True Grey (2 page)

‘
Blood. So much blood. She had not realized that the human corpus could contain so much. But the precious ichor glistened jewel-like no longer.'
It read so much like the printed version, Dulcie could barely contain her excitement. Could this be a first, rough draft of that story? ‘
Much like her terror, like the screams frozen in her throat, life's elixir had begun to solidify and darken . . .
'

‘Oh, my,' Dulcie heard again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the little man wringing his delicate, white hands, and tried not to be distracted. She didn't think she'd been doing anything wrong. The librarian had already replaced the first batch of papers she had requested – the special collection's policy restricted users to five of the fragile fragments at a time – and she was being very careful, only touching the edge of the clear film with her gloved hands. It was only recently that he had granted her the right to remove the pages from their cushioned, non-acid storage box herself, and as she turned back to her reading, she wondered if stacking even five high was too much for a treasure like this. With its crumbling edges and dark blotches, it looked like the filter from last week's coffee. What it could prove to be, however, was immeasurably more invigorating.

‘
Much like her terror, like the screams frozen in her throat, life's elixir had begun to solidify and darken . . .
' She read again, doing her best to ignore a faint creak, as Griddlehaus shifted from one lace-up oxford to the other.

It wasn't that she was unsympathetic. The unassuming little clerk – Griddle
maus
, she sometimes thought of him – might be twenty years her senior, but she counted him as a colleague. He had already been incredibly helpful over the past year as she expanded her work on her thesis: from an analysis of
The Ravages of Umbria
to a more comprehensive study of the novel's author. In addition to judging her adequately trained to handle documents, he had granted her the right to keep a private file folder in the library, an honor usually reserved for postgrads. Plus, his help navigating the collection's huge inventory of uncataloged, unidentified remnants had resulted last month in her first major academic paper:
Political Vision and Proto-Feminist Theory in the Early Gothic Novel
.
Just today, they'd started on a new stack of boxes, identified simply as ‘PHILA, 1805–10', and the uncharted treasures within. If only he would give her the quiet she needed to study them.

‘
Much like her terror
,' she read, for the third time, ‘
like the screams frozen in her throat, life's elixir had begun to solidify and darken, staining the red-gold hair a dull brown, its very essence transform'd before her eyes, which too began to dim . . .
'

Something was different. Dulcie closed her tired eyes. It had taken her more than an hour to decipher the ornate and faded script this far, carefully maneuvering the mounted lens over the brittle surface, and now she doubted what she had read. It seemed so familiar, so dreamlike. But, yes, she saw when she looked again: this was what the handwritten page said. It sparked a memory, and Dulcie grabbed the soft pencil, the only writing implement allowed in the Mildon, and scribbled out the passage. It had changed from what had made it, ultimately, to the printed page. But not, she hoped, in any essential way
.

Another creak, and something that sounded suspiciously like a sigh, but Dulcie tuned them out. This, in front of her, was what mattered. Could it be? The actual handwritten draft of that second novel?

Despite the doubts of her thesis adviser, Dulcie had come to believe that the book existed, that this second novel, even better than
The Ravages
,
not only had been written but could be found. Some of her peers, and Dulcie had learned to shoulder their scorn, didn't even consider
The Ravages
to be a great novel. Dulcie knew otherwise, however, and unlike these naysayers, she hadn't been willing to dismiss the unnamed Gothic author's subsequent silence as the result of critical disappointment or something even more dire, be it ill health or family responsibilities.

No, Dulcie had known that ‘her' author, as she privately thought of her, had kept writing. Through her careful textual analysis, Dulcie had already traced her literary footprints – following a trail of daring political essays as the author moved from London to the fledgling United States in the first years of the nineteenth century. Even her thesis adviser had conceded that Dulcie had made an important discovery. But to find another novel? That was the ultimate prize for a scholar: a lost work. And it just might be within her reach.

For comparison's sake, Dulcie reached for her Mildon folder, checking what she already knew to be true. Yes, that same passion showed up in the author's political writings. Dulcie reread one bit of an 1803 essay:

A woman, some say, has no place in the world, lest she be daughter or widow or wife. The first we all are, tho' the family ties may chafe as we gain majority. The next occurs by chance, and guarantees not freedom from those onerous ties of family, not of blood, perchance not e'en of choice. The last, though, is most to be pitied. Those who submit to such disequal bonds may be bless'd by affections and by the gift of a child. Too often, those bonds cripple us, tearing all natural joys from our hearts, our babes from our arms, and our affections from all that we would hold dear. No, 'tis better for a woman to stand alone, for to be friendless is to know that which is true for our Sex. 'Tis better far than the False Hope of Love.

‘The False Hope of Love.' Dulcie nodded. That would have made a dandy title, perfect for the dramatic romance of a book like
The Ravages
. But the few hints that Dulcie had found of the lost second work suggested something darker. Last spring, at this very table, she had read a letter from Paine's library, suggesting that such a novel existed – a great work, but one that played on horror, rather than love. And this one piece of paper, so brown and blotted inside its protective cover, just might be the beginning of it.

‘Those red-gold locks, besmirch'd by life's gore, she now aggrieve
—' No, that was wrong. Dulcie squinted. Addressed? Yes. She read on: ‘—
addressed. The Si—
'

Sign? Sight? A dark patch, mold or water, obscured the next word. Carefully, her hands sweating inside the archivist's white gloves, she adjusted the magnifying glass to examine the page more closely, bringing it down as far as she dared. One errant move and the thick lens could crash down on the polypropylene envelope and the brittle page inside, just as she was about to—

‘Oh, my goodness.' She'd almost forgotten about Griddlehaus; reading could do that to her. He was right behind her now, his soft voice impossible to ignore.

‘Yes?' She heard the exasperation in her voice and tried to smile, to soften it. But as she turned around, willing at last to acknowledge the little man, she saw that Griddlehaus wasn't even looking at her. Instead, he was staring at the paper in his hand. Despite his usual care for all things documentary, its edges were already wrinkled and damp. ‘Oh, my.'

‘Thomas – Mr Griddlehaus, what is it?' Dulcie kicked herself. He really was upset, and she craned around to see what kind of bill or notice he held. ‘Why don't you tell me? It can't be that bad now, can it?'

He blinked up at her then, his eyes large and soft behind his oversized glasses. Holding out the paper to her in one trembling hand, he looked like he might cry.

‘Mr Griddlehaus?' She took the paper from him. But if she was expecting a warning notice – perhaps about a beetle infestation or some change in filing procedures – she was in for a shock. ‘Wait – is this . . .?'

He nodded, his eyes filling with tears, and waved her on to read more.

She looked back at the paper. It was an official interlibrary request issued by the office of the dean of research. According to its typed instructions, a visiting scholar, one Melinda Sloane Harquist, had been granted permission at the highest level to look through the Mildon collection. Miss Sloane Harquist, a personalized note from the dean himself added, was particularly interested in literary fragments from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, especially those written by unnamed female Gothic novelists.

The scholar, the note continued, was to be given all access and help possible in her search for a previously undiscovered work. She was, it concluded, the author of the soon-to-be-published blockbuster,
Anonymous Unveiled: The Real-Life Heroine Behind
The Ravages of Umbria.

‘H
ow could I not know about this? How could I never have
heard
of her?' As the warm day had progressed into an equally sultry night, Dulcie had moved beyond her initial shock. Sitting at the People's Republik with her friends, her joy in the day's work – in that single page – was forgotten, and she was progressing well into anger. ‘I mean, she's been in none of the journals. And what kind of name is Sloane Harquist anyway?'

Chris, her boyfriend, reached over and took the mug from her hand. Dulcie really only drank beer to be social, and the way she was gesticulating now was likely to spread her untouched brew among her companions.

‘Well, maybe this woman hasn't published before.' Chris took an exploratory taste of Dulcie's beer and grimaced. Despite the pub's noisy air conditioning, some of the day's humidity had followed them in, and Dulcie had let her brew get warm. ‘Maybe she's been saving it all up?'

‘Ha.' Trista Dunlop, Dulcie's best buddy in the department, scoffed at the idea. ‘She's been hiding out, waiting to spring this on us.'

Dulcie glanced up. Trista had actually finished her thesis and her postdoc research had nothing to do with the Goths; the ‘us' was pure friendship. ‘Thanks, Tris. I'm just . . .' She reached for the beer and took a sip without noticing its temperature. ‘I'm just confused.'

‘This doesn't mean your thesis isn't going to be good.
As
good,' Chris corrected himself. Beside him, Jerry – Trista's boyfriend – nodded vigorously. Computer science students, they'd both had to adjust to the relatively arcane and convoluted nature of their sweethearts' field. ‘Or better,' he tried again.

Dulcie didn't even answer, and Trista stopped any further well-meaning remarks with a look. A bleached blonde with multiple piercings, Trista could stare down the best of them, and even six-foot-two Chris blanched.

‘Another pitcher?' Jerry asked, standing.

‘Why don't I come with you?' Chris nearly knocked his chair over in his haste.

Left alone – as alone as they could be in the crowded pub – Dulcie let out a sigh and shook her head one more time. ‘Trista, I . . .' But words would not suffice.

‘I know, kid. It's awful.' Trista slid over to take Chris's seat, the better to talk over the jukebox. ‘I bet she doesn't have half of what you have, though.'

‘Doesn't matter,' said Dulcie, her dispirited tone at odds with the lively music. ‘I've already shown my hand with my paper. Anyone who reads that will know I'm on the trail of a missing work. Only the only thing I've found since those political essays is that fragment today. And I haven't even started the work of verifying.'

Trista nodded. She knew the drudgery that followed the thrill of discovery. ‘You've started though, right? You're not giving up?'

‘I've plugged it in.' One advantage of having mathematically minded beaus was the customized software Chris and Jerry had worked up for the friends: Type in a phrase and it searched for similar wordings in any online library. The resulting metrics didn't do all the work, but they did provide a short cut. ‘But that's just a start, Tris. You know that. And she's going to publish. First.' There was no response to that, and the friends sat in companionable silence as ZZ Top filled the room.

‘Chris doesn't get it,' Dulcie said finally. ‘He wants to help, really. But he doesn't understand.'

Trista nodded. ‘If only we could keep her out of the Mildon.' She seemed to be thinking out loud. ‘Do you think that clerk, Griddlehaus, would help you?'

‘I don't know.' Dulcie had to admit, she'd thought about it. ‘He's pretty law abiding. Especially after, you know, what happened last spring.' The scandal that had brought down the Mildon's director had come close to ruining the collection's reputation. ‘He's been specifically instructed to give her access – and to help her.' Dulcie almost choked on the word. ‘The letter came with a personal note from that new associate dean, what's his name – Roger Haitner?'

‘Robert Haitner? That whey-faced prig?' Trista's specialty – Victorian literature – tended to creep into her slang. ‘He's been trouble ever since he was appointed. You know, that little bugbear and his rug were behind the elimination of Luther's position.'

‘I didn't.' Rather pale herself, as well as diminutive in height, Dulcie winced a bit at Trista's insults. It was true that the dean's hair, suspiciously dark and thick, appeared fake, part of what seemed to be an attempt to look – and act – younger than his age. The rest, however, was news. Dulcie had heard that the documents restoration department had lost some of its funding. She'd come back from summer vacation to find Griddlehaus as upset as she'd ever seen him, but she hadn't known the cause. ‘You'd think, if he wants this woman here, he'd have been more careful about cutting jobs and alienating people.'

‘Maybe it's something special about her.' Trista started to smile, a tight, mean smile. Even Dulcie had heard about the dean's reputation as a Lothario. Everyone had. ‘But maybe there's something we can do about it on the other end. We may be stuck with him, but we can trip her up a little. Let her know she's not welcome in Cambridge.'