The seminar room in the old humanities building smelled faintly of damp parchment and unfulfilled potential. Overhead, the ceiling fan spun in a lazy, aristocratic loop, as though even it couldn't be bothered to rush through another Friday.
Emily Morgan sat near the window, her legs crossed, one black boot tapping in time with her thoughts. The late afternoon sun cut dramatic slants across the table, gilding her cheekbones and the leather-bound copy of Alexander Pope's Dunciad resting idly in her lap.
Across from her sat the object of today's hunt: Felix Ashcroft, a DPhil candidate from Balliol, Oxford, currently wasting his postcolonial brilliance as a TA for the 18th-century English satire course. He was tall, brittle, and carried the scent of tweed and misplaced superiority.
"Miss Morgan," he began, steeping his fingers, "Your paper on Pope was, mm, inventive. But your interpretation of wit as a sexual device borders on vulgarity."
Emily offered a feline smile. "Vulgarity, Mr. Ashcroft, is simply wit with the corset removed. Would you prefer I left it laced up?"
Felix blinked. Possibly twice.
She continued, lifting her chin. "Pope weaponized wit. Every rhyme of his flirts, every couplet caresses and slaps. Are we reading the same poet, or is your powdered wig on too tight?"
He cleared his throat, rattled. "I expected academic rigor, not innuendo."
"Then you should have assigned Newton, not Pope." She leaned forward. "Besides, it's a paper, not a Puritan sermon. Don't confuse chastity with clarity."
The air thickened. Outside, a pigeon moaned with the desperation of one who knew nothing of irony.
Felix shuffled his annotated copy of her essay. "You compared Pope's literary devices to seduction. Specifically, you wrote: 'The rhyming couplet is no different than a bedroom whisper -- both designed to conclude in satisfying release.' That's not scholarship. That's soft-core erotica."
Emily smiled, slow and deliberate. "That's literature, Mr. Ashcroft. If it doesn't move something inside you, it's just Latin in a suit."
She rose, gliding to his side of the table, her fingers brushing the spines of the books on the shelf as she passed. Dry, male authors. Dead, mostly. Probably virgins.
"Do you know why Pope hated women?" she asked.
Felix squinted up at her. "Because of his deformity? His lack of--"
She cut him off. "Because women saw through him. You're mistaking bitterness for brilliance. Or maybe you just relate to him too much."
"I beg your pardon--"
"Beg, then," she murmured, her lips curving. "You might as well get used to it."
He flushed. Bright red. Oxford crimson.
Emily perched herself on the edge of the table, very close, tilting her head. "Would it help if I rewrote the essay in Latin? Or perhaps French? I'm fluent in both. Or is the problem not my diction, but my tongue?"
Felix choked slightly. "Miss Morgan, this is wholly inappropriate--"
"Only if we still believe academia is a monastery."
The silence stretched.
She cocked her head. "Tell me, Felix. Do you believe satire should sting? Or merely hum politely?"
He straightened. "Satire should illuminate."
"Then let me be the lantern," she whispered. "And you, poor moth. Flutter closer."
His jaw clenched. Her presence was an avalanche of perfume, intellect, and something molten. He stood abruptly, as if to assert authority, only to knock his chair backward with a graceless clatter.
Emily blinked. Then laughed.
"Bravo. And here I thought the climax would be mine."
"I'm going to report this."
"To whom? The university? They'll say I intimidated you with postmodernism and stockings."
He stammered. "You're mocking me."
"Of course I am. It's called satire, darling. Chapter one."
She walked toward the door, her boots echoing.
