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By half past eight Sophie had exhausted every polite excuse available to her.
She had admired the decorations, and complimented at least three girls' dresses.
She had endured a conversation about Classics that seemed to last longer than the Napoleonic Wars.
Now she sat at a table near the edge of the hall with a glass of lemonade and a copy of Paradise Lost hidden discreetly beneath her chair.
“You are not reading at a party!” Sophie looked up.
Hazel stood over her with her hand on her hips. Beside her, Alice wore the expression of a woman whose patience had been tested beyond all reasonable limits.
“I wasn’t.” Sophie shot back because she wasn’t actually reading
“You were thinking about reading.” Alice said, the scowl on her face showing more amusement than actual annoyance.
“That’s hardly a crime.” Sophie said innocently
“It ought to be.” Hazel replied “this is a University party, you are amongst peers!”
Sophie sighed. “Remind me why I came?”
“Because,” Alice said, dropping into the chair beside her, “you have spent the entire Easter term buried in the libraries and you’ve not partaken in one night out since Fresher’s week.”
“I like libraries.”
“We know… we are well aware of what you do and do not like Soph” Hazel shot back with a smirk
“You threatened me.” Sophie said as though she was just remembering
“We did.” Alice grinned unapologetically
“With actual bodily harm.” Sophie said again
Hazel nodded solemnly.
“Quite serious bodily harm.” Sophie pointed at her. “You said if I left before ten, you’d throw me into the Cam but you never said I had to partake. I just had to be present….”
“We stand by that decision about the Cam but you cannot just sit in the corner at a party when you are looking like this Soph… Alfie will kill you for wasting this dress” Hazel said gesturing to Sophie’s outfit.
Sophie grumbled, “He doesn’t need to know”
“He asked for a report on how you do socialising like a normal teenager for once” Hazel grinned brightly
“You’re terrible friends… telling on me to my own brother” Sophie scowled. Alfie didn’t attend Cambridge, he went to Oxford Brooks the year ahead of them and did fashion but as Hazel was Sophie’s oldest friend, she knew Sophie’s adoptive brother very well and the two often could be found conspiring against her and since they’d met Alice at the start of the year
“We’re excellent friends.” Alice reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “Just try to enjoy yourself for one evening.”
Sophie looked around the hall.
She could admit, privately, that it was beautiful.
The masquerade ball transformed the ancient college into something out of a fairy tale. Chandeliers glowed overhead. Fairy lights threaded around stone archways. Music drifted through the warm May air as students in gowns and masks filled the hall with laughter and movement.
Beautiful, certainly.
Exhausting, also.
She would much rather have been in her room with a book.
“Ten o’clock,” Hazel reminded her. “No earlier.”
Then they disappeared back into the crowd before Sophie could argue further.
She checked her watch.
Eight thirty-two.
Only ninety minutes to survive…
By nine o’clock she had migrated closer to the doors, she wasn’t leaving she told herself, she was just merely positioning herself strategically… so at least if Hazel or Alice looked for her… they’d see she was still here.
That was the difference. She was still here
The orchestra was playing another waltz. Couples swept across the dance floor beneath golden light. Somewhere nearby a group of students were singing along terribly to a song they only half knew.
Sophie glanced towards the exit.
Freedom looked very appealing.
“You look like you are planning some sort of great escape.”
The voice appeared beside her.
She turned, the man wore a dark mask, completely black, shirt open in a way that should have scandalised her but there was something about him…
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar somehow, though she couldn’t place him. Perhaps she’d seen him crossing a courtyard or leaving a lecture hall. Cambridge was full of faces that became recognisable long before names did.
“What makes you think that?” she asked.
“You’re staring at the doors like a prisoner contemplating freedom.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Perhaps I simply enjoy doorways.”
“A fascinating hobby.”
“Everyone needs interests.”
His eyes brightened. “And are doorways your only interest?”
“History.” The answer slipped out automatically.
To her surprise, he didn’t immediately look bored.
“History?”
“And English.”
“Ah.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re one of those people.”
“What people?”
“The ones who spend their lives explaining why everyone else is wrong.”
“We spend our lives explaining why everyone else should have paid more attention.”
His grin widened and the smile transformed him entirely.
Sophie found herself smiling back, which was unfortunate.
A moment later the orchestra began a new piece.
A waltz.
The stranger held out his hand.
“Would you like to dance?”
Sophie looked at the offered hand, then at him, “You haven’t even asked my name.”
“Neither have you asked mine.”
“That doesn’t concern you?”
“Not particularly.”
His answer was so immediate, so entirely unconcerned, that she laughed again, perhaps it was the mask, perhaps it was the music.
Perhaps it was the simple relief of speaking to someone who wasn’t making tedious conversation about careers and networking opportunities.
Perhaps that despite the mask she could tell this was probably the most handsome man she’d ever conversed with in her entire life and he wasn’t running a mile from her when she spoke…
Whatever the reason was, she placed her hand in his.
The moment his fingers closed around hers, he led her onto the dance floor.
To Sophie’s considerable annoyance, he could dance, actually dance.
Not in the vague university sense of moving in approximately the right direction.
Properly. Effortlessly.
The sort of dancing that made everyone else look as though they were merely guessing.
“Oh, you’re one of those people.”
“One of what sort of people?”
“The irritatingly talented kind.”
He laughed. “That is a terrible accusation.”
“It’s true.”
His hand rested lightly against her waist.
Confident but careful.
Never presumptuous.
Never possessive.
The distinction mattered more than Sophie wanted to admit.
They moved easily together.
Far more easily than strangers ought to.
The conversation flowed as naturally as the steps.
“So,” he said. “History and English.”
She narrowed her eyes immediately. “No.”
“No?”
“You’re about to ask me something insufferable.”
His smile deepened.
“Favourite poet?”
“There it is.”
“Favourite poet.”
“You ask impossible questions.”
“Favourite...”
Sophie sighed dramatically. “Byron.”
The look of horror on his face was immediate. “Byron?”
“Yes.”
“What a dreadful choice.”
She laughed. “Dreadful?”
“He was exhausting.”
“He was brilliant.”
“He was self-indulgent.”
“He was romantic.”
“He was dramatic.”
“He was constantly creating problems.”
“He lived.”
“He performed living.”
Sophie pointed accusingly. “Is there a difference?”
“A substantial one.”
“Fine.”
She lifted her chin. “Who would you choose?”
“Blake.” His answer came without hesitation.
Sophie stopped dancing long enough to stare at him. “William Blake.”
“Obviously.”
“Blake was Histronic.”
“Blake is extraordinary.”
“Blake is occasionally incomprehensible.”
“He saw angels.”
“He saw hallucinations.”
“He saw the truth.”
“He saw something.” Sophie snorted.
He laughed then, and the sound was warm enough to make her smile despite herself.
They continued arguing through the remainder of the dance.
Then through the next dance.
And the one after that.
The conversation drifted from poetry to art, from art to history, from history to memory and permanence and the strange human desire to preserve things long after they ceased to be useful.
He told her he studied art and that revelation explained a great deal.
“You know,” she said, “I should have guessed.”
“Should you?”
“You have strong opinions about Blake.”
“An entirely reasonable quality.”
“It was either art or philosophy.”
He grimaced. “Now that is offensive.”
She laughed and the expression on his face suggested he considered making her laugh a personal triumph.
The thought should not have pleased her as much as it did.
“Art isn’t meant to last forever,” he said eventually.
They had drifted to the edge of the dance floor now, neither quite ready to leave the conversation.
“Most things aren’t.”
“Then why create it?”
“Because creating it matters.”
Sophie shook her head. “That’s not enough.”
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
She folded her arms. “If something survives, it’s because someone decided it mattered, thats what history teaches us…”
His head tilted, he was clearly interested. “Go on.”
“The reason we still have ancient texts isn’t luck. Someone copied them. Then someone copied them again. Entire generations decided those stories deserved to continue existing.”
He smiled then, not teasing in the way Alfie smiles when Sophie started on her history rants and not amused in the way Hazel was when Sophie got passionate about something
He was simply pleased, as though her enthusiasm delighted him.
“You care about that.”
“Of course I care about it! It’s the subject of my degree!”
“It’s refreshing… someone passionate about their subject… it’s… good.”
The word settled unexpectedly somewhere beneath her ribs.
Neither of them seemed inclined to move.
The crowd continued to swell around them.
The hall grew warmer.
Noisier.
Sophie’s shoulders tightened instinctively.
Almost immediately, he noticed, “You dislike crowds.”
It wasn’t a question, she glanced at him, “is it that obvious?”
“To me.” Something about the answer made her stomach flutter.
He offered his arm, “Come for a walk.”
The cool night air felt like a relief.
They wandered beneath lantern-lit archways and through quiet college gardens where the music reached them only as a distant echo.
The further they walked, the easier everything became. Conversation unfolded without effort. They spoke about books, about art, about lecturers they admired and lecturers they endured.
About the future.
Not in the practical sense, Not jobs or salaries or plans but the future as an idea.
The shape of a life, the things worth building.
The things worth keeping.
At some point Sophie glanced at her watch and looked back at him almost in shock, “it’s… Half eleven…”
He stared. “That’s impossible.”
“It literally isn’t.”
“We lost two hours.”
“We talked for two hours?”
His smile appeared slowly. “Apparently.”
Neither sounded particularly upset by the discovery, the river appeared almost accidentally.
Moonlight stretched silver across the surface of the Cam. The water reflected the stars and the distant glow of the college buildings behind them.
For the first time all evening, silence settled between them.
Comfortable silence.
The sort that arrived only after a truly good conversation.
Sophie rested her hands against the stone balustrade.
Beside her, he leaned against the railing and looked not at the river, but at her.
She became aware of it gradually, then all at once.
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“That’s rude.”
“Probably.”
The corner of her mouth lifted, the teasing answer should have made the moment lighter.
Instead it seemed to deepen it as something shifted.
Not suddenly, certainly not dramatically, just merely enough that she could feel it.
The music drifted faintly across the water from the open windows behind them.
A familiar song, one she recognised even before the lyrics reached them.
Neither commented on it, neither seemed capable of speaking for a moment, just listening to the words;
This night is sparklin', don't you let it go
I'm wonderstruck, blushin' all the way home
I'll spend forever wonderin' if you knew
I was enchanted to meet you
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then returned to her eyes.
Sophie’s pulse stumbled, the distance between them suddenly felt very small.
“I don’t think this should be one of those nights,” he said quietly.
“What kind of nights?”
“The kind people talk about years later.”
His voice had softened.
“The kind that disappears.”
Something warm unfolded inside her chest, dangerous and hopeful all at once.
“I’d like to see you again.”
The words were simple.
Earnest, without hesitation or performance.
“Properly.” A smile touched his mouth, “Without masks.”
“So we can continue arguing about Blake?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re very confident.”
“I’m right.”
“About Blake?”
His eyes held hers. “About wanting to see you again.”
The world seemed impossibly still, the river shimmered below them.
The music carried softly through the night air.
He stepped closer.
Not enough to touch but just enough.
“I think,” he said, his voice low, “I’m going to kiss you.”
A breathless laugh escaped her.
“You Think?”
His smile softened. “I think I have to kiss you.”
For one suspended moment neither move, then he added quietly, “It’s rather like breathing.”
His gaze never left hers. “One doesn’t have much choice in the matter.”
Sophie’s heart stumbled, and did something she never thought herself capable of, she stepped forward.
His hand found her waist.
Her fingers curled into the front of his jacket.
And he kissed her.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
As though there was nowhere else in the world he needed to be.
As though tomorrow was certain.
As though tomorrow already belonged to them.