Page 16 of Katabasis
“I just—it all happened very quickly, so I’m still wrapping my head around it.” Peter cleared his throat. “Sorry, that was tactless. I suppose—I guess, if you didn’t get it—I mean, I guess they just didn’t want a linguist this year. Er—I mean, not as a slight against linguists. But you know what I mean.”
Oh, fuck you, thought Alice.
The previous year she had applied for, and expected to win, the prestigious Cooke Fellowship for dissertation research. The Cooke Fellowships, founded a century ago by a widow of one of the founding theoreticians of English magick, were incredibly prestigious. They offered not only ample funding for summer travel to anywhere in the world, but also a procession of dinners and cocktail parties before and after with the Cooke family descendants. The descendants were invariably insufferable, but the parties were well attended because no one liked to say no to free food, and so this let you rub elbows with the academic elite for weeks on end. Cooke Fellows could only be nominated by senior members of the Royal Academy of Magick, whose ranks included Professor Grimes.
“You’ll get the Cooke,” he had assured her, all those months ago. “Oh, they’ll love you. You’ll be the best candidate they’ve seen in years. They’ve been dying to nominate a woman—you’re a shoo-in.” And since back then Alice still believed every word out of his mouth, she spent days after that conversation delirious with glee.
But then some months passed, and Professor Grimes had started changing the subject every time she brought it up. She tried to do it with subtlety. She would mention another research opportunity and follow it up with, “Though I suppose it’ll conflict with the Cooke.” But all he ever gave her was evasive nods and murmurs. “We’ll see,” he said. “It’s always a coin toss.” And then, later on, “You know, the Cooke’s very competitive.” And later than that, “I heard they’re not overfond of linguists.”
Around the time the Cooke short list was supposed to be announced, she began checking her pidge three times a day. Funny how when something enormous was at stake you refused to believe the evidence of your own eyes. Every day she stared into that empty cubbyhole and tried to convince herself that all her perceptions were wrong; that if she only stared hard enough, a thick purple envelope would materialize amidst the dust. She jumped whenever the phone rang. She eavesdropped on faculty meetings. She was triggered by the very mention of the word “Cooke,” which made conversations about food very difficult.
She felt so stupid now. Of course it hadn’t gone to her.
She wanted something to hurt him with then. Peter knew what he’d done, throwing that in her face. He ought to know how it felt.
“I thought about a new advisor too.” She tried to sound very casual. “I mean, Grimes did introduce me to some colleagues while we were in Italy. I thought about reaching out after the accident, but Europe really isn’t my first choice for a degree. They’re all so—postmodernist over there, don’t you think?”
It worked. Peter went rigid—only subtly, but she could sense the shift. He took the bait. “When were you in Italy?”
“Last summer,” said Alice. “It was a very last-minute thing. I’m not sure what happened. But Professor Grimes called me to his office one morning and told me to have all my things packed by Friday.”
She knew full well what had happened. Everyone knew Peter was supposed to accompany Professor Grimes to Rome for the biannualArcanaconference. But Peter, Professor Grimes grumbled, had not been feeling well as of late. “Unreliable,” he’d muttered; which Alice delighted to hear, since she had been waiting for everyone else to catch on to this for years. “Something’s going on with that kid. He’s out. It’s yours, Alice, if you want it.”
“I’ll pack tonight,” Alice had breathed. She’d felt so lucky then that she didn’t even bother to wonder why he hadn’t picked her for the trip in the first place, or what was going on with Peter, or indeed whether perhaps someone should check up on Peter. Professor Grimes had that effect. If he got you alone, if he said even a slightly flattering word, everything else melted away.
It was, indeed, a glorious summer in Italy. Alice and Professor Grimes made not one crucial breakthrough in the field, but three. She came home tanned, well-fed, and beaming with attention and praise. It was the peak of her career at Cambridge, and she wanted Peter to know precisely what he’d missed.
She couldn’t tell if it worked. Peter’s expression was decidedly—calculatedly?—neutral.
“It sounds like it was a very nice trip.”
“Thank you,” Alice said primly. “It really was.”
“I just thought...” Peter coughed. “Never mind. I’m glad you got to go.”
Silence hung between them. Alice should have been satisfied, but she felt sillier and sillier as the seconds trickled past. It was very clear now what they’d both done, and she felt supremely childish about it.
They both broke the silence at once.
“Honestly, let’s just—”
“Look, Law, maybe we should—”
They stared at each other.
“I don’t want to make things awkward,” said Peter.
“Oh, were things awkward?”
He brushed this off. “Suppose we bracket all problems for the living. We can’t fight down here, Law, we’ve got to trust each other. We’re all we have.”
She sniffed. “Fair enough.”
“Look, Iamsorry I brought up the Cooke.”
“And I’m sorry I brought up Italy.” Alice felt so tired then. To be alone, with Peter Murdoch, in Hell—she didn’t know how much more of this she could take. She unzipped her rucksack and dug around the bottom until she found her camping blanket. “Suppose we just shut up and go to sleep.”
“What’s that?” Peter asked.
