“If you want to tell me something, you should come out and say it.”

“Here’s the thing.” Sebastian looked serious. “If I had signed a Faustian contract in blood, so to speak, it probably would have a clause that enjoined me from speaking. So let me just say this. Being me…is not as amusing as it once was.”

Oliver could believe that. Fame had come quickly to Sebastian. It was not so long in the past he’d been just another indulgently wealthy man, born of good family with no reason to exert himself. He’d done what indulgently wealthy men of good family so often did—he’d sampled the ladies of town and developed a bit of a name for himself as a hedonist.

Yes, he was clever. And he had always been riotously funny. But if someone had asked Oliver a decade ago what Sebastian would do with his life, he would never—not in a million years—have guessed that his friend would achieve fame in the natural sciences.

And then quite out of the blue, Sebastian had published a paper on snapdragons, of all things. It had been well received; he’d put out another paper six months later on peas, and then another a few months later regarding lettuce.

A mere three months after the bit on lettuce, Sebastian had announced that what he had discovered was not a few oddities to be noted about the breeding of flowers and vegetables but a system—a system demonstrating that traits were passed down from progenitor to child in a systematic fashion, one that could be predicted mathematically.

This, Sebastian had said, served as a measuring stick. One could use it to determine what random chance would unleash on offspring—and one could therefore see how nature deviated from random chance. If it differed significantly, Sebastian had argued, in response to changing conditions, it would prove Mr. Darwin right.

He could not have published a more inflammatory piece. That paper had contained four examples demonstrating how nature had deviated from random chance. And that was the moment when Sebastian Malheur had stopped being seen as a mildly eccentric scientist with hedonistic tendencies. He’d become a heretic and a heathen.

“I worry about you,” Oliver finally said. “I worry about you a great deal, Sebastian.”

“Well, worry more productively.” Sebastian spoke decisively. “I don’t need any of your pity. In fact—”

“Ah, indeed!” called a voice behind them. “Mr. Malheur? Is that you, Mr. Malheur? Hallooo!”

Sebastian turned and saw a man shuffling toward them at something half between a walk and a jog. He waved an arm at Sebastian in greeting.

“Who is that?” Sebastian squinted and swore under his breath. “Whoever he is, I don’t want to speak to him. Hide me, Oliver.”

Oliver looked around. There was nothing but the path they walked on, marking its way alongside the river and ankle-high grasses. The landscape was punctuated by a few scrubby bushes, but was empty of anything that could serve as cover. “He’s already seen you. You can’t hide.”

“Pretend I’ve turned into a tree?” Sebastian shrugged. “I would do a very good job pretending. I promise.”

The other man was practically on top of them. He tripped down the last section of the path, breathing hard.

“Mr. Malheur!” he said. “I’ve been looking for you ever since last we spoke. I’ve sent you messages—did you not receive them?”

“I receive a great many messages.” Sebastian frowned at the man. “Who are you again?”

“Fairfield,” the man said. “Mr. Titus Fairfield.”

Oliver blinked and examined the man once again. Fairfield. It was a common enough name. It could have been a coincidence. On the other hand…

Mr. Fairfield reached up to wipe his handkerchief across his sweating brow. “Of course I don’t expect you to remember me. Of course not. I am a gentleman who resides here in Cambridge.” He smiled—a weak smile that looked as if it were out of practice. “A gentleman, yes. No need to work, although from time to time I take on a promising student as tutor.” He nodded at them both.

A private tutor taking on only one student, instead of a team? He couldn’t have been much good.

Sebastian must have thought so, too, because he gave a little half-sigh.

“I make it a point to keep my time open, so that I might live the life of the mind. Like you.” Mr. Fairfield drew himself up a little uncertainly. “A little like you.”

Sebastian caught Oliver’s eye, and twitched his lip.

“Your work,” Mr. Fairfield said after an awkward silence, “your work—it has absolutely confused me and left me in wonder. I have thought of nothing else, since last I saw your talk. The implications, Mr. Malheur, the implications! For politics, for government, for economy.”

Sebastian simply looked at Mr. Fairfield. “I didn’t realize that my work on snapdragons had an implication for politics and economy.”

“I have not quite grasped it,” he said. “You are my superior in knowledge here. But doesn’t it follow that if there is some inherited basis for evolution we might as a species triumph? Ought you not put your mind to that?”

Sebastian’s answering smile was sharp as a knife. “What, with a managed breeding program amongst humans?”

Fairfield blinked.

“That’s what I would have to do. Breeding humans is far more difficult than propagating snapdragons. As a general rule, humans prefer to breed themselves without outside direction. I myself have that preference. I’d hate to impose it on others.”

Fairfield frowned. “You could pay…”

“You’re the tutor in law. Is it now legal to pay people for intercourse?”

“Ah. A good point. I see. That does make things difficult.” Fairfield frowned. “This needs more thought, more thought indeed. Perhaps we might meet to discuss it?”

“No,” Sebastian said with a brilliant smile. “We won’t. That sounds hideous and disgusting.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Sebastian said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my cousin and I must turn off the path here.”

There was no path leading absolutely anywhere. Sebastian pointed vaguely across the fields.

“Good day,” Sebastian said, waving. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I must abscond instead.”

“Wait,” Oliver started. But his cousin took hold of his wrist and plunged into the grass. The field was still dew-soaked. In a matter of seconds, Oliver’s stockings were damp. Sebastian smiled the whole time, a brilliant, awful smile. But he pressed on at a punishing pace, not letting go of Oliver’s wrist until they’d gone half a mile.