looking
police officer and the college porters. She'd wondered briefly if Charlie would be the one to speak with her, but they sent a different man; he barely looked around the trashed room before sighing. “And nothing was taken?”

“I don't think so. There wasn't anything valuable here.” Cassie righted an upside-down chair and took in the mess with a fresh stab of regret.

“If you don't know whether you locked the door or not, there's not much I can do.” He shrugged. “I'll file the report, let you know if anyone turns up.”

The police officer went back downstairs, leaving Cassie alone with Rutledge. “Well, that was a big help,” she told him, rolling her eyes.

“You can always count on the local coppers to take the easy way out,” Rutledge agreed. He began helping her straighten up: righting a coffee table that had been knocked over and picking up books from the floor.

“You don't have to do that,” Cassie objected.

“Don't you worry about me.” Rutledge gave her a smile, his weathered face lined deep with wrinkles. “Those kids can wait a while longer to have someone change a lightbulb.”

Cassie started in on the boxes of Evie's things, now strewn around the room. “Will you be able to get these sent to her parents soon?” she asked, folding clothing back into the boxes. “I know there's no rush, but . . . I hate having to look at it all.”

Rutledge nodded. “I'll take care of it. Did they want anything kept here? Her academic work, maybe? Some folks like to donate it to the libraries.”

“I don't know.” Cassie frowned, worried. “I didn't ask. Maybe—” She was interrupted as a phone began to ring. She had to pause for a moment to realize it was the ancient landline that had sat dormant for months on the end table. Cassie picked it up. “Hello?”

“And another week passes without access to modern technology.” Elliot's voice was impatient.

“How did you get this number?” Cassie smiled. Across the room, Rutledge gestured he had to leave. She mouthed her thanks as he closed the door behind him.

“A little something called the student directory. Believe me, I'm the first person to access the file in years. For once you should be grateful this place is stuck in the Dark Ages.”

“Thank you, Elliot,” Cassie said lightly. “Now, what did you need?”

“It's what you need, actually,” Elliot replied. “I checked the borrower logs to find that title your Rose Smith authored.”

It took Cassie a moment to remember. So much had happened since leaving the library the day before, Rose's suicide had been pushed to the edge of her mind. “Of course, thanks,” she said. “What was it?”

Elliot paused. “It was an essay on the origins of Raleigh and the School of Night.”

Cassie felt a chill. “The School of Night . . .” she repeated. “You mean she was studying it?”

“In a way. Like I said, it was an anniversary archive thing, not official academic work. She probably just threw together some old articles and polished it up for the big celebration.” Elliot sounded tense.

“This book, where is it? Can I read it?”

“Not right now.” Elliot's voice was reluctant. “It's on loan.”

“Who borrowed it?” Cassie demanded, gripping the phone tightly. “Maybe I can track them down. Is it due back soon?”

“No.” Elliot paused.

Cassie made a noise of frustration. “What aren't you telling me?”

After another long moment, he replied in a rush. “It was Evie, your roommate. She was the last person to check it out. The only one,” he added. “That thing sat in storage for ten years before she requested to see it.”

Cassie caught her breath. “Wait right there,” she ordered, dropping the phone to the table. She hurried through the apartment to Evie's room, the boxes into which she'd just meticulously repacked all Evie's books and files. Cassie tore through the boxes, looking closely at the contents this time. She checked every title, but it wasn't there. And neither were her notes. The fat notebooks of articles and papers, the binders Cassie remembered seeing around the flat. She'd been so busy thinking about valuables, but when she'd said nothing had been stolen in the break-in, she'd been wrong.