The woman and the blond man exchanged a glance. The woman opened her mouth as if to object, paused, and then closed it.
‘Fine,’ said the blond man. ‘Now let’s go.’
‘Wait,’ Robin said desperately. ‘Who are – when should—’
But the thieves had broken into a run.
They were startlingly fast. Just seconds later, the street was empty. They’d left no trace they’d ever been there – they’d picked up every last bar, had even run away with the broken ruins of the trunk. They could have been ghosts. Robin could have imagined this entire encounter, and the world would have looked no different at all.
Ramy was still awake when Robin returned. He opened his door at the first knock.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the notebook.
‘Of course.’
They stood looking at each other in silence.
There was no question about what had happened. They were both shaken by the sudden realization that they did not belong in this place, that despite their affiliation with the Translation Institute and despite their gowns and pretensions, their bodies were not safe on the streets. They were men at Oxford; they were not Oxford men. But the enormity of this knowledge was so devastating, such a vicious antithesis to the three golden days they’d blindly enjoyed, that neither of them could say it out loud.
And they never would say it out loud. It hurt too much to consider the truth. It was so much easier to pretend; to keep spinning the fantasy for as long as they could.
‘Well,’ Robin said lamely, ‘good night.’
Ramy nodded and, without speaking, closed his door.