True Grey (6 page)

The look on Lloyd's face – a grimace of discomfort as he shook his head – didn't help. ‘There's the catch, Dulce.'

Dulcie held her breath. She'd have to sneak in. Dress as a bartender.
Be
a bartender. But Lloyd kept talking. ‘You see, there's a little bit of weirdness you should know about.'

‘More than I'm already dealing with?' Lloyd nodded. ‘Shoot,' she said.

‘Turns out this Melinda Sloane Harquist is not a complete stranger to the university. Or to Dardley House.'

‘Oh?' Dulcie couldn't read Lloyd's face.

‘Melinda Sloane Harquist – better known as plain old Mellie Harquist – did a term as an exchange student, back when she was an undergrad at Ellery.' He was watching her, so Dulcie thought back.

‘The name sounds vaguely familiar.' She remembered a lot of dark, curly hair, and a lot of fuss at mixers.

‘They called her “Mellie Heartless” then,' Lloyd offered.

‘Oh, yeah.' Dulcie remembered now. ‘Every guy was crazy for her. She was the It Girl of Comp Lit.' At the time, Dulcie had been suffering from an unrequited crush on a junior who rowed crew – one of the many who had fallen for Mellie. In retrospect, the pain was gone – but not the sense of awe.

‘That was her, but I bet you don't remember who finally won dear Mellie's favors?' Dulcie shook her head and waited. ‘Rafe Hutchins, then the boy wonder of the lit department. They were the hot couple for, oh, about a summer. Then she went back up to New Hampshire, and broke poor Rafe's heart.'

Dulcie felt relief wash over her – so her rower hadn't gotten his heart's desire either! This was followed immediately by guilt. ‘Poor guy. So the “Sloane” in her name? She must be married.'

‘No, it's an old family name. Maybe her mother's maiden name, or something.' He paused, Dulcie's situation clearly in mind. ‘She was always looking for her roots or something, Rafe said.'

Dulcie nodded that she understood. At least she'd had the commune. ‘And after all that, he has to host her?'

Lloyd nodded. ‘It's not that bad. It's been a while. He's got a new girlfriend. It's just – awkward, you know?'

She did. ‘And calling on old intimacies to sneak in a visitor would probably be uncool.'

‘To sneak in a potential
rival
.' Lloyd stressed the last word in a way that made Dulcie smile.

‘May the goddess hear you,' she said. ‘And thanks, really, for setting this up. I'm a little afraid it's going to be more like me in Oliver Twist mode, begging for scraps.'

‘You're getting your Dickens – oh, never mind.' Lloyd reined in his Victorian mindset, and turned serious once again. ‘Really, Dulcie, I know she's got this book ready to come out, but there's something more going on. If her work is set in stone, then why does she need access to the Mildon now, at this late date? And if she weren't worried about competition, then why would she have it closed to anyone else – closed to you? I mean, you're the only other person who is researching this author.'

‘That we know of,' Dulcie responded automatically, her mind already wandering. ‘It is funny. I mean, I published about that essay. But it's not like I've found anything solid since.' She thought of the handwritten page. Of the handwriting. ‘Nothing I can prove, anyway. It's really lousy timing.'

Lloyd was watching her, waiting. Despite everything, she couldn't help but smile. ‘'Cause I think I'm this close, Lloyd. In fact . . .' She looked down at the notes in front of her. ‘If I only had one more day in the Mildon, I think then I might have something. I think I'm on the brink of something big.'

S
he didn't take the time to explain it to Lloyd – the whole dream thing would sound too weird – but he'd cheered her on anyway as she'd gathered her papers and left the office. She'd been so happy she'd barely noticed the tie-up at the new turnstile, as three of her colleagues kept trying to swipe their cards.

Surfacing into the balmy afternoon, she made a mental list. Lucy would have an astral reason for all the elements coming together, and for once Dulcie was almost ready to agree with her. Her edge – her recognition of the handwriting – was as insubstantial as, well, a whisker. Still, her dreams had come through for her before.

Plus, there were other positive notes: Lloyd had arranged for her to meet with this Melinda before the visiting scholar's big talk. That was key, Dulcie had thought, for two reasons. The first was tactical: if she could find out what the visiting scholar was specializing in, then maybe she could safely claim the new book as her own turf. As much as she loved
The Ravages
, the idea of a previously unknown book excited her.

Besides, it seemed possible – likely, even – that the visiting VIP already had some area of specialty within the larger scope of the author's work. Trista's general area of concentration, for example, had been Victorian fiction, but her thesis had homed in on ‘Architectural Details in the Later Victorian Novel'. Lloyd, who theoretically covered the exact same period, was toiling away at ‘The Mid-Victorian Epigraph: Wit Carved in Stone'. Nothing could be more different.

Knowing what this Melinda's specialty was before the big presentation would also serve as the intellectual equivalent of a leg-up. After the talk, when Thorpe came up to question her, as Dulcie knew he would, she could have her answer ready – and be prepared to defend her right to continue with her thesis. ‘Oh, Melinda isn't dealing with the American years,' she could say blithely. Or, ‘She's not concerned with the possibility of a lost novel.' Maybe it would even be true.

The second reason for Dulcie's renewed optimism was more personal – and, admittedly, less likely. As supportive as Trista and Lloyd tried to be, Dulcie worked alone, essentially, the outcast of Literature and Language. And although her friends in the department always trod carefully, she knew that the bias against the Gothics was still huge. The idea of meeting someone with whom she could share her passion was appealing. They would be colleagues. Who knew? They might even become friends.

Her mind had raced with the possibilities – if she wanted to, Melinda would be in a position to do her a world of good. If Melinda introduced her, or even deigned to mention her as a scholar doing something,
anything
complementary to her own work, it would help legitimize Dulcie's research. Perhaps she would invite Dulcie to that exclusive gathering before the talk. Perhaps they would publish together, farther down the postdoc road. As she strode across the Yard, Dulcie was positively optimistic.

The final piece, she told herself as she trotted up the stairs of Widener, was that manuscript page. She should have time – more than twenty minutes till closing – to find it again. And this time, she'd make sure she kept a copy until her laptop had been able to process it.

She was so busy picturing her progress – which page to pull from which box – that she was stunned to see Mr Griddlehaus standing at the front counter, shaking his head.

‘I'm so sorry, Ms Schwartz,' he said. ‘I thought you must have heard.' He went on to tell her that as of midday, everything having to do with Gothic novels had already been put on hold – locked away and made inaccessible to other scholars in anticipation of Sloane Harquist's visit.

‘But . . . but . . .' Dulcie heard the whine of frustration in her voice. ‘She's not even here yet.'

‘I know, Ms Schwartz. It's out of my hands.' Griddlehaus looked stricken as he explained. University scholars were allowed to request material during the lockdown, but for all intents and purposes, all works pertaining to Dulcie's subject were off limits. ‘I do feel terrible about this.' He looked so sad, Dulcie wanted to cheer him up.

‘That's OK, Mr Griddlehaus,' she said, and as she spoke, she realized that the ban really didn't affect her: what she was looking for wasn't classified yet as ‘Gothic'. Plus, she had another reason to be sanguine. ‘I figure, if she's pulling all these books, it means she's still fishing.' She confided to the clerk. ‘And I'm more interested in the uncataloged work anyway. The boxes I was just looking at.'

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew something was wrong. Although they appeared to be alone in the hallway, the little man pulled her in to the rare book collection's sterile reading room. His eyes darted back and forth, the movement exaggerated by his oversized glasses, before he leaned in to whisper in her ear.

That's when her final shred of optimism was shattered. ‘You can't,' he said, drawing back to look around once more. ‘I'm not supposed to say anything, you know. I was told that it was a confidential request. That it was worth my job.'

Dulcie drew back in surprise. That anyone could threaten – would even want to threaten – such a competent librarian was beyond her. But before she could protest, he motioned for her to lean in again.

‘But you have a right to know.' His eyes flicked back and forth across the room. ‘What she requested, it's more than these titles. She called this morning and was quite insistent. Almost, well, threatening.' His voice dropped with disbelief. ‘I told her that I had her list, and that I was fully prepared to hold these particular works for her. But she brushed that off. She almost
laughed
, Ms Schwartz.'

He looked into Dulcie's face. ‘She had a new request, a more urgent one, she said. She wants to look in the uncataloged material as well, and on the same terms I told her, that, well, there's reams of it – much of it barely legible. She said she didn't care, and she stressed that she needed sole access. I argued with her, Ms Schwartz. I told her that this would deeply inconvenience an entire community of scholars. I almost, Ms Schwartz, said she was being unfair.'

He shook his head, either amazed at her stubbornness or his own daring. ‘It did no good. She reminded me that she had the dean's backing, without reservation. She told me I had to start pulling material for her own private use from those uncataloged works, and I was to start immediately. Specifically, she said, I was to pay special attention to anything relating to Thomas Paine, especially any correspondence from the last five years of his life. And also to any recently uncovered fiction from those years. In particular, any unattributed or unclaimed fragments of fictional works of horror.'

W
riting, she was writing again. Furiously, but with joy – a pleasure long denied more sweet for having returned. Once again, the words were flying, thoughts coming so fast she barely had time to dip her nib. An image of horror, so fraught with terror, she shivered as she penned the lines, her own raven curls falling forward, as if to shield her from any inquisitive soul. Pressed a little too hard and – wait! Seated at her desk, the writer cursed quietly. An unladylike sound, but not an unusual one – not to the eyes that watched her, unblinking. Green and gold, they saw her retrieve the razor, hone once more a pen long overdue to be replaced. Watched as she paused – that image, with its ravenous, foul face, so familiar and yet so feared – and started, with a cry. The razor, the nib – some movement had provoked her outburst, and yet she bit down on her pain. She was not alone, not any more. She could not risk a sound, instead letting her lips pale with pressure. And the eyes watched as she did, at the slow welling, of the blood that dripped, dark as ink, on the page.

Dulcie woke with a start, grateful for the respite, and gasped as she saw the green eyes watching her, unblinking.

‘Esmé!' She shook her head to clear it, and the sleeping vision receded, pulling Dulcie back into the modern day. Responding to her name, the cat yawned and stretched out one white mitten. ‘What are you doing here?' Dulcie asked.

It was an odd question, but the little tuxedo didn't seem to mind. Instead, she looked over toward Dulcie's desk. There, Dulcie could see, her laptop was open and glowing. The cat must have been sitting on it again.

‘Is it the warmth, Esmé? Is that it?' She couldn't really blame her pet. After all, she must have left the machine open. ‘Was it the light that made me dream of writing, Esmé?' The tuxedo didn't answer, and Dulcie was left with the impression that her pet was watching her, waiting for some kind of response that she had yet to give.

‘I guess it doesn't matter, does it?' Sitting up in bed, Dulcie gathered the cat into her arms and watched as the laptop screen faded into sleep mode, wishing she could do the same. Esmé didn't seem similarly inclined, however, and once she was settled in Dulcie's lap she started her morning toilette. Human carelessness had, presumably, messed up her impeccable black coat. ‘It's the two of us against the world.'

That wasn't fair, nor entirely honest, and Dulcie knew it. Unlike the author in her dream, she was alone, but the day outside looked bright and fine – and Dulcie wasn't hiding from some mysterious watcher.

Besides, her loneliness was at least partly her own fault. Chris had received a late-night phone call from Darlene, who had asked him to cover for her. He had been planning on taking back the overnight shifts – at least some of them – for weeks now, so this shouldn't have been that big a deal. Only they'd had words earlier in the evening, their quarrel prompted by the malfunction of Dulcie's computer.

‘I know I saved it.' Dulcie had been tired and cranky. Her disappointment at the closure of the Mildon had blown the loss of the excerpt into a major frustration. ‘Your program is broken. It lost my file.'

Chris had looked worried at first, and had taken her laptop. ‘It's not the program,' he announced, after a few minutes of furious typing. ‘Whatever you had in here was accessed badly, that's why it's corrupted in the memory, and then you erased it.'