He looked to Tim again and now somebody else was there with him and the blonde—Ken—and he felt he’d lost his chance because he should have just walked right up to him and said, Hi, Tim, thanks for the invite, and gotten it over with. “It doesn’t seem to be slowing him down any,” he said, watching as the blonde, the new blonde, took his hand in hers and coiled herself under his right arm.

“No,” Fanchon said, “this is not what I mean.” Again that look, as if she had the latest news and could hardly contain it. She arched her back, balanced on one foot as if she were commencing a yoga exercise, then squared up and looked him in the eye. “What I mean is that I am the mistress of this house now. Didn’t you hear? Ken and I, we moved in. See the stairs there, at the top, first door on the right? That is our bedroom.”

The news came at him like a sack of stones flung out a window and he didn’t have time to duck or even wince before he was asking, “Why?” when the answer should have been obvious. But if it was obvious, then that gave rise to a whole new set of questions beginning with, Why Ken and not him? Did it have to do with Fanchon? Were Tim and Fanchon—? But Tim had all the women he could want and here was the new blonde to prove it—no, it had to be Ken, Ken as factotum and alter ego, the little Tim who would walk in the master’s footsteps, sing his hosannas, kowtow and brownnose and spread the word like the disciple he was. Still, no matter how you figured it, students didn’t live with their professors—that just wasn’t done. There were ethical considerations, weren’t there? An academic code? Fitz was dumbfounded. And jealous, instantly jealous. Which made him lose any semblance of tact he might have brought into the room with him. “Why?” he repeated, his voice a register higher than it should have been. And then, when she just stared at him, he dropped his voice. “Okay, well,” he said, “I guess that’s great, really great. What’s he asking for rent?”