Oxford, England
January 2013

Gone to the finest school all right

Absent-mindedly drumming my pencil against the open page of my textbook, I frown at a particular recalcitrant sentence.

characterises the mechanisms at the core of class relations as pertaining to the domination of the exploited classes, putting focus on the ethical implications…

A brightly-wrapped candy tumbles into my field of view, coming to rest on the open page and mercifully covering part of the sentence I was trying to read.

"Hello Dev," I greet without moving my eyes from the text.

"Hard at work?" he asks brightly.

Reaching out to unwrap the candy, I look up at him. "Hardly working," I retort, raising an eyebrow at him lounging casually in the seat opposite me.

Dev waves an unconcerned hand in the air. "I'm too hungry to work."

"Aren't you always?" I tease.

I am rewarded for my impertinence by Dev throwing another candy at me. His aim, however, is so bad it sails right past me and plummets to the floor somewhere to the left of my chair.

I look pointedly behind me, then I turn back to Dev with a smirk. "You were saying?"

He pouts and pops another candy into his mouth, chewing defiantly, but his eyes are laughing, belying his attempt at appearing offended. Being a chronic optimist, he's hard to offend anyway.

"When's dinner?" I enquire, making sure to sound amiable.

Dev looks at his watch. "It's quarter to seven, so Informal Hall is still ongoing. Formal Hall begins in half an hour. Are you coming?"

"Uh-huh." I nod. "Ken is, too."

Whistling softly, Dev slides me another candy over the table. "The future King himself."

"The very same." I smile.

With Dev's encouragement, I've participated much more in college life since November, making use of the gyms, library, common room and bar, as well as taking the occasional meal at Oriel and generally interacting much more with other students. Josh is at Nuffield College and Lucy at Somerville, but since Dev is a fellow Orielense, he declared himself my personal guide and he's done well fulfilling his promise. However, even as I'm spending more time in Oriel's hallowed halls, Ken's much busier schedule rarely allows him to accompany me. Thus, Dev's reaction to Ken being at Formal Hall tonight is understandable.

"Your prince isn't here yet though, is he?" Dev casts a look around the library, as if he expects Ken to suddenly jump out from behind a bookcase.

Laughing, I shake my head. "No, he's away on some royal business. Hugging little old ladies, kissing babies, that kind of thing. I'm meeting him in the dining hall later. I just need to get changed first."

While Informal Hall is a buffet-style dinner that doesn't come with a dress code, Formal Hall is a sit-down meal with clear dressing requirements. Most colleges only do this a few times per term, but Oriel prides itself on having Formal Hall every day except Saturday. It's faintly ridiculous and yet endearingly dorky in the way so many of these old Oxford traditions are. I don't really attend very often, preferring to grab lunch or an informal dinner when I'm here anyway, but this is the first Sunday of Hilary Term, so it seemed like a nice idea to attend.

Dev unwraps another piece of candy for himself. "Can I offer use of my room?"

"Hmm, tempting," I reply. The thought of having to get changed into my dress and gown in a washroom stall isn't altogether appealing.

"Let's go then!" Dev is already on his feet. "Being in the library too long makes me feel guilty."

"Try studying," I suggest with a laugh, causing him to pull a funny face. I know he's just acting up for comedic benefit though. He might pretend not to care, but in reality, he's both clever and diligent about keeping on top of his studies.

I rise from my chair and stuff my book and notebook in my bag while Dev collects the candy wrappers, balling them up in his fist with a rustling sound. Watching me shrug on my coat and sling my bag over my left shoulder, he does a funny little bow before offering his arm and leading me out of the library.

I don't really need to come here to study, as I can and do simply check out most books I need. I've come to realise though that I do better work when in a library than lounging on the sofa at home. Could be that surroundings are more, well, stimulating or that there is simply not much else to do but read whatever you planned on reading, but since taking myself to a library for studies regularly, either alone or with others, I've been making much better progress.

If I can, I prefer to go to Oriel's Senior Library, which looks exactly how a library ought to look, according to my mother. With its tall windows, ornate furniture, red carpet and marble columns, it's a perfectly romantic place to be and its ceiling-high bookcases hold thousands of old books bound in distinguished-looking leather. It's not the Bodleian, which is in a league quite of its own, but it'll most definitely do.

Today though, I have to do with the Junior Library, which is the one Dev and I are currently exiting, as it's the only library Oriel opens on weekends. It isn't as pretty as the Senior Library, furnished in veneered oak and favouring colourful new textbooks over the leather-bound collection of its senior equivalent. Still, with the study room that is part of the MCR – Middle Common Room, that is – occupied this afternoon, it provided a quiet space to do some reading, so I was willing to overlook its lack of romanticism for the day.

When Dev and I leave the library building and enter Oriel's third quad, I instinctively raise my shoulders and tug my nose beneath the collar of my coat.

"Are you cold?" asks Dev in wonder. "Shouldn't you be used to much worse, being a Canadian?"

"Yes," I concede, my voice muffled. "But this is damp and that's much worse."

Truly, while I'm used to a drier, more biting cold, the dampness of Britain is something I still haven't resigned myself to. It creeps right into your bones in the most uncomfortable way and can only be alleviated by a nice long bath. (I really should take a nice long bath tonight, I think.)

"Let's take the tunnel then," suggest Dev. "Can't have you feeling cold!" He doesn't give me a chance to reply, instead steering me over to the entrance of the tunnel that connects Oriel's Main Site with what they're calling the 'Island site' on the other side of Oriel Street.

"Do you have your Bod Card at hand?" Dev asks as we stop at the entrance to the tunnel.

The personalised Bod Card is ostensibly the library card given to everyone at Oxford, but it also functions as a cashless pay system and a kind of electronic key as well as being a way to identify yourself as an Oxford student. It is only handed out after the student in question takes a pledge not to set the Bodleian on fire nor to mark, deface, or injure any books in its possession, which, let's be honest, is nothing anyone needed to make me pledge. After all, it has been impressed upon me from a young age that the abuse of a book – any book – counts as the very worst form of blasphemy. My mother has strong ideas on the issue.

I fish my Bod Card out of my coat pocket and hand it to Dev, who uses it to open the door in front of us.

Far from being mysterious, the tunnel is disappointingly mundane. From the inside, it just looks like any windowless corridor, enough so that not even Walter or Nan would be able to create a convincing ghost story around its existence. It's too short for anything exciting to happen in it, too, and we don't take long to reach its other end.

Oriel's Island Site is very different in looks from the Main Site. Whereas the latter has grand medieval halls grouped around three open quads, the former is made up of a random collection of small and differently coloured houses that were haphazardly crammed into narrow lanes and paths. It feels much more like some kind of dense living quarter from bygone centuries than an Oxford college. Its definitely unique to Oxford, too, and big part of Oriel's charm, if you ask me.

The Island Site also houses a good deal of Oriel students, including a handful of graduates, including Dev.

"This way, please." With an exaggerated hand motion, he ushers me past the green building that holds the MCR, which is the common space for graduate students to meet, relax and unwind. It's also the place where we hold movie nights and board game evenings and, on Sundays after Formal Hall, a thing called 'second desserts' that involves cheese and cake and, yes, decent amounts of booze.

Once we're past the MCR building, Dev points toward a narrow grey-ish house to our left. "Here we are."

"I've been here before," I remind him with a smile and an eye roll. After all, we had a board game night with Lucy and Josh before the holidays that turned surprisingly competitive. (I won at Risk, which seemed to amuse the others quite a bit.)

Dev shushes me before throwing a suspicious look over his left shoulder. "Not out here! Anyone could hear you. They might think we're having an affair." The last word is spoken in a conspiratorial whisper.

"If that's what you're afraid of, shouldn't you have thought about it before inviting me to your room so I could get out of the clothes I'm wearing?" I ask, barely able to suppress my laughter, as I pass through the door he's holding open for me.

Dev stops, frowning. "You have a point there," he concedes slowly, letting the door fall shut behind us.

"Absolutely, I do," I inform him brightly. Taking my Bod Card out of his unresisting hand and shoving it back into my pocket, I tug him towards the staircase and up to the second floor.

"Your key, if you will," I demand once we've reached his room.

Dev awkwardly steps from one foot to the other, looking genuinely concerned all of a sudden. It's an unusual look for him.

"But what if someone…" he begins. "What if the press…"

Somewhere along the corridor, a door is thrown shut and poor Dev physically flinches.

Feeling myself soften, I reach out to pat his shoulder. "People already saw us cross the quad with linked arms and I bet someone also saw us enter this building together. If the press wants to spin it, they've got plenty to work with already. They've certainly created stories out of much less."

"So you're saying…" Again, he breaks off before finishing the sentence.

"Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb," I finish with a shrug. "Seriously, if I lived my life according to what the press might write about me, I'd go clean mad."

It's something Ken's been trying to tell me for a while, but I've only recently started to adopt it as my own policy. I've got no idea how long this equilibrium will persist or what kind of slanderous story it might take to break it, but for now, it feels liberating just to stop caring for once.

Studying me for a moment, Dev finally mirrors my shrug. "Well, if you say so." His voice is considerably brighter now and he's rummaging through his pockets for what I assume is his key.

Instead, he produces a collection of candy wrappers, a half-crumbled cookie and a battered-looking package of mints, all of which he unceremoniously stuffs into my outstretched hands, before finally locating the key and holding it aloft in triumph. "Here we are!" he announces.

(Behind him, a girl passes by and throws us a strange look. I make a point to ignore her.)

After Dev has unlocked the door, he waves me inside. His bedroom looks pretty much like all other student bedrooms in Oxford and presumably all over the world. (It certainly looks depressingly similar to NYU's halls of residence.) For all its grand buildings and romantic libraries, Oxford is incredibly pragmatic when it comes to the accommodation of its students, kitting out the rooms in sturdy, unappealing, mass produced furniture that will never, under any circumstances, be pretty.

Clearing his throat, Dev points me to a door to my right. "Bathroom," he explains. "It's reasonably clean, but I would still like to point out that I did not expect a female visitor today. I refuse to be held accountable for anything you might encounter in there."

"Always be prepared, Dev," I advise with a grin. "Always be prepared."

The bathroom does, in fact, turn out to be reasonably clean, not to mention much roomier than a public restroom stall would have been. Dropping my bag to the floor, I quickly rummage through it and retrieve a pair of pantyhose and a dark green calf-length dress.

It's a little fancier than what I'd usual wear, even for Formal Hall, but today is Sunday and the usual dress code of 'jacket and tie' gets bumped up to 'suit' on Sundays and Wednesdays, adding a little bit of exta fanciness. (Though I maintain that it's most inconvenient and vaguely sexist how often dress codes only give the male side, leaving us women to figure it out for ourselves. Thank God for the internet, is all I can say!)

Changing clothes quickly, I twist my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck and critically survey my makeup in the mirror. Deciding that it has held up sufficently well through the day, I only touch it up minimally. Thus, I'm out of the room in less than ten minutes, carrying my gown in front of me with an outstretched arm.

The Gown is prerequisite Oxford wear whenever anything of note happens. It's designed slightly differently depending on your status, but the student version is usually a black, sleeveless, waistcoat-type of thing, except that it doesn't close at the front and has flaps of cloth hanging uselessly around, in my case down to the knees. It's impossible to find a dress length that works well with it and while the calf-length one is decent, I'd much rather just not wear The Gown at all. Alas, it's mandatory for Formal Hall, so there's no way around it.

Dev has used the opportunity to get changed into a suit and is just shrugging into his own gown.

"Very distinguished," I tease and he performs a mock bow.

"Where are you meeting… uh, your date?" he asks once he's straightened again, clearly stumbling over how to correctly address Ken.

I suppress a smile at his choice of words. "Dining Hall."

"Well, then…" Dev nods towards the door. "Better not leave him waiting."

"We don't want him to turn into a pumpkin at midnight," I agree, pleased when it makes Dev laugh.

And thus, we stroll back down the stairs, through the tunnel, over the third, second and first quad, to finally reach the dining hall. It's an ornate, wood-panelled room with an elaborate wooden ceiling, stained glass windows and several portraits of old white men looking down at the diners below. (Seriously, the sheer amount of portraits of old white men at this university is enough to turn any thinking woman into a feminist!)

I spy Ken below one of the portraits close to the entrance,. (That is a very nice suit on him, I must say.) He sees me in the same moment and a smile spreads over his face.

"I'll join you in a minute," I tell Dev, before walking over to join Ken, my smile mirroring his own.

"How was the thing?" I ask, meaning whatever royal engagement he undertook this afternoon. I don't really keep track of them, to be honest.

Ken reaches out to clasp both my hands in his. "Good, good."

"Kissed some babies?" I ask, raising my eyebrows comically.

"And hugged some little old ladies," he adds with a grin.

"Most excellent!" I declare grandly.

He laughs. "So it is. Though in graver news, I dropped by at home to change clothes and found George in a state of most grievous distress."

"Pretended he was a starving cat, did he?" I ask knowingly.

"Utterly deprived of food," confirms Ken. He's trying to keep his expression serious, but I can see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I shake my head at my cat's antics, but find myself smiling as well. "I fed him before I left, which was… not even four hours ago."

"Plenty of time to starve," Ken points out. (Rightfully too, or at least George would say so.) "What did you leave him for anyway, poor, neglected cat that he is?"

"Hardly," I scoff. "I didn't purposefully neglect him anyway, I was just at the library studying. Getting some reading done for the Social Stratification course."

Ken's lips twitch upwards, but he's clearly fighting to keep his face under control. He's entirely too amused by me taking Social Stratification as an elective, if you ask me.

I glare at him for good measure, but to little effect. "Yes," I inform him haughtily. "I read a very interesting chapter on neo-Marxism. It raised some remarkable points on the exploitation of, well, the exploited classes."

"Did it indeed?" asks Ken, his eyes dancing with mirth.

"Uh-huh." I nod. "Very thought-provoking."

He's grinning now, unable to keep his face straight any longer. "I bet it was, my little Rosa Luxemburg."

Huh?

I don't get to ask though, because he leans down to press a short kiss to my lips. Around us, I can hear people starting to whisper, but make a point not to react to it. Let them think what they want.

Speaking of which…

"By the way," I tell Ken once we've parted, "I got changed in Dev's room just now, so if there are stories about me having an affair in tomorrow's papers, that'll be the reason."

"Duly noted," he replies snappily, raising his hand in a salute.

I roll my eyes at him and am just about to drag him to where Dev sits with some other students, when I suddenly notice his expression change. Instead of teasing, it is now thoughtful, with the shadow of a frown apparent on his face.

"Since you mentioned tomorrow's papers…" He hesitates. "You might want to give Shirley a call later tonight."

"So they found out about… the thing?" I ask, sighing softly.

Ken nods. "The Daily Mirror has it. Arlene managed to get her hands on an advance copy."

I hardly dare ask, but I must know. "Is it very bad?"

"Not very bad, no," Ken replies. "Libel laws being what they are, even the Mirror knows better than to accuse Shirley of any criminal activities without definite proof. But there are enough hints and insinuations to get the point across."

I twist my mouth into a grimace. "There's nothing we can do?"

"Nothing." Ken shakes his head regretfully. "Arlene made some calls, but as long as the article is factual on the surface, we have no leverage. The best thing he can do is lie low and wait for it to pass."

He shouldn't have any trouble with the 'lying low' part of it, but still. I hate this. It's like that mess with Joy all over again, where my siblings' lives get dragged through the press just because most of those so-called journalists have no qualms about who they hurt in their attempt to damage me. It's all so… disgusting.

"At least he already told Mum and Dad," I remark with another sigh.

"How did that go?" Ken enquires.

"We-ell," I draw out the word. "From what Shirley said, they made very sure to be supportive of his choice to leave college, even if, objectively, it must have baffled them. As for the possibility of him smoking pot, that didn't feature much into the discussion at all. Figures, really. I mean, they grew up in the freaking 60s, so it's not like anyone can cast stones here!"

"Not particularly, no," agrees Ken.

Tugging my hands from his clasp, I rub them over my face, my mind already trying to come up with something I can say to Shirley later on. Suffice to say, it's all blank.

"Miss Blythe?" asks a new voice.

Lowering my hands, I half-turn and find myself facing Prof Schmitt. My first instinct is to take a step back, but I just about manage to suppress it. Moments later, I can feel Ken's hand on the small of my back, warm and reassuring.

"Prof Schmitt," I greet with a short nod. For split second, I consider introducing Ken, but usually that just makes things even more awkward and anyway, I'd like for this conversation to be as short as possible.

Luckily, Prof Schmitt doesn't beat around the bush either. "I had a look at your last assignment the other day."

I feel myself stiffen, but bite my tongue to keep from speaking. I'm not going to ask him how I did, no matter how important this assignment is. I'm not going to sink that low. (Ken's hand has started drawing small circles on my back and I'm suddenly eternally grateful for his presence.)

Prof Schmitt isn't voluntarily disclosing the information either.

"Dr Gecko said you're taking his Advanced Quantitative Methods course this term?" he asks, his expression almost… thoughtful.

"I am, Sir," I confirm stiffly.

Considering how I struggled with statistics early in the first term, it sounds crazy for me to now be taking the advanced course, but the truth is that once I actually applied myself to it, I found that Lucy wasn't wrong. It's a lot of maths and logics and in part, it's not so different from what I did back at NYU. Now, I'm not pretending to suddenly be a statistic whiz kid, but given my utter lack of pre-knowledge about the actual sociology issues, advanced statistics seemed like a reasonable bet, given the options.

Of course, I don't expect Prof Schmitt to get any of that.

"I know there are other students who did better in that assignment," I point out instead, as if me saying it first could somehow take the sting out of the words.

Prof Schmitt inclines his head into what is not quite a nod. "Even so," he begins slowly, "I respect anyone who puts in the work to succeed."

Um…

Does he mean me?

(Ken's hand squeezes my waist encouragingly.)

An agonizingly long moment passes, before Prof Schmitt's thoughtful expression turns into one of decisiveness. "Come see me later this term and we can talk about your thesis."

With that and a short nod, he turns and makes his way over to the High Table where the fellow usually gather. I stare after him, temporarily struck mute.

"Well, well, well," I hear Ken's soft voice behind me. "Would you look at that?"

"I don't even know what that was," I state, feeling more than a little confused, and turn to look at him.

Ken is smiling. "Looks like you won him over."

I shake my head. "I can't see why. I had a good feeling about that assignment, but I know others did better. Josh for sure, probably Lucy as well. And Ginny, too, annoyingly enough."

"He just told you," Ken remarks gently. "You didn't start out as well as you could have, but you put in the work and you got better. He respects that."

"You mean I didn't turn out to be a spoiled little brat that expected preferential treatment?" I ask, raising both eyebrows questioningly.

"Or that," concedes Ken with a lopsided smile.

Well. Would you look at that?

I shake my head in wonder.

"Do you want to go see him over the thesis?" Ken enquires as his arm settles around my waist and he nudges me into a walk, over to where Dev is sitting with some other graduate students.

Do I want to?

"Truth to be told…" I hesitate, letting me gaze travel to the High Table where Prof Schmitt is talking to Dr Gecko. "Truth to be told, I've got no idea yet. Maybe not, but, you know…"

I break off, but Ken understands anyway. "It feels good to have him offer?" he suggests.

I nod slowly. "It does feel good. Very good, even."

It feels like… like another piece of the puzzle is finally falling into place and really, who would have thought that a short two months ago?


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Like a Rolling Stone' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1965).


To JoAnna:
I'm glad you like my Shirley! He's a favourite for me as well :). I see him as someone who gets underestimated and reduced to "oh, he's a computer nerd", when in fact, his character is much more nuanced. He's good with his computer, but he's also a good observer of people and often sees things not everyone does. He's also plain spoken, so a useful character for me to have around ;).
Sorry for neglecting the family recently. It's a bit of a line to walk, getting them into the story without moving the focus away from Rilla and getting myself all tangled up in too many concurrent plots. I'll promise to always keep checking in with them and I've got proper plots planned for most of them. And in the meantime, we're about to meet another family very soon...

To Mammu:
Oh, Carl
is annoying. For himself, he's got a reason for acting like he does (with his mother leaving the family at a young age, he doesn't do well with what he feels is people abandoning him), but that doesn't mean his behaviour isn't irritating for others. I think Rilla brought her point across though, so hopefully, that'll result in some thinking and maybe he'll make more of an effort next time.
As for Shirley, the press will naturally be all over that drug story, even if objectively, they've got nothing on him. I don't even think Shirley himself minds so much, but it's awkward for Anne and Gilbert in their professions to have people instigating that their children do drugs. In Shirley's computer nerd world, I don't think it'll ruffle many feathers ;).
As for Ken and his siblings... do look out for them next week!