Novels by M M

Autumn arrives earlier in Cambridge than in London, the chill showing itself sooner, with mist from the River Cam often shrouding the Gothic spires in the early morning. Linus’s new life gradually settled into rhythm. The GIS research group he led attracted visiting scholars from across Europe, and the weekly train journeys between Cambridge and London became his moving study. Our relationship found a balance between academic collaboration and private feeling, a balance grounded in rational planning and deep mutual understanding.However, the body has its own memory.In early December, a sudden cold snap in London caused the college’s ageing heating system to fail completely. Repairs would take three days, and my accommodation was like an icebox. Linus had an important review meeting in Cambridge, and his voice on the phone was full of apology, “Go and stay in a hotel,” he said, “I will cover the cost. Or, if you don’t mind, I still have that old flat in Bloomsbury. The key is under t

Autumn in London smelled of fallen leaves and damp stone. The old corridors of the department echoed with the sounds of a new term, but for me, everything felt different. The invisible yet solid wall between Theo and me turned every encounter into a small, private wound.Theo after that rainy night call was different. He was still energetic in class, enthusiastic with students, but that enthusiasm had boundaries now. When our eyes met in seminars or labs, he would nod politely and look away quickly, no longer the pained avoidance of before, but a deliberate, thoughtful distance.I heard he’d moved into a small flat in Bloomsbury, ten minutes’ walk from the department. I also heard he went back to Hampstead every Wednesday evening and Saturday afternoon to see Lily. There was little news about his wife, only scraps Emma picked up from other staff. “Apparently the separation is very calm, no fighting, but that kind of calm is somehow sadder.”One November afternoon, I was in the departm

The first weeks after returning to London were chaotic. Theo sent me a brief email through the department system: “We need to talk. Somewhere safe. Saturday at two, South Kensington Museum café.”It was a cold afternoon in late November. When I walked into the café, Theo was already sitting in the corner, an untouched coffee in front of him. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes.“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly.I sat down and ordered tea. An awkward silence settled between us.“About that night in Dorset,” he finally began.“I know,” I interrupted, “it was a mistake. We both know that.”“Yes,” he admitted, “but sometimes mistakes feel so right, don’t they?”I looked into his eyes and saw the same conflict I felt. “So what now?”Theo took a deep breath. “The reality is that I’m still married. Legally, morally, the commitments I made aren’t over. But I also can’t pretend that night didn’t happen, or that what I feel for you doesn’t exist.”“So?”“So I want to ask for

Over the following days, work progressed steadily and methodically. We began excavating the first trench, uncovering Iron Age pottery sherds and burnt stone. I continued to handle recording, and my contact with Theo increased, yet his behaviour remained contradictory and confusing.One afternoon, when the other students were working in different areas, Theo and I were alone in the shelter processing a batch of freshly excavated pottery. We needed to wash, number and carry out a preliminary classification.“This one has clear cord decoration,” Theo said, pointing to a dark brown sherd. “Typical Iron Age style.”I took it and carefully cleaned it with a soft brush. “There’s a perforation here, possibly a repair hole.”“Brilliant,” Theo said, his voice softer. “A lot of people miss details like that.”We worked side by side for over an hour, the atmosphere unexpectedly relaxed. Theo even told a story from the early days of his career that made me laugh. It was the first time I had seen h

That autumn, the rain in London seemed endless. I stood in the corridor of the Department of Archaeology, watching the grey sky outside, droplets gathering on the glass and blurring the outline of the Thames. It was my second semester of my master's degree, specialising in the application of GIS in archaeology.“Have you read Professor Linus Alder’s new paper?” my classmate Emma asked, leaning over with a cup of steaming coffee in her hand.I nodded, without taking my eyes off the window. “The GIS analysis of Roman road networks in Britain, it’s brilliant.”“More than brilliant, it’s revolutionary,” Emma said, blowing on her coffee. “How can he be so clever and yet so… distant?”I turned towards the classroom, but her words stayed with me. Distant was indeed my first impression of Linus, and it had lasted for a full year.Linus Alder was an associate professor in our department, in his early forties, tall and slender, always dressed in crisply pressed shirts and dark trousers. His tea