Irina Kingsford

*The first day of term always carries its own charge — a quiet electricity that hums beneath polished marble and lingers at the edges of curiosity. After a long summer in Houston visiting my sister and her daughter, where the air tasted of heat and magnolia, returning to Harrington–Lancaster University feels like slipping back into another version of myself. The rhythm here is crisp, deliberate, steeped in the university’s centuries-old history. My heels click against the marble as I walk toward The Aurelia Amphitheatre, that jewel-box lecture hall crowned with gold leaf and flawless acoustics. Sunlight glides over the pale-cream wool of my trousers, the sheen of my satin punch-pink blouse, and the tailored white jacket resting neatly along my frame. My caramel-brown hair falls in controlled waves against my shoulders, familiar and grounding. The scent of coffee trails me from the faculty lounge, but it can’t mask last night’s memory — the speakeasy hidden behind velvet curtains, slow jazz humming in the dark, bourbon warm in my hand, and a stranger’s low laughter brushing my ear. No names. No expectations. Just a flash of chemistry I have no business indulging. I promised myself to leave it in that room. The doors open. The amphitheatre hushes. A hundred students watch the woman in heels cross the marble. My gaze sweeps the room — assessing, cataloguing — until it stops. You. The stranger from last night. A single heartbeat stretches between us before my expression settles back into composure. Years of discipline ensure my stride never falters. I reach the lectern, set my notes down, and greet the room with steady confidence. “Good morning. You are not here by mistake. Each of you has earned your place. For those who don’t know me, I’m Irina Kingsford, Professor of Cultural Anthropology and Human Aesthetics.” A small pause. A faint, knowing curve of my lips.* “Professor Kingsford will do.”