Grey Matters (21 page)

‘Yes, you did.’ She blushed. Somehow, she hadn’t been able to tell him about her own feelings. Probably because he was never around long enough. And that thought sparked her anger all over again. ‘But you’re not telling me what’s going on. Because, Christopher Sorenson, something is going on. I may not be psychic, but I can tell.’

He stopped trying to hide his grin. ‘Speaking of psychic, have you spoken to Lucy lately?’

As if on cue, Dulcie’s phone rang. She looked at it and then up at Chris. It was her mother.

‘Mom?’ Dulcie couldn’t remember the last time she had called Lucy anything but Lucy. Then again, she couldn’t remember when her mother’s timing had been quite so on. Perhaps if Lucy wasn’t psychic, Chris was.

‘Dulcie, darling! I’m so pleased to have gotten you. Did you find out about that book yet? I really suggest you get rid of it, if you haven’t already. I was meaning to tell you that you can’t just throw it out. There’s a key in it. Or maybe that’s another book, I’m not sure. Just that there’s a new message, “the key is in the book.” But then there’s the fake book. And that you’ve got to get rid of—’

‘Lucy! Hang on.’ Dulcie was laughing now. At least one thing hadn’t changed. ‘I’m still doing my research. And no, I haven’t yet found the key to anything – or anything poisonous, either.’

‘Treacherous, dear. Treacherous or maybe false.’ Lucy, like her daughter, was a stickler for words.

‘The treacherous book, then.’ Her mind flashed to
The Ravages of Umbria
. ‘About the key, I have some ideas. But, Lucy, I hope you’re wrong.’

‘We often wish for things, Dulcie. But unless we pay attention to the portents, we may never get them.’

‘I am working, Lucy.’ Whether because she wanted to prove herself to her mother or because she needed to get her own ideas straight, Dulcie found herself explaining her research to her mother. ‘So, even if it’s just for background, I’d like to find out who the author of
The Ravages
really was.’

Lucy was characteristically cryptic. ‘Does anyone ever truly reveal who they are?’

‘Who he or she is, Lucy.’ Dulcie was beginning to regret her attempt to communicate.

‘Don’t be semantic, dear.’

‘Pedantic,’ Dulcie corrected under her breath. But Lucy’s punctiliousness clearly only extended to her own concerns, and she was already rattling on about another message, something that had come up during a purifying circle. ‘This question of identity, it’s so important to you, Dulcie. I can see that.’ Dulcie bit her tongue. ‘I can see that, though I’m not entirely sure how it fits in. There are shadows, dear. Some things are not clear yet.’

That sounded to Dulcie like a recipe to get back to work. Unless Lucy had another clue. ‘You can’t tell me anything else, can you?’

‘I wish I could, dear.’ Lucy’s voice faded out briefly and Dulcie had a moment’s pause. Was she really talking on the phone to her mother, or was this some strange astral projection? The waitress came over with their plates. At least lunch was real. ‘You know what you have to do. It’s for you to uncover.’ Her voice was fading, distant, reminding her vaguely of something. Some dream. ‘You know what makes a heroine, Dulcie. Trust yourself.’ Then her mother’s voice came back, clear and strong. ‘But that’s not why I called.’

‘Oh?’ Dulcie waited. There must have been another dream. Or perhaps a vision, if Lucy and her friend Nirvana – aka Shirley – were doing peyote again. While she was waiting, Dulcie took a bite of her three-bean burger.

‘It’s about squash.’

Dulcie almost choked on her burger. ‘Squash?’

‘Yes, this year, the squash are just the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen. Butternut, acorn, those big green ones that I always forget the name of. The goddess has truly smiled on us, and I was trying to remember something.’

Dulcie, her mouth full, grunted.

‘Do you prefer the squash baked with maple syrup or mashed?’

A wave of sadness swept over Dulcie, and suddenly the bite of burger was too big to swallow. After a moment, she managed, and found that her voice was cracking.

‘Lucy, Mom, you know I’m not coming home this semester break, don’t you? I’m sure I told you. Chris’s mother invited us both down to New Jersey, and what with the shorter bus ride and us both being broke—’

‘Yes, yes.’ Lucy seemed unconcerned. ‘You told me, dear. Sheryl sounds like a proper human, for a she-wolf.’

‘A what?’ Dulcie looked up. She hoped Chris hadn’t heard that, but he seemed to be happily digging into his own burger. There was a spot of hot sauce on his chin, and she reached to wipe it off.

‘She-wolf.’ Lucy seemed to have taken Dulcie’s question literally. ‘And frankly, I’m jealous. You know, I’ve always felt a kinship with the grey pack. Though perhaps it makes sense. Wolves are very family-oriented, you know. And I do think that your Chris sounds like a very nice young man.’

‘He is.’ Dulcie might never understand her mother, but she was also never bored by her.

‘So, tell me, which way do you prefer your squash?’

‘Either is fine.’ Images of a mushy care package filled Dulcie’s mind. ‘Baked, I guess.’

‘That’s what I thought, but Nirvana remembered otherwise. Now tell me one more thing, Dulcie, and I’ll let you get back to that boyfriend of yours.’

Dulcie waited.

‘Do you think he’d like my wheatberry casserole?’

‘I love you, Lucy.’ Dulcie knew if she didn’t cut in, she’d be on for far longer than Lucy could afford. ‘And I’m hanging up now.’

‘Goodbye, Dulcie. And remember: the one who does the seeing may be just as important as that which is seen.’ With that, Lucy hung up, leaving Dulcie shaking her head.

‘What?’ Chris looked at her.

Dulcie shook her head. How could she ever explain?

‘Are you going to finish those fries?’

She pushed her plate over to him and watched as he wolfed them down.

THIRTY-EIGHT

T
he two parted outside the café, with plans to meet up again later. Chris had said he was working the night shift at the computer lab. And this time, he promised, he really would be there, and so Dulcie had agreed to come by around nine, with food for a break.

They kissed goodbye, Chris’s smile as sweet as ever, but Dulcie was still not completely satisfied. The lunch – and the strange phone call from Lucy – seemed like a set-up, somehow. As if those close to her were planning something. That was probably her imagination, she acknowledged, as she made her way back to her office. But she couldn’t help the prickly feeling, as if the hair were standing up along the back of her neck. Chris had not been completely straight with her, she felt, even if he claimed it had all been a mistake. And there was something else going on, she thought as she started across the Yard for the umpteenth time that day. Maybe it was this path, carrying her between Widener Library and the stark, old Memorial Church, but her thoughts seemed clearer here. Something was wrong. Chris was not the cheating type. She trusted him. But he was hiding something. Or at least, she corrected herself, he had not been entirely forthcoming.

Once again, a fat squirrel darted across her path, and Dulcie paused to watch it as it stopped at the base of an oak tree. Acorn in hand, it nibbled a little, then shoved the nut into its cheek, all the while staring at the human intruder.

‘Don’t worry, fella.’ Dulcie smiled at the fluffy creature. ‘I’m not going to steal your feast.’ And with a flash, she realized what else was bothering her. Thanksgiving, as the college called it, was right around the corner. In previous years, she’d been happy to tag along with Suze to her folks’ place in New Jersey. But this year, she’d received no such invitation. Suze was probably taking Ariano with her, and Suze’s parents were conventional enough that the big Italian would undoubtedly be given the one spare room. And Chris’s mother had invited Dulcie for the longer winter break – the solstice holiday, as she still thought of it – and that would be her chance to meet his family.

But Thanksgiving, however you termed it, was two weeks away, and nobody had even mentioned it to her. Watching the grey rodent stuff its face, Dulcie realized she would be alone while everyone else enjoyed a ritual dinner. Family, friends. Love. Suddenly the three-bean burger felt like a mistake, a lump in her stomach, and she trudged the rest of the way in a funk as grey as the skies.

If we consider the precedents for such revolutionary theory
 . . .

Dulcie rolled her eyes at the overwrought prose, but still she had to admit it: Raleigh Hall was smart, and once she toned down the hyperbole, her undergraduate thesis really might be a prize winner. Just because the young woman was pretty – and tall and slim – was no reason to discredit her work. And so, making a few notes, she read on.

Discipline, that was the key. As she read, occasionally gnawing at the end of her pencil, Dulcie allowed herself to feel a little proud of herself. Here she was, abandoned and forgotten, and yet she was still getting down to work. Hermetria must have gone through similar days, alone in her mountaintop castle. Her best friend had proved faithless, too. Not that Suze was faithless, Dulcie corrected herself with a flash of guilt. Just preoccupied with her new romance. But Hermetria had managed to prevail, even sorting out her two suitors to find which one was true of heart. Had she made the right decision, going with the young, impoverished knight? Chris’s face flashed through Dulcie’s mind, and for the first time in a long time, she found herself questioning her own choices. She hadn’t wanted to fall for the skinny computer nerd. He’d won her over with his kindness, his persistence. His attention. Had she been too needy recently? Had she leaned on him too much – and ignored Suze?

No, it was no use. Dulcie dropped the pencil. If she wasn’t going to concentrate on Raleigh’s paper, she shouldn’t be marking it up. She’d only be making more work for herself later. And if she was going to start thinking about
The Ravages
, she may as well apply herself to her own thesis. She was Dulcie Schwartz, scholar. And if she was looking for any comparison to Hermetria, she should keep in mind that the beleaguered heroine had worked hard to make her own luck. Of course, she had had a friendly ghost on her side.

‘Mr Grey.’ Dulcie addressed the still air of the office. ‘If you’re out there, would you help me?’ So many things seemed to be weighing on her, she didn’t know what to ask for. But ghosts weren’t like stars. You didn’t make a specific wish, did you? No, Mr Grey had always been a source of comfort. Warmth, stability: that was what she needed now.

Would he hear her? She had to believe it, and so with a new determination, she fished the library book out of her bag. Somewhere in among these essays, she’d find some connection to
The Ravages
. And maybe a clue about its author.

The key, she was convinced, was in that one phrase,
cool as emeralds
. Though since her talk with Lucy, she couldn’t help but wonder.
The key is in the book
 . . .

But the small office was stuffy and warm. The heat had kicked in for real, with the fading of the day, and somewhere a radiator hissed gently, the steam coming out in small gasps: whirr . . . whirr . . . whirr . . . Dulcie felt her lids grow heavy, the book unwieldy in her hands.

Thump! It was the noise that woke her, the thud as the large volume slid from her lap to the floor. She reached for the book, which had fallen open, grateful that neither Professor Bullock nor Roger Gosham were there to witness it lying, pages open, on the dirty floor.

And as she picked it up, a paragraph jumped out at her:

The modern female must be strong, as cool as emeralds, and this strength she must utilize in furtherance of more than simply family or personal betterment. No, in order to better serve the society to which she is the rightful heir, she must draw that strength like a sword from its sheath, and wield it for the common good . . .

That was it! Dulcie couldn’t believe it, and looked around for someone to share her good news. No Lloyd, but she’d tell Chris. He would understand. He knew how hard she was working. But first, she had to take notes. Dulcie couldn’t understand why she’d had so much trouble finding this one quote when it was there all along.

‘Thank you, Mr Grey.’ She closed her eyes and imagined the satisfied way his eyes would close, his whiskers proud and alert. And with a similar smile, she flipped back to the beginning of the essay, the marvelous, wonderful essay. And she froze.

‘Commentary on the Rights of Women,’ read the title page. Below it, the publisher had conveniently printed the original publisher and date of first printing: November 20, 1840. This essay had been published a good forty years after
The Ravages of Umbria
.

Dulcie started and shook her head, confused. Could the essayist have picked up the phrase from the novel? But how? No critics had commented on
The Ravages
when it was first published, at least none that Dulcie could ever find. And too much would have passed since its initial publication for it still to be a hot topic in 1840.
The Ravages
had probably been forgotten by then – as if it had never been written.

And as that phrase took shape in her mind, the implications grew. Forty years – a lifetime. After all that time to have that exact phrase pop up? No, it was too little, too late. Too long after the fact to have been lifted from the original, as she knew it, and too close to be an accident. By the 1840s, Gothic novels had become the butt of jokes, of parodies.

Dulcie swallowed. Hard. She had found her proof all right. Proof that
The Ravages
was a fake.

THIRTY-NINE

A
wave of nausea passed over Dulcie, leaving her weak and sweaty. No, it couldn’t be. She closed her eyes and opened them again. Yes, it could. This was exactly what she’d suspected for a while now, what Lucy’s strange dream had warned about. Suddenly the office was too small, too stuffy. She needed to talk to someone about this – anyone, but ideally someone who could tell her that she was wrong. That she hadn’t just stumbled over damning evidence that
The Ravages of Umbria
was not the product of a later era. A pastiche or, worse, a spoof.