Page 1 of In Doubt
PROLOGUE
Giorgie
The floorboards creak and my footsteps ring out as I trot down the steps in the draughty lecture theatre and halt by the front row.
Mellow autumn light drifts through the high windows that run below the ceiling and illuminates the chalk dust that hangs in the air. The huge blackboard that lines the back wall has been scrubbed clean and the projector screen remains coiled up on the ceiling, yet to be lowered. The lectern stands before the blackboard with one lone microphone and heavy ancient curtains wait in the corners to be yanked across the windows, plunging the hall into darkness.
It’s the first day of term and the hall smells of lemon cleaning fluids and dust. The usual intermingling of stale scents was scrubbed away at the end of the previous academic year.
I’m early. The first one here. Far too eager. But I’m excited and I can’t help being early when I’m excited.
I scoot my way along the wooden bench, hard against the back of my thighs, and lower myself onto a seat right in the centre.
I fish the brand new notepad out of my rucksack and stare at the front cover. My brother’s omega bought me this as a new term gift. Across the cover is a tangle of ivory white lilies, the tips of their petals a shocking pink and their sticky pollen a vibrant orange. I trace over the stems with my finger.
She’d be proud, my mum, Lily, and I wish she was here to see me. She always said I could be whatever I wanted to be. That nothing and no one could hold me back. I only had to dream it and believe it.
I fold over the cover and press my fingers down on the fold, creasing the pages open. Then I flick the nub of my pen down and write across the top.
Masters in Archeology.
The letters make me grin. To my surprise, I’d passed my exams with flying colours, with actual merits, and a place on the masters course had been offered to me without having to apply. I’d accepted with enthusiasm and disbelief.
Maybe my mum was right.
I dream of being an archeologist. Of uncovering the secrets and mysteries that lie in our pasts. I dream of digging my fingers into the cold, damp soil and drawing back the layers of time, discovering treasures that lie forgotten.
It had seemed like an impossible dream for the last three years of my course. I knew the reality. Most of us archaeology undergraduates would end up as history teachers, accountants, or librarians. Very few would land their dream job in our field.
But now that dream seems as if it could be within reach. Whoever finishes top of this Masters class will be offered a PhD placement with Professor Weaver.
And Professor Weaver is my hero. An inspiring teacher and a groundbreaking archeologist. She’s challenged the status quo. Changed our ways of thinking about the people of the past. Shown a woman can be as influential in this field as any of the men.
I add the date to the top of the page, then drum my fingers on the wooden ledge in front of me, watching as the hands spin slowly around the clock on the far wall.
Eventually, other people enter the theatre too, and the hall fills with the sound of chatter and the aroma of beta scents.
I’m the only omega. I was on the undergraduate course and I will be on this Masters course. There are few of us these days. Rare beings compared to our ancestors, and most omegas choose to go to one of the omega colleges that will help them find a suitable mate.
I’m not interested in that, not for the time being anyway.
With a few minutes to spare, my friends Sia and Carl arrive in the hall and I wave at them from the front, removing my bag and coat from the spaces I’d saved for them.
Sia squeezes me, as excited as I am, but we’ve no time to talk before the lights dim, the curtains draw, and the professor steps up to the lectern, ready to start the very first lecture.
* * *
Ishould be scribbling away and making notes, recording all the important points the professor is making, but I’m too entranced, too drawn in by all she has to say. I rest my elbow on the wooden ledge across my lap and lean my chin into my hands.
I’m sitting like this, listening enraptured, when something niggles at the back of my consciousness. I don’t register it at first, but it keeps on nudging me and nudging me until finally I jerk up straight.
A scent.
An alpha scent.
Like warm, freshly brewed coffee. Deep and rich. It makes my insides rumble. Sia glances at me and I offer her an apologetic smile, leaning back on the bench and trying my best to ignore the intriguing aroma.
It’s too tempting, though. As subtly as I can, I glance around the room, trying to pick out the owner. The hall is dark and the frames and faces of the other students are bathed in shadow.
