The Oxford Inheritance by Ann A. McDonald Page A

the pages. No comments, or angry strikeouts. Cassie looked back at him in confusion.
    â€œI think we both know it would be futile to bother with that.” Tremain’s eyes bored into her, coal black with derision. “I’d rather you turned in nothing at all than something so amateurish.”
    Cassie felt her cheeks flush. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was getting the hang of it, but I guess I’m still finding my feet here. I’ll do better next week.”
    â€œThat’s what I thought last time. I let your lackluster effort slide then, but two weeks at this level is unacceptable.”
    Cassie felt the sting of criticism. “I’m sorry,” she murmured again, feeling like a failure. She bundled the offending pages in her bag and turned to make her escape.
    â€œI read your file,” Tremain added, stopping her short. “I sit on the Raleigh scholarship committee. I had my concerns then about awarding you the place. Raleigh is an exacting academic environment. Filling it with substandard candidates does the rest of us a disservice. Your classmates, for example, should have enjoyed another perspective in their debate, instead of . . . what was it you brought to mind? An addled spectator at Wimbledon.”
    â€œI can do better,” Cassie protested. “Now I’ve seen the way you expect—”
    Tremain cut her off. “Some things can’t come with practice. Either you have a grasp of the fundamentals, an intuition for argument, or you don’t. To pretend otherwise is a foolish error. Let’s not forget your place here is dependent on your grades. If we don’t see progress, and fast, we may have to terminate your scholarship.”
    Cassie took a breath, opening her mouth to respond, but Tremain was already looking away, flipping through a stack of papers on his desk. She was clearly dismissed.
    As she made her way back through the cloisters, Cassie burned with anger. What gave him the right to speak to her like that? She’d dealt with her share of high-minded professors at Smith—the patronizing, the world-weary, the men too wrapped up in their own quest for academic glories to bother with something so lowly as teaching mere undergraduates—but she’d never in all her years of education come across one as dismissive as Professor Tremain. Weren’t tutors supposed to teach, to nurture and encourage? Her mind was to be molded, her potential realized, but Tremain had only looked at a single essay—no, before that, her application file!—to decide Cassie wasn’t worthy of his time and expertise.
    But as quickly as the anger swept through her, it receded, leaving Cassie with a new fear. She hadn’t realized her study-abroad place could be rescinded. She could be sent back to America empty-handed. Lockedout of the hunt for her mother’s past for good—and just when she was beginning to find answers.
    She couldn’t let that happen.
    Cassie felt worn-out by the time she arrived back at the attic. She found Evie yawning, wearing a crumpled nightshirt, a phone trapped between her bare shoulder and ear. “Want to grab breakfast?” she whispered, dark shadows under her eyes. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
    â€œI’ll jump in the shower,” Cassie agreed, glad for the chance to recover from her tutorial ordeal. She ran the water as hot as she could bear, and stood, head bent, under the torrent. The bathroom was old-fashioned, equipped with a claw-foot bath and mustard tiling that had survived decades, if not longer, but the shower was blissfully modern and soon filled the small room with a haze of steam. Cassie let the water beat into her tired muscles, trying to send her tension and unease away. One bad tutorial, that’s all it had been. Professor Tremain was simply trying to scare some diligence into her. She would have to put her research into Margaret aside,