Page 21 of Damsel in Disguise

I clear my throat once. That’s all it takes.

Eyes lift. Shoulders square. The final stragglers still their movements. I take a moment to scan the tiered rows—not to count heads, but to observe patterns. Who sits too rigidly, who slouches with false confidence, who’s already pretending not to care.

Attendance matters on the first day. Not because it’s mandatory—Oxford doesn’t coddle—but because absence, like presence, is always a choice. And choices reveal priorities.

“Before we begin,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, “introduction first,” my voice echoes around the now-silent lecture hall as I speak into the lavaliere. “This is Alistair Hertley, your professor for the Michaelmas Term on Advanced Systems & Signal Interpretation.”

A faint ripple of surprise passes through the room. Oxford professors don’t usually bother with introductions. Names are administrative details. But this is the first session of Michaelmas that seems different. And unfamiliar variables require classification.

“I don’t need autobiographies, of course. Your name, your course, and whether this is your first time in the department.” I add because some students tend to repeat the course because of its level of difficulty. “Start from the left.”

A few students shift, glancing at one another before the first obliges. Names follow. Predictable ones—engineering, physics, double honors, some as expected—either repeat or retake.

Mostly final-year undergrads with some in their third year. Some are trying desperately hard to sound confident, others are resigned to exposure. I catalogue accents, posture, and cadence too.

Halfway through the room, I hear a soft, feminine voice.

“Ariella Keinston,” she says with the perfect amount of confidence, as if she’s born to be a Keinston.

The name lands wrong. It’s recognizable in a way most names aren’t. A surname that carries weight beyond the academic register. Corporate boardrooms and discretion clauses. Mainly blood-clean money disguised as innovation.

I lift my gaze fully for the first time since introductions began.

She’s seated two rows up, posture deceptively relaxed, hands folded loosely on the desk in front of her. She not only looks but also sounds younger than the rest—not in a way that reads naïve, but deliberate and real.

“Electronics and Electrical Engineering. First year. First term.”

That earns her the room.

My eyebrows arch up a little. It’s unlikely to have such an undergrad enrolled in my classes. Keinstons do have it easy.

A murmur ripples through the rows—barely restrained, quickly silenced by my presence. First-year students don’t sit in my lectures. Not without exceptional justification or someone moving pieces behind the scenes.

My expression doesn’t change. Internally, however, something shifts—not surprise, exactly. Interest.

“You’re too early, Miss Keinston,” I say at last, voice smooth, almost amused.

“I prefer not to wait, Mr. Hertley.”

That innocent voice of hers carries a gentle challenge underneath.

What catches my attention is that her accent doesn’t sound Australian at all, even though Keinstons are native there. She sounds more like a British girl.

I nod my head once, acknowledging her response without endorsing it. “Noted.”

Introductions resume, but the rhythm is altered now. They’ve sensed the imbalance amongst them.

By the time the last name is spoken, the room suddenly feels more alert.

I allow myself a smile as I turn back to the display.

It makes people comfortable. That warmth disarms suspicion. Men like me need to appear human, so the world trusts us with its secrets. So I perfected it years ago.

“Very well then,” I say pleasantly and push my glasses up my nose bridge. “Let’s begin.”

I wake the display of my iPad and connect it to the digital board. The title of the module illuminates the screen—ADVANCED SYSTEMS AND SIGNAL INTERPRETATIONS. Michaelmas Term.

“This course is not designed to be forgiving, just as the name implies,” I begin evenly. “If you’re here because you believe intelligence alone is sufficient, you’ll struggle. If you’re here because you think prior success guarantees future competence, you’ll fail,” I pause deliberately.