Grey Dawn (24 page)

When Thorpe had then followed up by asking her to tell him about her latest findings, she was, if not convinced, at least distracted. It was so much more pleasant to discuss the pages she had found, the bits of story she was piecing together. And to have her adviser actually listen with apparent interest … well, it was like catnip would be to Esmé.

Only now, she had arrived at the crux of her problem: ‘I haven't yet found the connecting link in the story,' she continued. ‘So maybe I never will know how it all works out.'

Thorpe was watching her silently, but Dulcie had more or less forgotten he was there, so deep was she in thought. ‘I wish I knew how the protagonist is involved with Esteban, the young lord,' Dulcie said. She'd already explained about the strange carriage that appeared to pick her up. And while she had glossed over the howling wolves outside – ‘some kind of threatening noises, probably supernatural,' she had said – she had let her emotions temper her reaction to the stranger inside the carriage. ‘He's a good guy, I think. I'm pretty sure,' she had said. ‘After all, he picks her up and rescues her from … whatever is out there. And he seems to be warning her.'

‘About what?' Thorpe's voice interrupted her reverie, and she looked up. ‘Couldn't he be warning her about himself? After all, he seems rather … demonic.'

‘What?' It took Dulcie a moment to reorient. ‘No, he's not demonic.'

Thorpe shrugged and looked away, muttering something like ‘as if it were immediately apparent.' And Dulcie caught her breath. Could Thorpe be talking about himself? But his next question caught her even more off guard.

‘Is it truly vital to keep looking for more pages?' He had switched to his pedantic voice, a little dismissive and little haughty. ‘These so-called “linking pages” may no longer exist. In truth, we have little evidence that a complete manuscript has survived at all.'

‘But the Paine letter refers to a complete book. A masterwork, and if it is by my author …' She caught herself. ‘By the author I'm studying, then its worth would be incalculable.'

‘Yes, yes, but time has a very real value as well, and a scholar could spend a lifetime looking for a complete lost work and then proving attribution to a particular author. Could lose a lifetime, too, if the search proved fruitless.' He seemed much more himself again, in this mode, making notes on a pad even as he spoke. ‘As your adviser, I would be remiss if I didn't point this out, Ms Schwartz.'

‘But—' Her protest was stopped by his raised hand.

‘I understand the appeal of the hunt, so to speak.' Dulcie swallowed her response, and he kept talking. ‘When the blood is up I, too, have sought to track down the elusive …' He paused, finished writing whatever it was he was writing, and pushed the paper aside. ‘The elusive prey. But, really, Ms Schwartz, what have you to gain? You've already uncovered significant portions of new prose, and you've also gone far in making a strong case that these new fragments were indeed penned by the author of
The Rampages.
'

‘
The Ravages.
'
She couldn't stop herself. He looked up, eyes bloodshot over his glasses, and she shut her mouth.

‘
The Ravages.
' He looked back down. ‘In fact, if I do recall your précis correctly, your thesis focuses on that earlier, better-established work. What there is of it. This later work, if indeed it is by the same author, was simply going to be a chapter, a speculative chapter posing some hypotheticals about the future life and work of this unknown author.'

‘But I want to know what happens!' Dulcie couldn't hold it in any longer. ‘I've read the later bit, where she's standing over the body. And these pages seem to be earlier, when she's fleeing from someone – probably from Esteban. I want to know how she got from here to there. What happened between them to cause her to run? Why was the stranger warning her? Did she –' Dulcie licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry – ‘kill him?'

It was the wrong kind of question. Unscholarly in the extreme, and in the silence that followed Dulcie felt herself shrinking down in her seat. But although her adviser seemed momentarily taken aback by her outburst, he soon closed his mouth and his eyebrows returned to their customary place behind his glasses. And, wonder of wonders, he smiled.

‘You are quite taken with this fragment, aren't you?' She nodded, even though the question was rhetorical. ‘That speaks well of your dedication, even if it is a misplaced enthusiasm.' Those eyebrows arched again, wrinkling his prematurely high forehead in a particularly unattractive manner. ‘And it confirms my initial impression that you have already spent enough – more than enough – time on what will most likely prove a wild-goose chase.

‘After all, as a scholar you need to be looking at how this character was created. What literary devices were employed by your putative author that could link her with the dramatic personae of the known work. Not on whether this character – this nameless, fleeing woman – was good or bad, or whether someone killed one person or another. Such distinctions are irrelevant to our purposes – and, ultimately, to your thesis. You need to pursue this as a scholar, Ms Schwartz. You are not, after all, reading for fun.'

D
ulcie had left soon after that, her spirits as dim as the darkening sky. Thorpe was right, of course. The search for a missing novel could be a scholar's life work. It might, he had even suggested in a belated effort to cheer her up, become hers. But such a quest would take years, rather than months. And, odds were, it would take the kind of resources that neither Dulcie, nor even the Mildon, could provide. To piece together an entire novel, she'd probably have to search archives up and down the Eastern Seaboard. Even abroad, if she counted in the collectors who might have bought the book when it was first published or the scholars who may have salvaged bits of it in the ensuing centuries. She wouldn't be able to find the entire book. Not in a year or two, and not here, and if she kept on looking, before she knew it, she'd be entirely off track with her thesis. Instead of a PhD, she'd end up Dulcinea Schwartz, ABD – all but dissertation – looking for teaching jobs at private secondary schools, and wondering where she'd gone wrong.

The day was giving way to dusk as she made her way home, and the evening chill made her wrap her sweater close. The street was empty, and for a moment she thought of heading back into the Square. She could grab a cab there, or maybe find someone to walk with. The way Thorpe had talked about stalking, about prey, had left her with an unsettled feeling, as had his casual dismissal of her heroine's involvement in the young lord's violent death. Yes, it did matter, she wanted to yell out. It mattered a lot.

She turned the corner and lowered her head as a blast of wind buffeted her, bringing tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, sniffing. Thorpe was more than temporarily off balance, she thought. He was truly a strange man. How could he say it didn't matter if someone had killed someone else? Yes, these were fictional characters. But even to
say
that …

Another gust, this time carrying grit that swiped at her face like claws. Like the claws of a particular ghost, she realized, ducking into the wind. ‘Mr Grey? Am I that far off base?' She closed her eyes against the grit, willing a response. The only answer was the wind, which swirled around her, hurrying her along like the clouds it was whipping into the sky.

It could have been a warning. The full moon may have passed, but an empty street at dusk was not the place to be. Not when women were being attacked, being hurt, and the attacker might be a mere human, evil but mortal. The sky darkened, the clouds gathered …

And just like that, the wind died away, leaving Dulcie alone and, for now, unmolested. She nodded to herself. ‘You're right, Mr Grey,' she said to the fading light. All her fears and fancies were simply her way of avoiding the real issue. She knew that. Martin Thorpe's main job was to keep her on track. Just because she resisted his discipline didn't make him an abuser of women … or worse. It just made him her adviser.

‘S
urprise!' Chris greeted her at the door. ‘I have the night off.'

‘That's great.' Dulcie tried to muster a smile. ‘Something smells fantastic.'

‘It's just spaghetti.' He followed her into the kitchen, where Esmé was already dining. ‘But I made garlic bread, too. Did Trista walk you home again?'

‘No, I didn't ask her to.' Dulcie threw her sweater over the back of a chair, causing the cat to look up, and headed toward the fridge. ‘Do we have any wine?'

‘Wine?' Chris sounded taken aback. ‘Maybe. From the other week.' He watched as she rummaged around, emerging finally with a half-empty bottle. ‘So, did you take a cab?'

‘No, I walked.' Dulcie poured herself a glass. It tasted a little sour. She drank it anyway. ‘It wasn't even full dark when I left the Square, Chris.' She took another sip, then poured the rest of the glass down the sink.

‘I would have met you, you know.' Chris was hovering behind her as she rinsed the glass and filled it with water. ‘I'd have walked back with you.'

‘I know you would have.' She turned and willed that smile into place. ‘Because you love me. I know that, and I love you for it. But really, I'm fine.'

He started to speak, and she put her hand over his mouth. ‘Look, Chris, we're dealing with one of two possibilities here. The first – okay, the most likely – is that this was a domestic issue. Someone, probably Josh Blakely, attacked his girlfriend and then her room-mate for whatever crazy reason abusive guys have. The second is that Martin Thorpe either is or has been convinced that he is a werewolf. If it's the first, well, I'm not involved with Josh. And if it's the latter, well, the moon is past full. So we're all safe for another couple of weeks. And as for Professor Showalter … well, she was probably simply mugged.'

‘Wait, a professor was mugged?' It wasn't the question Dulcie had been expecting. That was the problem with their crazy schedule. She and Chris stayed in touch on all the important things, but the day-to-day stuff tended to get lost.

‘Yeah, Professor Showalter. She was supposed to give the Newman lecture.' Dulcie explained everything – focusing on the fact that the visiting scholar had been walking across the Common at night and had been relieved of her bag. As she was telling Chris about how Thorpe had gone missing, leaving Nancy in charge, Esmé finished her meal and came over to be pet, which Dulcie did. By the time she and Chris finally sat down to eat, she'd caught him up on Thorpe's hospitalization, too.

‘Poor guy.' Chris served out the salad. ‘I can't imagine the search committee will count this in his favor.'

‘The search committee?' Dulcie grabbed a piece of bread. ‘They can't hold it against him. Not if they were the reason he got sick. Or whatever.'

Chris didn't say anything.

‘Can they?' Dulcie crunched the garlicky toast without even tasting it.

‘Let me put it this way,' Chris reached for his own slice. ‘By the time this is through, Thorpe might wish he really could turn into a wolf.'

Dulcie mulled this over as she ate her pasta. By the time they had polished off seconds, she was glad she had made peace with her adviser. His actual advice, however, still bothered her.

‘What do you think, Esmé?' Despite the occasional splash, the little tuxedo cat had remained in the kitchen as Dulcie did the dishes. Clearly, she had been wanting more company. ‘Do you think I should make do with what I've already found and get back to writing?'

‘Isn't that a loaded question?' Chris was drying. Esmé only looked up at her person, head tilted at a quizzical angle. ‘I mean, if it were a logic chain …'

Dulcie let him go on. He meant well. Besides, as he talked over the mindless occupation of soaping and rinsing, she could think. What if she went back to writing, but kept looking through the Mildon papers in her spare time? Wouldn't the chance of finding more be worth such risk?
Worth such risk
… those words brought up an echo of something, if only she could remember …

‘Dulcie!' Chris reached over and turned the tap off. Only then did Dulcie realize that the sink was nearly full and that Esmé had fled from the spray. ‘Look,' her boyfriend continued. ‘I can finish up here. You've been scrubbing that saucepan for ten minutes now. I'll just rinse it, set it out to dry, and join you in a few.'

‘Thanks, sweetie.' She didn't even try to explain. It wasn't anything logical anyway. Instead, she took her laptop into the living room and began to type in the few lines she'd managed to decipher before lunch.
‘Ne'er shall I relinquish to him that which equally is of mine,'
she read, once she'd typed it in. That was a puzzler, and even when she went back a line, it didn't become more clear:
‘though Body she may be yet not Spirit of the oppressor.'

She'd gotten it wrong. Misread – or mistranscribed – what had been written. There was no other answer. She'd been working quickly, distracted by Josh's bored antics even before his brash act had caused her to usher him away from Griddlehaus. Unless … no. It didn't make sense. It might never make sense. She should give it up, and get back to work.

Dulcie almost laughed. Only a few months before, this author's best-known – and only verified – work,
The Ravages of Umbria
, had been her favorite piece of fiction. She'd been thrilled to unravel its themes and characters, and she'd been overjoyed when her application to write her thesis on the little known, fragmentary book had been approved. Now here she was, looking back on the nearly complete novel as ‘work.'

Chris had come into the living room by then, with Esmé. But seeing her at her laptop, he'd gone over to switch on the game. The Red Sox, Dulcie had picked up, were not the team that had won the World Series. Not any more, but Chris and Jerry seemed to take pleasure even in their defeat. Male bonding, she thought, as Esmé rubbed against her ankles.