Grey Dawn (13 page)

‘Come now, Dulcie.'
A soft voice spoke, seemingly right in her ear.
‘You can do a little more.'

‘Mr Grey?' Dulcie sat up with a start and looked around. Griddlehaus was in the other room, and she was alone. Well, alone except for that voice. Unless she had fallen asleep and into a dream. ‘Are you here, Mr Grey?'

A low hum began. It could have been the air-filtration system, but to Dulcie it sounded like a purr. ‘Do you have a message for me?' She had lowered her voice as she glanced once more, surreptitiously, around the room. The feline spirit rarely made himself heard and visible at the same time, but Dulcie couldn't stop herself looking for those wide white whiskers or that proud plume of a tail.

‘I've left you a tale …'
The voice rose out of the purring hum, and Dulcie could have sworn there was a little laugh in it.
‘From the dawn of our tale. Or was that a tail?'

‘Are you making a pun, Mr Grey?' The only answer was that low, rhythmic whirr.

Her spectral visitor had made his point, though. There was something in this text, something Dulcie had to find. Thoughts of lunch temporarily banished, Dulcie sat up straight in her chair. Using just the tips of her gloved fingers, she slid the page toward her. Held together, as well as protected, by the clear polypropylene sheath that encased it, the page slide silently, and Dulcie found herself wondering about the stains and creases on the paper.

‘Fondest Dreams,
' she read. Yes, that was it. Though it was no wonder she'd had trouble. In addition to her fatigue, she was hampered by the condition of this page. Even more than the others she had previously deciphered, this one was in rough shape, as if it had been through, well, through a storm. A diagonal tear had severed the word ‘Dream' from the rest of the sentence, and a blotch obscured the next line.

Or did it? Dulcie reached for the magnifying glass that had become her favorite tool. Focusing on the upstroke of the letters, she had discovered, sometimes made reading them easier.

‘Those Dreams as become a Lad,'
She read. Or was it ‘
Lady.'
For argument's sake, since the Stranger was addressing the heroine, ‘Lady' seemed more likely, Dulcie decided, scribbling down the new bit.
‘Though when the Silver Orb withdraws …'

The next bit was gone, obscured by a dark blot that could have been ink or blood. Or even coffee or chocolate, she caught herself. The fact that she was unraveling – restoring, really – a previously unknown novel was dramatic enough, and getting her to focus might have been Mr Grey's only message. She really did not need to add her own wild imaginings to the excitement.

Method. That was what she needed, not fancy. Marking in her notebook the number of lines that seemed to be obscured, she moved down the page.

‘… freed by any Means from such Hateful Servitude, the disequal Bonds that would have you thus Shackled by custom and by law.'
Ah, this was good stuff. Earlier in her research, Dulcie had isolated several phrases that her author frequently used. ‘Disequal bonds' was one of them, usually referring to marriage, which – in her author's world – was less likely to be a joining of souls than an unequal and purely mercenary agreement, usually decided between a woman's father and her suitor. Now that she was in a good relationship, Dulcie found this sentiment a bit sad. True, what she and Chris had was far from ideal. The few weeks when they managed to be on the same schedule they were both likely to be either fiendishly busy or sleep deprived. Still, their connection was far from ‘disequal' or the kind of ‘gender Servitude' that the author of
The Ravages
had railed against. Times had certainly changed.

Or had they? Dulcie shook her head. That idea had seemed to pop up from nowhere. Now that it was in her mind, however, she found herself considering it. Up till now, she had taken her author's rants at face value. Marriage in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century was not an equal pairing between peers. She knew that, just as she knew that with marriage, women had surrendered any rights to property or legal counsel. If a woman fled a loveless – or even an abusive – marriage, she lost everything. Even her children. That, Dulcie mused, would probably be very hard. Her own father had taken off years before, and Dulcie sometimes felt that Lucy relied too much on her only child. Without her, Dulcie thought, Lucy might have really gone off the rails. Not that the difference would be that apparent, she admitted, with a twinge of guilt.

So, yes, the institution was a horrid thing: unfair and often cruel. And this author, Dulcie's heroine, was right in speaking out against it. Still, she had to wonder, where did this passion come from? Had the author of
The Ravages
been subject to an abusive mate? An unfair husband who had tried to control her – or her writing?

Is that why she had left London two hundred years before, only to surface in the fledgling United States?

Dulcie rubbed her eyes again. She was letting her imagination get away from her, and imagination, as Thorpe would be quick to remind her, was the enemy of the serious scholar. Still, it might explain the fervor of the scene that Dulcie knew was yet to come. A nobleman, handsome and yet cruel, lying dead. Could he have been based on a real, on an actual …?

No, she was getting ahead of herself. Another sign that it was time for lunch. But before she took her break, she would finish just this one fragment. A few lines more.

‘
Shackled by custom and by law. Such Bondage would anathema be to one such as you.' The Voice, soft yet stern, reached through the howling of the winds, much as the glowing Eyes belied the very darkness of the Storm.'

Wait. Dulcie looked around. She needed to go back and check her laptop, but Griddlehaus was nowhere to be seen. Surely, this bit of text followed on her dream, not on what she had deciphered only a few days before. The whole idea that the passenger – her heroine – was actually talking to the stranger was something she hadn't read before. Only in her dream had she heard him, the green-eyed shadow. And in her dream, she had thought …

She must be misremembering. She must have glimpsed the beginning of this conversation among the pages, and in her sherry-addled sleep, she'd fleshed out that first hint, creating the opening of a dialogue. If she happened to imbue the mysterious stranger with certain characteristics, well, there was precedent for that, too. There were those green eyes, for instance. And the fact that he had appeared out of nowhere to help the heroine out of a jam. And the voice … no, ‘soft yet stern' was actually written here. Maybe she had glanced at that, too. And considering what else was going on, it only made sense that Dulcie had interpolated her own wishes on it. After all, she always identified with this author's heroines. That didn't mean …

She shook her head to clear it. She'd get through this one passage, then go out for lunch. Maybe even take a walk. And as the thought of one of Lala's three-bean burgers, the orange-red hot sauce dripping out the side, set her stomach to rumbling, Dulcie took a deep breath and refocused on the battered page.

She turned from Him then, unwilling to face those Eyes, so clear and green. So deep was her Regret, she could not bear
to sace –
sace? No, face! –
face the Stranger who spoke so true. Drawing back the curtain, she peered into the Night. Darkness, only darkness, and more darkness, cut only by the demonic Howls of those pursuing.

‘
Fear not.' The voice, as soft as velvet, countered e'en those fiendish Howls, as one hand, glov'd in finest grey Morocco reached for hers. ‘There is no Shame in what you desire, only Glory and Danger of a most Mortal kind.'

M. le Grife –
Ah, the stranger had a name! Dulcie turned back her notes to see if there had been a prior reference, without success. If he had introduced himself, it was on a page she had not yet found.
M. le Grife, most Welcome are your Courtesies, and deep indeed has been your every Kindness to this lost Soul, but do not Think that though I slee
– slee? Sleep? Dulcie blinked and looked again. The passage broke off here, the page torn.

Dulcie sat back and pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. She was tired. She was hungry. This really was time to stop. She looked up: Griddlehaus was visible behind the front desk. She should call him over to replace this precious fragment. That was the tail end of their ritual, speaking of tails; the signal that her work was done for the day.

‘
Slee
.' If only she could just finish this fragment – and it hit her: Not ‘
slee
,
flee
!' She'd been having trouble with those miserable letters all day. ‘
But do not Think though I flee …'
Yes, that made sense.

Dulcie moved to close her notebook, Mr Griddlehaus's name on her lips, when another thought caught her. She'd been mixing up ‘f' and ‘s' throughout the day. What if … no …

She looked at the top of her page. M le Grife – that was the name of the stranger with the green eyes. He was a Frenchman – M had to be for ‘Monsieur.' But what if she'd done it again, with this stranger. The one with the green eyes who appeared out of the darkness to help a lost and embattled female. She squinted, made the substitution: Not
M. le Grife
, but
M. le Grise.
Monsieur le Grise – or, to an American, Mister Grey.

‘T
his is getting confusing.' Dulcie addressed the squirrel. She had emerged from the Mildon only minutes before, hurrying out before Thomas Griddlehaus could ask her about the day's finds. She'd been headed toward Lala's when the reality of what she'd just uncovered stopped her in her tracks. Halfway across the Yard, she found herself staring at the little grey rodent and wondering just what was going on.

‘I mean, is the stranger Mr Grey? Are you?' The squirrel, who had been interrupted burying an acorn, didn't answer. Not that Dulcie would necessarily have trusted anything he said anyway. ‘Is this his tale – or tail – or mine? Am I dreaming about what I've seen in the Mildon, or are pages appearing that mirror my dreams?

‘Am I completely losing it?' Dulcie raised her arms and then dropped them, and that probably more than the futility of her questions was what caused the little creature to scurry up the nearest oak. Still, the rapid retreat of the squirrel didn't make Dulcie feel any better. Or less hungry.

‘Maybe,' she addressed herself as much as any unseen spirits, ‘I'm hallucinating. Severe hunger, combined with delayed alcohol poisoning from cheap sherry.'

Lala's was the answer, though for once Dulcie was grateful that the authoritarian proprietor was absent. As much as she appreciated Lala's efforts – slipping her into a seat ahead of the line or coming up with just the right dish to salve her mood – Dulcie couldn't deal with any interaction right now. A burger, the noise of congenial strangers … No, not even strangers. Just a burger and she'd tune everything out.

Luckily, by the time she walked in the café's door it was past two. The lunch crowd had dispersed, and Dulcie treated herself to a table rather than a counter seat. A small table, way in the back, promised the privacy she craved, and when she gave her order to one of the newer, unfamiliar waitrons, she felt like maybe she'd be getting the peaceful break she needed.

When her burger arrived, practically steaming, she was sure of it. Squeezing the squirt bottle of sauce on top of the patty was about all she was up for. Lifting the burger, she closed her eyes, the better to savor that hot-sweet first bite.

‘Dulcie?' The burger was calling her name. ‘Dulcie Schwartz?'

No, the burger did not have to sound so uncertain, of that she was sure. Chewing, Dulcie opened her eyes to see Josh Blakely standing uncertainly behind the empty chair. Only the fact that her mouth was full kept her from crying out in alarm. As it was, she nearly choked. But as she managed to both chew again and breathe, she reminded herself that she was in a crowded restaurant. In the back, certainly, but in full view of a dozen other late lunchers. She'd heard Rogovoy's suspicions; she knew what Josh may have done. But whatever this man's game was, she should be safe – at least long enough to finish her burger.

‘It's me, Josh,' he said, misreading her hesitation. She nodded nervously, acknowledging that it was in fact him. Unfortunately, he took this as permission of some sort and pulled out the chair. She swallowed, about to tell him that she was off duty. Not really here. Just about to leave when he sat down and leaned toward her.

‘I'm really glad to have found you, Ms Schwartz.' His voice was soft and possibly, she thought, scared. ‘I really need to talk to you.'

‘Sure,' she said. She could hear her voice tremble and tried to cover. ‘What's up?'

She took another bite, while he fidgeted, and thought about what she had learned. He didn't
look
like a villain. He was too large, for starters, and those pink cheeks. That was silly, though. Bad guys came in all shapes and sizes. Hadn't she just been wondering about the role of the handsome young lord? He probably didn't look evil either. Then again, had the lord been bad? Wasn't it just as likely that the stranger was somehow involved? Just because he had green eyes and a vaguely familiar name …

‘… notes about the family.' Dulcie realized that Josh had been speaking. Softly and more toward the paper napkin he was currently shredding than to her. Still, it behooved her to catch up.

‘I'm sorry.' She reached for her own napkin. That hot sauce really did get everywhere. ‘I'm afraid I was distracted. You were talking about some notes?' As she wiped her mouth, Dulcie tried to remember if she had Josh in any of her sections. That would be the simplest explanation, and the easiest to deal with. If, in addition to being Mina Love's boyfriend, he were also another student looking to make an excuse about why he wasn't going to make a deadline, she'd be overjoyed. Unfortunately, she was pretty sure she had never seen him before yesterday. His problem, he confirmed, was of a touchier nature.