“And you let me hang out here in the rain just for fun? Is that behavior befitting an Oxford student?” I said, stepping inside, cozy and warm after the rain.
“I may have been engaged in an in-depth study of REM sleep.” He shrugged winningly. “I’ve had two pints already and they make me so tired. Besides, I couldn’t have guessed you’d show up without an umbrella. That’s like going to the Bahamas without a bathing suit.” He hoisted up my bags. “Follow me.”
We trudged up the winding dark wood stairs, past stately oil paintings that looked so rustic they had to be originals, and blank-eyed portraits of alumni and monarchs.
“Which one is he?” I pointed to a man with a square jaw and a beard as thin as he was fat.
“That’s King Albert. Victoria the First’s grandson. Early nineteen-hundreds.”
“I feel like he’s staring right through me,” I said, shivering involuntarily as we wound our way up to the third floor. “He has kind of a homicidal face. Or is that just syphilis making him insane? British monarchs do love their syphilis.”
“A prerequisite of the job,” he agreed.
I snorted, at which he shot me a startled but amused glance before I followed him into a slender hallway, domed with carved beams and lit beguilingly with candle-shaped sconces. We passed six doors—three on each side—and stopped outside the last one on the left.
“Here you go,” he said, digging in the pocket of his jeans and then handing me a key. “Stop by the porter later and he’ll give you a full set. And come join us in the JCR, if you’re so inclined.” He gave me a crisp nod. “Welcome to Oxford.”
He was gone before my numbed mind got off a thank-you, much less decoded that acronym. I fought a head-splitting yawn and fumbled with the key—right as the door opposite mine flew open and an auburn-haired girl shot out of it and grabbed my hand.
“I see you’ve met him, then,” she said, in an accent I later learned was Yorkshire. “What d’you think? Rather nice for a guy whose face will be all over our money in fifty years.” She smacked her forehead. “Oi, I’m a dolt. Sorry. I’m Cilla.”
“Rebecca,” I said, blinking hard. “And are you telling me that was…?”
“Nick, yes,” she said. “Or rather, ‘Prince Nicholas of Wales.’” She made the air quotes with four fingers whose nail polish was in various stages of peeling. “He’s not insufferable about the title, thank God.” She peered at my glazed eyes. “Didn’t you recognize him?”
That I hadn’t was laughable (he still teases me that it’s treasonous not to tip your royal baggage handler). Lacey subscribed to every celebrity weekly in existence—she delighted in reading bits of them to me once she’d finished her homework, usually while I was still trying to do mine—and Nick had appeared in them all. But in person he lacked the macho sheen the media always tried to give him, and I don’t care who you are or how many times your twin has told you to practice constant vigilance: You still don’t expect the so-called Heartthrob Heir to be your glorified bellhop.
“So the future sovereign just heard me accuse his relative of having syphilis?” I asked faintly.
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Cilla said. “But don’t worry. Gaz once threw up all over him and Nick didn’t even bat an eyelash, and that’s saying something because Gaz eats a lot and there were loads of chunks.” She grabbed a bag and barged past me into my room.
I finagled my other suitcase through the doorway and took in my new home. There was an irony in coming all the way to Oxford to find that my room resembled the ones in every dorm in America: a twin bed with a metal bedframe, a radiator under the window, and a desk with a hutch that looked like it came from an office supply warehouse.
Cilla nodded at a heap in the corner. “I filched some of Ceres’s things that she didn’t take when she left,” she said. “A rug, some throw pillows. Whatever might make it less awful in here. We can decorate later, though. First let’s get you to the bar for a welcome drink.”
“Shouldn’t I change?” I asked, wondering if I smelled bad to people whose noses weren’t as close to me as my own was.
Cilla waved at her torn jeans, creased boots, and woolly sweater. “Yes, we stand on formality here at Pembroke,” she intoned. “Actually, Ceres would put on high heels and lipstick to go down and get the mail. If you’re going to take that long, I’ll just meet you downstairs.”
I shook my head. “Can’t walk in heels and never met a lipstick I didn’t get on my teeth.”
Cilla beamed broadly. “We’ll get on splendidly, then, Rebecca.”
“Bex. Please.”
“Okay, Bex. Get on with it already. It’s been ten whole minutes since my last pint.”
* * *
It turned out the bar was the JCR—a dim undergraduate common area that looked cramped thanks to the jumble stuffed into it: mismatched chairs and chipped tables; a haphazardly hung flat-screen showing soccer highlights; and a substantial but inexpensive beer and booze collection, stocked by that year’s Bar Tsar (his elaborately framed photo hung on the wall). Even with the haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, it was easy to spot Nick because at least half the room was ogling him, and I had only to follow the stares. He was perched on a stool in a snug corner, relaxed and quiet, with two guys and a punky girl who did not wear her pink hair with much authority. Cilla steered me through the crowd right in their direction. She may have been small, but she was solid, efficiently built, and clearly not to be trifled with, because people parted for her as if by magic.
“These are more of the people in our corridor,” she said when she reached Nick’s corner. “Everyone, this is Bex, just in from America.”
One of them bounced to his feet so fast he almost knocked over the table. He had a kind face, bulbous nose, freckles, and a thick tuffet of orange-red hair—rather like Ron Weasley, but with scruff, and a round, compact belly that was either the product of a lot of lager, or his (ineffective) attempts to draw in enough air to appear taller than five foot six. Possibly both.
“Brilliant,” he said. “I’m Gaz. I expect Cilla’s told you all about me.”
“Just the vomity bits,” Cilla said.
Gaz grinned even wider. “That’s about all of it.”
A bespectacled dark-haired guy rose to his feet. “Please, sit. I’ll get drinks,” he said, gesturing to the threadbare, oversize chair he’d just vacated, and pulling out folded bills that were tucked into his back pocket with the same precision as the plaid collared shirt tucked into his jeans.
“That wonderful person with the fat wad of cash is Clive,” Gaz said. “And this young lady with the shirt that looks like she made it out of tea towels is Joss.”
“And I did make it out of tea towels,” Joss said, appraising me as Cilla and I squeezed into Clive’s empty seat. “Ceres was my fit model, but you’ll do nicely. Built just like her. Tall, no boobs.”
“Finally, being flat chested is an advantage,” I said. “My twin sister will be astonished.”