Page 37 of The Oxford Guide to Scandal and Lies

“That’s quite grim,” Bishop murmured.

“But why is it in this box?”

“According to a friend who lives in that boardinghouse, Mr. Tolliver visited Marion’s room under the pretense of fetching a library book. He must have tracked down this article after he saw it on her wall.” Bishop wrinkled her brow. “It looks like it came from one of the student papers. I can’t tell if it’s The Blue, but I’m writing an article for them right now and can use that excuse to dig through past issues.”

Sidney sank back on his heels. “What sort of article?”

“A human-interest piece on the price of stockings.” Bishop wrinkled her nose and scooped up the newspaper clippings. “It’s my punishment for blundering in there to snoop on Marion Kirk, I suppose.”

“You’ve gone to both the paper and her room? You should have run that by me first. Do you remember the part where the Rook wanted us to work together, primarily for your safety?”

“And do you remember the part where we agreed you wouldn’t nanny me?”

“And yet here you are, breaking into people’s houses after I told you not to repeat your stunt at Olenev’s.”

“The pot,” she drawled, “doth call the kettle black.”

She stared at him coolly, and Sidney stared back, despite the discomfiting warmth growing in his chest: He was a stubborn enough man, but he doubted he could best her in a staring contest.

“Fine,” he ground out, dropping the lid on the box. “I’ll get this to the Rook.”

“I can do it.” Bishop tried to take the box from him, but he tucked it under his arm and rose.

“It will be safer with me. Your friends seem like the type to barge in without knocking.”

“Well, yes,” she said testily, rising after him, “but I know how to lock the door. Do you not have friends always popping in?”

Sidney hadn’t considered how pathetic his logic sounded when cast in that light. “Not unless you count Harold Webb. But he’s more likely to lounge about and complain about cricket than nose into my business. He’s not a curious sort of person.”

“That sounds very lonely—” Bishop stopped, her eyes closing with a wince. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Regardless of her intentions, the blunt observation made Sidney turn on his heel toward the door. “We should go.”

He returned to the bathroom and retrieved his boots and coat, ignoring her soft glide behind him. Sidney had never considered himself a lonely person, mostly because he liked being alone. But Bishop’s remark made him realize how often he felt isolated even around other people. The previous year, he’d thought it only a problem around his parents, caught as the third wheel on endless evenings beside the hearth and wireless. The things he wanted to say sometimes got buried beneath everything he couldn’t, and the result often made him a foul conversationalist, as he well knew.

Bishop followed him outside, relocking the door with a spare key from the kitchen. “Since you’re so keen on my safety, would you give me a boost back into St. M’s?”

Sidney realized then how much time had elapsed while perusing Tolliver’s hidden box and ground a curse between his teeth. He would have to climb the ivy over Swithun’s walls or find a bench himself. “Yes, all right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He hurried on, flipping up his coat collar against the raindrops, but Bishop drew close underneath a large brolly that she’d produced from thin air.

“Here, we can share.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re difficult,” she said tartly. “Share the umbrella.”

Sidney ducked to join her. He ought to have carried it and added a few inches of coverage, but Bishop ignored his attempts to take the ivory handle from her, forcing him to hover near her face.

“So,” she began briskly, leaning toward him, “why did the Rook send you to Tolliver’s?”

There was a slight undercurrent of why you and not me? in her tone that made Sidney roll his eyes. He didn’t feel much like talking, but it was a better distraction from the growing darkness inside him than breathing Bishop’s perfume. “I saw the American snooping outside the cottage earlier today.” He hesitated a moment, before adding, “I followed him here from Grigor Olenev’s. He was also watching the shop.”

“You went back to Olenev’s?” Bishop exclaimed. “Hypocrite.”

“Enough time had passed, and I wasn’t crawling through windows.”

“Not there, you mean.”