Grey Dawn (16 page)

‘What are you having?' Trista seemed more interested in her cocktail than the candidate, leaning forward to get the barman's attention.

‘PBR,' said Lloyd. ‘Uh, if they have it. Otherwise, whatever's on draft.'

‘Diet coke?' Dulcie thought she made out the professor, but with this crowd it was hard to tell. Sure, she recognized several of her colleagues, but it seemed the bar attracted an older clientele than the People's Republik, their usual hang. Several tweedy men held down one end of the bar, and three women, all with short hair and minimal make-up, sat at one of the few tables beyond its end. Between them and the bar, however, there was one woman – greying, reddish hair in a bun. Could that be Renée Showalter?

‘Thanks.' Dulcie took the glass from Trista and nodded toward the end of the bar. ‘Is that her?'

‘What? Oh, Showalter?' Trista turned to stare. ‘Yeah. She needs to color her hair, or something. Redheads going grey just look faded.'

‘Huh.' Dulcie paused, thinking of her mother. Lucy used so much henna that her hair had taken on an odd purplish hue. Maybe she agreed with Trista. Maybe that was also why Dulcie's author had opted out of using red hair in this latest manuscript, not that her characters ever got past their prime.

‘Dulcie?' She looked up. Trista seemed to be waiting for something. ‘I asked if you want an introduction.'

‘Oh, sorry. No, not yet.' Dulcie grabbed an empty bar stool and took a sip of her soda. It was funny. She'd been so involved with her latest find that she'd nearly forgotten the big question her initial discovery had raised.

In that first fragment, her heroine had been fighting with – and then possibly standing over the dead body of – a man. A man whose hair color had seemed to change in various versions from red to black and back again. At the time, it had infuriated her, not being able to figure out which version the author had intended. That was a problem with rough drafts, though. And over time, the hair question had been overwhelmed by others surrounding the young lord's role in the heroine's life – and her possible role in his death.

‘Come on, Dulcie.' This time it was Lloyd who was talking. ‘It won't be that bad.'

‘What?' Clearly, Dulcie was missing something. Luckily, Lloyd was filling Trista in.

‘I shouldn't have said anything.' He was talking softly and his nose was stuffy, but through some trick of the bar, Dulcie could hear him clearly. ‘I pointed out that if Showalter gets the gig, she might take all the eighteenth-century fiction courses for herself. And, really, how many Goths does a department need?'

‘A few anyway.' Dulcie broke in, forcing the happy tone into her voice. She really didn't need her friends' pity. Not yet anyway.

‘So, I can introduce you?' Trista slid off her stool, leaving her empty glass on the bar.

‘Uh, sure.' Maybe she needed to go back to that original fragment. Maybe she needed to focus on what that hair color meant. If only … Dulcie caught herself. This was nerves. What Lloyd had said in combination with her own hopes was making her anxious. She was being silly. And so she followed as Trista weaved her way through the bar crowd.

‘Dulcie …'
What was that? Dulcie turned, and Lloyd bumped into her.
‘Listen to …'

‘Sorry.' Lloyd had been holding his beer, which now slopped onto the floor.

‘Dulcie, are you okay?' Lloyd transferred his pint to his other hand and reached back to the bar for a napkin. All the while, he was watching Dulcie. ‘You look, I don't know, distracted. Do you really not want to meet this woman?'

‘No, I do.' Dulcie nodded to stress her point, and turned around. Trista was a few people ahead of them, now, and Dulcie made to follow her. It beat trying to explain.

‘Professor Showalter.' Trista was talking to the red-haired woman. ‘I'd like to introduce my friends,' she was saying. ‘They're both doctoral candidates in the department, and Dulcie …'

Her way was blocked. A suit jacket, presumably occupied by one of those older regulars, had stepped in front of her. Only instead of tweed, this was grey flannel, probably a business suit. A little corporate, but soft, which Dulcie noticed because she had stepped right into it.

‘Pay attention, Dulcie.'
The suit knew her name?

‘Oh, I'm sorry.' She stepped back and looked up – but the man was gone. When she turned back, Trista was gesturing to her. And the red-haired professor was looking up with a smile.

‘Professor Showalter.' Dulcie squeezed between two more drinkers. ‘Hi, I'm Dulcie Schwartz. I'm very interested in hearing you speak tonight.'

‘Will you be dealing with Nathaniel Hawthorne?' To her right, Sean Cafferty butted in.

‘He's a little late for me,' the professor responded. ‘Though I am very interested in American Romanticism and its origins.'

‘Like the Gothics?' Dulcie wasn't going to let her chance go.

‘Why, yes.' She had the professor's attention again. ‘Ms Dunlop here was just telling me that you are writing about the period.' The professor had the most piercing eyes. Not green, exactly, but greenish gold. ‘You're focusing on one of the English novelists?'

‘Yes, but actually, she—' Dulcie didn't get a chance to finish. Sean, tall and confident, was leaning in again as if he owned the professor.

‘If you're looking for a research associate in the Romantics, I've been working on a paper.' Of course, count on Sean to position himself as a research associate. He wasn't the sort to be taken advantage of. ‘I'm writing about the rise of Dark Romanticism for the
Literary Compendium
…'

Well, that was it. Sean could go on for hours, and soon it would be time for the professor to prepare for her talk. No wonder Mr Grey had warned her. If she'd been paying attention, maybe she wouldn't have missed her chance. But as Dulcie turned away, she felt a hand on her sleeve. The professor's – and Dulcie turned back, a little startled.

‘I'm sorry,' she was saying to Sean. ‘I need to ask your colleague about something.'

Sean looked stunned. Handsome and self-assured, he was used to being the center of attention. Certainly, he'd never lost out to Dulcie.

She didn't have long to savor her victory, however. Professor Showalter was looking at her again, and her gaze was intense. ‘What were you saying, Ms Schwartz?'

‘Oh,' Dulcie struggled to remember. That stranger, the soft grey cloth. What had the voice being telling her to do? ‘Just that, yes, I am writing about an English novelist. But I think she emigrated. Are you familiar with
The Ravages of Umbria?
'
It was an awkward question. One would assume that any properly credentialed academic – especially one being considered for the chairmanship of the department – would know the work. But Dulcie had learned by long experience that many otherwise quite well read scholars skimped on the Gothics. And
The Ravages
was hardly
The Castle of Otranto.

‘Of course.' Renée Showalter was nodding. ‘The two surviving fragments are a testimony to the importance of the women authors of the era. In fact, there was something, if only I could remember. A paper looking at the political significance of the author's work. Wait – that was you. You've been tracking essays you think she wrote.'

‘Yes, that was me. I, I mean.' Dulcie felt herself flushing with pride, as well as embarrassment over her awkward response. She was flustered: so few of her colleagues even cared about this anonymous author's best-known work. ‘Those essays are why I think she may have emigrated.' Best to move on. ‘There are some fascinating pieces that I believe I can connect to her. And that's not all. Just in the last few months, I've found some fragments …' She was about to explain, to tell this professor about the manuscript, but something about the situation – the intensity of the professor's gaze – stopped her. It was as if she was looking into Dulcie for some reason. Or looking
for
something …

What if Lloyd was right? What if this professor – this Renée Showalter – was looking not only to head the department, but also dominate its studies of eighteenth-century fiction? Should Dulcie share her discovery? That might be all she had when she left the university to seek her fortune. And until she published, the work was fair game. Dulcie didn't want to end up one of those graduate students who got credit only as a research assistant when a paper, or worse, a book, came out.

‘Yes?' The professor was leaning in.

‘Well, I'm hoping to maybe finally put a name to the author.' That was true, though it was also far more speculative than her other work. ‘You know, if I can actually trace her work.'

‘That's it.' Showalter snapped her fingers. Her hands, Dulcie saw, were large and strong, and she didn't wear any nail polish. ‘I knew there was something. You've been looking for the lost Gothic Thomas Paine referred to, am I right? You found something in the rare book collection here?'

Dulcie nodded, a knot forming in her stomach. She had gotten ahead of herself, mentioning that first fragment in her paper. But it was too late now. The professor's hand was on her forearm now, as if the older woman could sense her desire to flee.

‘We have to talk. I've read something – something that was given to me. And I was contacted recently by a student, an undergrad, who wanted information about a source she'd found while on an unrelated search. I'm not sure, but there are some extremely intriguing possibilities. Highly speculative, I assure you, but we should discuss them.' She glanced around, and Dulcie found herself following her gaze. To her left, Trista was saying something to Lloyd, and Lloyd was smiling at Dulcie, happy that he had facilitated the meeting. To her right, Sean Cafferty had a look on his face like a stymied puppy. Dulcie doubted that women ever cut him out of their conversations.

Not that he lacked persistence. Taking the professor's pause as an opportunity, he tried again. ‘Professor Showalter, if you're interested in our rare book collection, I'd be happy to show you around. The Mildon Collection—'

She raised her hand, silencing him, all her attention back on Dulcie. ‘In private. Are you free tomorrow morning?'

‘I – I can be.' She had one section. That wasn't enough of an excuse. ‘I have a section, but after eleven …'

‘Good.' The professor sounded like she wouldn't take no for an answer anyway. ‘Let's meet here at quarter after. Trust me.' She reached for her bag. ‘This will be worth your while.'

With that, she turned to the assembled students. ‘Time for me to get ready. Thank you all for this warm university welcome,' she said, and headed toward the elevator.

‘Well, that was something,' said Lloyd as he and Trista flanked her to get the news.

‘It was something all right.' Dulcie couldn't feel as sanguine. ‘I wish I knew exactly what.' Ignoring Sean, who was openly glaring at her, she led her friends out of the bar. This time, she wasn't going to be stupid. ‘House of Pizza?' She affected a lighter tone than she felt. ‘I'd say we have time for a large with everything before Professor Showalter takes the podium.'

‘Sean?' Lloyd was a peacemaker. It was one of his endearing traits. Their colleague, however, simply turned away.

‘I guess not everyone likes pepperoni,' said Dulcie, trying not to sound too relieved.

R
aleigh joined the friends at the House of Pizza, and Dulcie couldn't help but notice how apologetic the younger girl looked.

‘How's the kitten?' Dulcie asked, as soon as Lloyd got up for more napkins. They were all on their second slices by this point, and slowing down enough to converse. ‘Is he just adorable?'

‘He's great. A little marmalade fluff ball. But Lloyd …' She shook her head and put down her crust. ‘I finally had to put the kitten in the bathroom, just so he'd stop sneezing and be able to sleep. I made a vet appointment for him, but I really should have brought him to the shelter today.'

‘No, please.' Dulcie countered her. ‘Don't do that. I'll – I'll find a home for him.'

‘Are you still against me giving him to Thorpe?' Raleigh leaned over the table to steal some of her boyfriend's soda. ‘Because, if not …'

‘No, Dulcie's right.' Trista broke in, to Dulcie's surprise. ‘I mean, I don't agree with what you said, Dulcie, but there's something going on with him. Something a kitten can't cure.'

‘A kitten cure?' Lloyd was sitting back down. As if on cue, he sneezed again and grabbed one of the new napkins.

‘Never mind.' Dulcie wanted to change the subject. ‘Here.' She slid the remaining slice onto Lloyd's plate before turning to his girlfriend. ‘Just, please hang in there.'

‘No problem,' said Raleigh. Lloyd blew his nose, but didn't disagree.

With some reluctance on Dulcie's part, the group decided to forego cannoli. It was getting close to seven, and if last night's lecture was any indication, the hall would be packed.

The four piled out of the pizza house into a true November night, very brisk but also very clear, and without any discussion, they started walking quickly. As they headed toward the lecture hall, Dulcie checked her messages. The ones from Suze were friendly, but distracted. ‘
Sorry we keep missing, Dulce,'
her friend had said in the second one.
‘Life will get simpler after this stupid test.'
The tone was warm, but that just made it worse. The third call had been a blank – someone hanging up. Suze must have gotten frustrated, Dulcie decided, and turned her attention back to the friends by her side.

‘Although, let's face it, Professor Showalter doesn't have the charisma that Lukos had,' Trista was saying.

‘To men, she might,' chimed in Dulcie. When Lloyd didn't join in, she amended that. ‘Or to eighteenth-century fiction specialists.'