A Discovery of Witches - Deborah Harkness [41]
“The alchemists wanted to know why we’re here, too.” Clairmont was telling the truth—I could see that—but it got me no closer to understanding his interest in Ashmole 782. He glanced at his watch. “If you’re finished, I should get you back to college. You must want to get into warm clothes before you go to the library.”
“What I need is a shower.” I stood and stretched, twisting my neck in an effort to ease its chronic tightness. “And I have to go to yoga tonight. I’m spending too much time sitting at a desk.”
The vampire’s eyes glinted. “You practice yoga?”
“Couldn’t live without it,” I replied. “I love the movement, and the meditation.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “That’s the way you row—a combination of movement and meditation.”
My cheeks colored. He was watching me as closely on the river as he had in the library.
Clairmont put a twenty-pound note on the table and waved at Mary. She waved back, and he touched my elbow lightly, steering me between the tables and the few remaining customers.
“Whom do you take class with?” he asked after he opened the car door and settled me inside.
“I go to that studio on the High Street. I haven’t found a teacher I like yet, but it’s close, and beggars can’t be choosers.” New Haven had several yoga studios, but Oxford was lagging behind.
The vampire settled himself in the car, turned the key, and neatly reversed in a nearby driveway before heading back to town.
“You won’t find the class you need there,” he said confidently.
“You do yoga, too?” I was fascinated by the image of his massive body twisting itself through a practice.
“Some,” he said. “If you want to go to yoga with me tomorrow, I could pick you up outside Hertford at six. This evening you’d have to brave the studio in town, but tomorrow you’d have a good practice.”
“Where’s your studio? I’ll call and see if they have a class tonight.”
Clairmont shook his head. “They aren’t open tonight. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday evenings only.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “What’s the class like?”
“You’ll see. It’s hard to describe.” He was trying not to smile.
To my surprise, we’d arrived at the lodge. Fred craned his neck to see who was idling inside the gates, saw the Radcliffe tag, and strolled over to see what was going on.
Clairmont let me out of the car. Outside, I gave Fred a wave, and extended my hand. “I enjoyed breakfast. Thanks for the tea and company.”
“Anytime,” he said. “I’ll see you in the library.”
Fred whistled as Clairmont pulled away. “Nice car, Dr. Bishop. Friend of yours?” It was his job to know as much as possible about what happened in the college for safety’s sake as well as to satisfy the unabashed curiosity that was part of a porter’s job description.
“I suppose so,” I said thoughtfully.
In my rooms I pulled out my passport case and removed a ten-dollar bill from my stash of American currency. It took me a few minutes to find an envelope. After slipping the bill inside without a note, I addressed it to Chris, wrote “AIR MAIL” on the front in capital letters, and stuck the required postage in the upper corner.
Chris was never going to let me forget he’d won this bet. Never.
Chapter 8
Honestly, that car is such a cliché.” The hair clung to my fingers, crackling and snapping as I tried to push it from my face.
Clairmont was lounging against the side of his Jaguar looking un-rumpled and at ease. Even his yoga clothes, characteristically gray and black, looked bandbox fresh, though considerably less tailored than what he wore to the library.
Contemplating the sleek black car and the elegant vampire, I felt unaccountably cross. It had not been a good day. The conveyor belt broke in the library, and it took forever for them to fetch my manuscripts. My keynote address remained elusive, and I was beginning to look at the calendar with alarm, imagining a roomful of colleagues peppering me with difficult questions. It was nearly October, and the conference was in November.
“You think a subcompact would be better subterfuge?” he asked,