Grey Expectations (19 page)

But thirty seconds later, the little tuxedo was at it again, this time pouncing on the open page.

‘No.' Dulcie scooped up the cat, who reached for the pages as her person set her aside, almost succeeding in grabbing on. ‘This is a
library
book, Esmé. Doesn't that mean anything to you?'

‘Meh.' The face that turned up toward hers looked earnest, those round green eyes opened wide. But the moment Dulcie set the cat down, patting her black back to encourage her to sit, she was back again, this time diving at the cover to slam it closed.

‘You'd almost think you don't want me to get any work done.' Dulcie paused. She was being silly. ‘It's because I've been out so much, isn't it? Nobody plays with you any more.'

In response, the little cat flipped on to her back, exposing a fluffy white belly.

‘Oh, no, I'm not falling for that one.' Dulcie smiled down at the downy fur, ignoring the one white bootie that reached up for her. ‘I have no desire to have my hand scratched up.'

She had no desire to move, either, especially when her pet was being so cute. Instead, she ripped a page out of her notepad and balled it up, making as much noise as she could with the crinkling, crisp paper.

‘Come on, Esmé.' She waved the impromptu ball. ‘Go for it!'

But whatever playful urge the cat had been experiencing seemed to have passed. The ball skittered across the floor, but the cat remained, watching her person.

‘Suit yourself.' Dulcie couldn't help but feel a little insulted. ‘But I've got to get to work.'

A piteous mew followed her as she carried the blue volume back into the kitchen. ‘Sorry, Esmé.' Dulcie hardened her heart. ‘You had your chance.'

The kitchen had its own problems. For starters, the bright sunlight of earlier in the day seemed to be fading, and Dulcie looked up into gathering clouds. Even when she switched on the overhead, she found it difficult to get settled, as the fluorescent blinked and buzzed. And the kitchen chair, with its stiff back, was just a little too tall for her to get comfortable in. Only the thought of the library – in particular, of facing that guard – made her stick with it, fetching a pillow from the sofa where Esmé was still doing her best impersonation of a cute and harmless kitten.

With no table of contents to consult, Dulcie had to rely on her memory to find the essay. That took her another twenty minutes, by which point the sky had darkened, and she could hear the rumblings of an approaching storm. She found it – ‘On Reading' – just as the first loud crack sounded, and for a moment she paused. Esmé didn't have much experience with thunderstorms, and she got up to check on the young animal.

‘Esmé, are you OK?' She peered into the living room, but the sofa was empty. Only when she got down on hands and knees was she able to spy the white chin of the little face, deep beneath the sofa. ‘It's OK, kitty. It's just a storm.'

It was funny. The little cat had never been skittish. Then again, the winter storms she had lived through thus far had been relatively quiet, heavy snow dampening even the loudest wind. The thunder rumbled again, and Esmé's mouth opened in a small, plaintive cry.

‘I can't make it stop, Esmé. I'm sorry.' Dulcie looked back at the kitchen, at her open book, and immediately felt like a heel. What kind of person was she, abandoning an animal in distress? Esmé mewed again, and Dulcie made up her mind. Bringing the book back into the living room, she sat down on the floor to read.

‘
Of reading
,' the essay began, ‘
we must take the utmost care
.'

That didn't sound like her author, but the next few lines were promising. Dulcie read further, and there it was – on the second page. Pay dirt! ‘
The education of young ladies, of virtue undimm'd, must be of concern to all who live in a generous and civilized society  . . .
' Dulcie thumbed through her notes to check, but she barely needed to. This was almost exactly the same speech Hermetria, the heroine of
The Ravages
, made to Demetria, her duplicitous companion, when Demetria had tried to convince her that reading was ‘
improper for one of gentle birth
', or some such nonsense. Esmé mewed again, and Dulcie reached one hand under the sofa to comfort her without looking up. She couldn't stop now.

‘
The question of such education, indeed its very focus of purpose, must be one of the central issues of the day  . . .
' Another peal of thunder interrupted her as the little cat's cries grew more piteous, and Dulcie stopped. ‘Are you OK?'

‘Meh!'

Dulcie reached under the sofa and pulled the cat out. No, she didn't seem to have sustained any injury in the last few minutes. Her eyes were clear, her nose wet and cool. ‘Is this just nerves, Esmé?'

The little cat said nothing, and Dulcie put her down. With an almost-human sigh of resignation, the tuxedo began to groom. And Dulcie went back to her book.

‘The female mind, long suppos'd to be as inferior as t'other strengths of her fair sex, has been kept from the greater efforts. Only the bravest of reforming souls dares to put forth the call for more. To teach the gently-rear'd to read is a great thing—
'

Yes! This was exactly what she'd been looking for!

‘
—but to push philosophy of the mind, or to expose such gentle spirits to politics is the work of fools. Headstrong and wrong-minded, such efforts risk endangering all the traits that we hold dear.
'

Dulcie stopped, her thoughts muddled by the rumbling outside. This wasn't making sense. She had been reading too fast. The sudden darkness and humidity had confused her. She forced herself to go back to the top of the page. ‘
The female mind  . . .
' She read on. ‘
All the traits that we hold dear.
' She looked up. It couldn't be. Was the author of
The Ravages
actually condemning education for girls?

She read the next line. ‘
Such exercises are sure to damage not only such fragile sensibilities but also endanger those very virtues which are so cherish'd, the very center of the feminine worth.
'

It made no sense. Then it hit her: Gothic authors loved convoluted sentences. In their novels, every other one would double back, filled with multiple meanings. There had to be a double negative in here somewhere, something that would show that the author meant the opposite of what Dulcie had at first thought.

She relaxed, even as the rain started in earnest, and reread the page, getting up only to close the windows a bit before reading it again. But even a fourth review didn't show any about-face. Still, there could be a surprise to come, couldn't there? Dulcie finished the essay and found herself growing cold. The phrases were filled with hate, their arguments foretelling the rise of women: ‘
Brazen and bad-tempered, these bookish wrens  . . . Wretched half-men unsuited for their place  . . .
' There was no last-minute save, no redeeming turnaround.

Dulcie swallowed hard, finding her mouth suddenly dry. If this were true, then everything she believed about the author – about
The Ravages of Umbria
itself – was wrong. Her thesis, all the work she'd done, had been going in the wrong direction. She heard the thunder, distant now, and couldn't help but think what it portended. She had been the headstrong one. What was the phrase? ‘
Headstrong and wrong-minded.
'

Thorpe had been right about her. She'd barged ahead with a half-formed idea, disregarding two centuries of evidence to the contrary. Why had she thought that she, Dulcie Schwartz, could find something new after two hundred years? Why had she thought that this minor work, by a minor author, was really a diamond in the rough? It had been hubris of the worst sort. Headstrong and wrong-minded.

She slumped against the sofa as the last of the rain died away, and not even Esmé's soft fur, as the little cat rubbed against her in sympathy, could make her feel any better.

TWENTY-NINE

C
hris found her there when he got home, the cat asleep in her lap. She didn't respond when he came in and barely looked up when he turned on the light.

‘Dulcie, are you OK?' Chris dropped his soaking jacket on the floor and knelt beside her. ‘What's wrong?'

‘It's over,' Dulcie murmured, blinking. ‘My thesis, everything.'

‘Those bastards.' Chris sat back. ‘All because of a cell phone call? I'll go talk to them. I'll tell them it was an emergency. We'll get Suze to file a suit—'

Dulcie was shaking her head. ‘No, no, not because of the phone,' she finally said. ‘Thorpe stood up for me. Maybe they only meant to scare me anyway, but it doesn't matter.' She slid the opened book toward Chris. ‘Thorpe was right. They all were.'

He picked up the book. ‘What am I reading?'

‘My author. She isn't who I thought she was.' Dulcie shifted the sleeping cat, who woke and tried to hang on. But she used paws, rather than claws, and ignoring the little tuxedo's efforts, Dulcie stood. With a sigh that sounded like a sob, she turned and dragged her feet into the bedroom.

‘Wait, Dulce.' He followed her. ‘I'm sure it's not that bad.' But she shut the door in his face, leaving him standing there. ‘Dulcie? Honey?'

‘Please, Chris.' The voice was muffled, as if she were already face down on the bed. ‘I just need to be alone.'

‘OK.' Chris looked down at his feet, unaware that Esmé was watching him. Mindlessly, he picked up his wet jacket and slung it over his shoulders. ‘I'm going to go get us some dinner, then. I'll be back. And Dulcie?' He leaned his cheek against the door. ‘I love you, sweetie. I'm sure  . . . well, I'm sure it will work out.'

There was no response, none he could hear anyway. So with a last attempt – ‘I'll be back in twenty minutes, Dulcie' – he took up his keys and headed back out.

After he left, darkness once again took over the small apartment. Somewhere outside, a street light had come on, and the fresh breeze – a remnant of the storm – tossed the budding limb of a tree. As its shadow played against the wall, one branch gradually became clearer, grey rather than black, and arched like a giant cat. It was to this that the kitten turned, her own stark bicolor coat fading in the dusk.

‘I tried
.' The little cat looked up at the shadow. ‘
I did everything I could to keep her from reading it.
'

‘
Trying to hide things won't work, little one.
'
The voice could have been the rustling of the leaves or the wind. ‘
They always dig things up, it's how they function.
'

Esmé sat, her head down. If Dulcie had seen her looking so dejected, she'd have scooped her up in her arms. But Dulcie was in the other room, steeped in her own misery, and Chris had gone out in search of the only comfort he could imagine might work.

‘
Don't worry, little one
.' The soft voice came back, and the little cat looked up again in hope. ‘
You didn't do anything bad. You're still learning, little one. And so is she.
'

THIRTY

I
ce cream helped, as Chris had hoped. And he gladly ignored the congealing Chinese food as he watched his girlfriend responding to the solace of butter-crunch swirl.

‘Did you try the chocolate mint chip?' He held out his pint to her, eager to encourage her apparent recovery.

‘Thanks.' She smiled at him, and even though it was a weak, sad smile, he felt his heart fill. ‘I'd better not.'

‘Come on,' he urged. ‘You didn't have any dinner.'

‘No, really.' She got off the bed. ‘You should heat that up and have some, though. You have to work.'

He followed her back into the living room, where she'd opened her laptop. ‘What about you, Dulce?' He was still timid about asking any more.

‘I'm going to start looking for a job,' she replied. She was typing something, and Chris saw her hit return with a flourish. ‘See if those auction houses are still hiring. I mean, I think my academic career is over.'

‘Wait, Dulcie, what are you talking about?' He sat on the edge of the desk and put his hand on the laptop. ‘Look at me, Dulcie. Tell me what's going on.'

‘Chris, do you ever feel like everything in the universe is trying to give you a message?' She reached up to close the computer, taking his hand as she did it. ‘Maybe this is for the best. Maybe this will help us stay together even.'

‘Dulcie  . . .'

She nodded and began to explain. ‘You know about the whole Dunster Codex thing, about my name in the ledger, and that I got in trouble at the library. This is worse.' By the time she had gone through it all, they'd migrated to the kitchen, where Chris zapped the Chinese in the microwave. He coaxed her into a chair and placed the bowls down in front of them.

‘This doesn't mean you have to give up your thesis, Dulcie.' He began to eat. ‘It's just one essay.'

She poked at a mushroom and shook her head. ‘You don't understand.'

‘I know, but there has to be some explanation.' He put his chopsticks down as Esmé began to twine around his ankles. ‘No, Esmé. This is spicy.' She responded by leaping into his lap, and as he reached to remove the soft, warm creature, a thought struck him. ‘You know, Dulcie, I'm going to ask Jerry to cover for me tonight. He owes me after this morning – and I think we could use a night together, a normal night.'

She smiled, a wan smile. ‘That would be nice.' He knew she wasn't convinced.

As they washed up, he tried to change the subject. ‘You know, I never got to finish telling you my thoughts on the whole identity theft thing.'

‘Hmm?' She seemed more interested in a chip in a bowl than in what he was saying, but he felt the kitten at his ankles again and continued.

‘I'm wondering if we were looking in the wrong direction.' Nothing. ‘I mean, I kept searching after we talked, and I really don't think any of your accounts were hacked. I'm also reasonably sure that nothing higher up the food chain happened. You know, I like to think that if there had been some online interference, I'd have found at least a trace of it.'