acting like a sledgehammer on the lovely rose-tinted vision I’d created.
Okay, definitely not something like that.
“It was my fault,” I say quickly as Casper bristles in my arms with a growl, obviously aware of the slight. “I called him and he turned to look. It was perfectly natural behaviour on his part.”
“Yes, well …” He straightens his helmet and I can see the outline of his face in the slanting light from the streetlamp. I can make out a strong aquiline nose, a sculpted jaw and a pair of dark eyes. Despite myself, I find myself wondering what colour they are and I mentally slap myself down. Stop it, Clara. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough. Just thank every higher entity that he can’t read your thoughts.
I’m cringing inside just thinking about it.
Mercifully, he doesn’t seem to notice me staring. In fact, he’s not looking at me at all. So much for my fantasy that our eyes would lock; he hasn’t even so much as glanced at me once throughout our whole exchange. Instead, his attention is fixed upon the ground around our feet. “That’s all very well for you to say. But just look at what you’ve done!”
I follow his gaze, and for the first time I notice that there are papers scattered all over the road. A battered folder lies in the midst of it all, its mouth gaping open, more papers spilling out from within. They’re looking decidedly worse for wear, having landed on the rain-dampened tarmac. Most of them are splattered with mud, and one or two even have bicycle tracks across them.
I know I should be feeling guilty about that. But something about his abrasiveness sets my teeth on edge. Perhaps it’s the dull sense of disappointment I still feel which makes my own response somewhat sharper than I’d intended. This man is definitely no romantic hero.
“What I’ve done? Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. But this was clearly an accident.”
I’m not sure if he’s even listening to me. He’s scrabbling around after the papers, gathering them into a haphazard pile.
“This is priceless research!” he snaps, although I half wonder if it might be directed more at himself than me. “Utterly irreplaceable.”
Casper obviously takes exception to it anyway, because he lurches forward with a protracted hiss, compelling me to tighten my grip on him.
The man half glances upwards and, although I can’t see his face in the dark, incredulity colours his voice. “Did he really just hiss at me?”
I jut out my chin defensively. “You did almost run him over.”
“He got in my way, I think you’ll find. He’s bloody lucky I managed to swerve in time.”
“Clara?” Freddie’s standing in the open doorway, his arms folded across his body against the cold. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Always the last one to the party, my brother. I almost want to laugh. But I have a feeling that wouldn’t go down so well with the indignant man in front of me.
“It’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute,” I call softly, relieved when Freddie disappears back inside the house. The last thing we need is to attract even more attention. I can practically feel the curtains twitching as it is. I turn back around, determined to do the decent thing. After all, despite what I said, I am indebted to this ill-mannered cyclist. I dread to think what would have happened if he hadn’t flung himself to the side of the road. And that bush looked pretty spiky. I’m sure we’ve got a first aid box inside somewhere. Or some plasters, at the very least. I can offer to …
My thoughts trail off as I observe that my charge is already pulling his bike out of the bush and climbing on. One of the wheels is bent out of shape, the spokes twisted at an unnatural angle.
“You’re not going to try and ride that home, are you?” I exclaim. “Let me call you a taxi. It’s the least I can do.”
“No, I’m fine,” he says tersely. Then, “Thank you,” he adds in a voice which, if not exactly gracious, is noticeably gentler. He gives an awkward cough. “That’s very kind. But there’s no need.” He tries to push off. The bike wobbles precariously, almost ending up in the bush all over again. Instinctively, I rush forward, although what I’m hoping to do with Casper still in my arms is questionable.
“Really, if you’ll just let me …” He holds up a hand, his eyes closing briefly as though in pain. Then he tries again, and this time it works. After a fashion. I watch as he cycles away from me, the bike lurching alarmingly to one side and then the other, muttering darkly to himself in a language which, for a few seconds, I can’t understand. Then, out of the deep recesses of my brain, something begins to stir.
“Is that …” Freddie has appeared at my shoulder, his voice dripping with incredulity “… Latin?”
“Yes,” I say weakly. “I think it is.”
I don’t even think I’ve heard anyone speak it out loud since school. That’s kind of the point of Latin these days. It’s a dead language. You use it for scholarly research, and the odd plant name or family motto, but that’s about it. No one actually speaks it.
For a few moments we simply stand, staring after the bike as it makes its drunken way over the brow of the hill.
“You know, sis, I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably have cause to say it again,” Freddie says at last, with a shake of his head. “But you really do get some strange people in Cambridge.”
I wind my scarf loosely around my neck as I step out onto the bright, sunlit street. It’s one of those utterly perfect October mornings, all crisp blue skies and leaves swirling through the air in shades of amber, honey and gold. It’s the kind of day which can’t fail to put me in a good mood. Even the residual sense of embarrassment hanging over from last night seems to fizzle into nothing in the dazzling light of a new day. Better still, I’m actually running on time for work for once. Perhaps the gods really are smiling down on me after all.
The streets begin to narrow the closer I get to the centre of town, becoming labyrinthine passageways barely large enough for a single car to squeeze through. I stop briefly to allow a cyclist to pass and he holds up a hand in thanks, his coat billowing out behind him.
Cambridge looks more romantic than ever on a day like this, the sun warming the stone to its richest hue, gleaming like molten bronze in the narrow mullioned windows. Somewhere, amongst the cluster of turrets and spires, bells are ringing, a melodic, undulating rhythm which is as familiar to me now as breathing. Bells are always ringing somewhere in Cambridge; most of the time, I hardly even notice them any more. But today their sound seems to be everywhere, filling the air around me in cascading layers.
Sidling around a cluster of tourists peering at the grasshopper clock, I check the time on my phone, automatically beginning to pick up the pace. It’s easy to dawdle in a city like this, to wander around dreamily at half speed without even realising you’re doing it. Familiarity never seems to dull its beauty, its ancient magic. If I had to pin it down, I’d say that’s ultimately what made me choose to stay here, rather than letting myself be drawn away to the bright lights of London, as so many of my classmates were.
I’d
