Grey Dawn (33 page)

‘Mina knew.' Dulcie murmured. She was suddenly very sleepy. ‘She tried to say something when I said Emily's name. She tried to warn me.'

‘We know.' It was Josh again, leaning over her, a big grin splitting his wide, innocent face. ‘She's woken up, Dulcie. She's still groggy, but she's awake. She's going to be fine.'

‘It'll be a while before we piece it all together,' Rogovoy cut in. ‘There are still a lot of questions.'

‘Which can all wait till morning.' The doctor, again. ‘You've seen her, and now she needs her rest.' Chris started to protest, but the doctor cut in. ‘Head injuries are tricky, so we're going to keep her under observation for twenty-four hours. If all goes well, she can go home in the morning.'

‘Tell Esmé I'm okay.' Dulcie looked up at her boyfriend as he bent to kiss her. ‘She's been … I understand now.'

‘I'll do better than that, Dulcie.' His hand cupped her cheek and he blinked back tears. ‘Now you go to sleep.'

‘The kitten …' She was slipping under, she could feel it.

‘I'll take him home,' Chris was saying, as he leaned forward to kiss the unbandaged part of her forehead. ‘I'm sure he and Esmé will have a lot to catch up on.'

‘'
T
was not love, but Madness. A bewitching of the Senses, much as the moonlight o'er those mountains do bedevil those poor foul Beasts, driving them to such a State.' She spoke these words unwilling, her face turned still to the coach's leathern side. Before her, still, the Stranger sat, the warmth of those strange green eyes holding her, though she would not meet their gaze. ‘'Twas madness that lured me in, beyond the point of Reason or recompense. Beyond – nay, I will not name Remorse – for am I not so bless'd now that I would suffer all again. Suffer gladly, if only …'

Her voice declined, carried off by the wind that howl'd still through the barred door. Still, the Stranger watched, waiting for a moment or a Sign. His emerald eyes, glowing, beheld the young woman, her raven hair loose. His eyes lit upon her gloved hands, cradling her belly as if to protect that of which she dare not speak.

Dulcie woke with a gasp. Pregnant! The heroine of the unnamed manuscript was pregnant? Could that mean …?

She reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, taking a moment to acclimate herself. Yes, she was in the infirmary. Yes, she had been hit on the head, which doubtless contributed to the odd three-dimensional quality of her dream. Still, despite its extraordinary vividness – Dulcie had seen the characters and heard their voices, speaking the lines of what sounded like the book. And the dream was in character with so many she had had before that she trusted it. She had to: it explained so many things.

She tried to sit up and, with a groan, sank back into her pillow. The sudden movement had started her head throbbing. It had also woken her critical instincts. What was she thinking? Just because the storyline suggested something … Just because an undergrad's research was following a certain woman who was best described as a survivor, a woman who had been brutalized and fled, along with her child. That didn't mean this woman was a certain author, an English émigré in Philadelphia who may have born a child as a result of rape …

The biggest fallacy in literary theory was mistaking your author for her characters. Dulcie had had this argument with Thorpe many times. And while he was enough of a postmodernist to let her get away with her particular mix of content and context, this would be taking it too far.

If her dream was accurate, and the heroine of the fragmentary manuscript was dealing with an unintended and possibly unwanted pregnancy, that was interesting in and of itself. Her author, as Dulcie well knew, had basically been an early feminist. What better way to discuss the standards of her time than to take on the saga of a single mother who seemed to be fleeing the father of her child. That did not mean that such a pregnancy, such a relationship were behind the author's own flight from London to Philadelphia. It did not account for those years of silence, for the hint that she'd hidden her name and written under a pseudonym.

Or did it? Dulcie closed her eyes. So many years as a scholar, so much literary theory, and it came down to this. She had to admit the truth. She, Dulcie Schwartz, identified so strongly with this writer's characters – with Hermetria in
The Ravages of Umbria
, with this unnamed woman – that she believed she was reading about the author.

It didn't have to be. The book was still compelling as a narrative, its language and imagery striking. Plus, it worked so well as metaphor: the woman in the coach was every woman, for wasn't every woman – possibly every person – ultimately alone in the world, fleeing the past for a future that was dark and unknown. And the wolves? Well, they could easily be the author's way of dramatizing the societal forces that would come howling after such a woman. And the green-eyed stranger could be the inner voice that calmed one, kind of like …

‘There we go.' The curtain around her bed slid back, revealing a smiling aide with a breakfast tray. ‘Would you like to sit up?'

She managed it this time, slowly and with a little help, and found that her appetite had returned with a vengeance, even for what appeared to be powdered scrambled eggs and toast that had gone cold. The food left her feeling stronger and more clear-headed.

‘Excuse me, do you think I'll be able to leave soon?' The aide was opening the blinds, his back toward her, which was good. The bright sun streaming in had made Dulcie wince, waking a new and piercing pain behind her eyes. She looked away and was managing a smile by the time he turned around.

‘I would imagine the doctor wants to see you first,' he said. ‘But it looks like you're doing well to me.'

With that, he was off, leaving Dulcie to scrape up the last of those soggy eggs. If she could get out today, she'd head straight for the Mildon. Surely, after all that had happened, she could take another day or two to seek out more of that manuscript. It might even be called therapeutic. If she could find some pages …

Gingerly, aware that any motion seemed to make that headache worse, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. A cabinet, off to the side, would at least have her phone. She could call Chris or – she checked the clock – email him. She was in luck: her bag had been tucked in, behind her sneakers. In a minute, she had the breakfast tray on the windowsill and was back in bed, the laptop purring and assembling itself on the tray in front of her.

Good morning, sweetie!
She fired off an email to Chris.
I'm awake and feeling great. Hope to be home soon.

As soon as that was sent off, she flipped over to her own new mail. There was a flood of messages. Of course, she figured, Chris had probably told all their friends what had happened. There was even something from Rogovoy, she saw. Well, he probably had loose ends to tie up – or maybe he wanted to thank her. She'd deal with that in a minute. What caught her eye was another address: RSHOWALTER.

Greetings,
the short note began.
I've been thinking about our brief talk and have decided to scan one of the pages I had mentioned. As you are no doubt aware, it is difficult to copy such delicate documents but I wanted to give you an idea of what I had. These were found in a private collection in Philadelphia, but they seem to belong to the author we were discussing. This is not the biographical material I had mentioned, but a text that may be more directly related to the material previously gifted to the Mildon. I've received some queries about these papers from an undergrad at your college who is not, I believe, aware of their full literary implications. You may want to contact her at some point, but we should speak first. The curator who came across this mentioned a package of letters that may contain additional corroborative biographical material. Maybe you can locate? Hope to be back in Cambridge next month, but am accessible online. – Renée.

Another student? An undergrad? A stab of jealousy aggravated Dulcie's headache, and she fought the urge to shake it off. She had already told Mina about her discovery. Clearly, Professor Showalter had decided Dulcie was the more deserving candidate, but she could share – she
would
share. First, however, she had to see what there was. She clicked on the attachment. The professor had not only copied what looked like a scrap of paper, she had provided her own translation of the elegant, but faded writing below. After a quick scan of the familiar writing, Dulcie skimmed down to the professor's translation and started to read:

‘There may be solace found,' said the Stranger, his green eyes warm as coals.
It was the same book.
‘Though the hazard be great, Love is worth such risk, and in generation, we find our fortunes …'

‘Well, I don't know if you should be working on a laptop just yet.' Dulcie looked up to see grey hair and a white coat. ‘Why don't I put that aside while we check you out?'

‘Hang on.' Dulcie made sure she'd saved the file before letting the doctor take her computer away. Then she submitted to a series of questions, and that probing light, all the while trying to downplay the throbbing behind her eyes.

‘I don't know …' The doctor seemed to be considering, wrinkles of concern framing her own grey-green eyes.

‘Please, Dr … Kranish,' Dulcie squinted at the name tag as the doctor removed the dressing. ‘I promise I won't overdo it. But I'd like to get home. See my cat.' As she said it, she realized how true it was.

It also seemed to be the right answer. Dr Kranish lit up, those wrinkles compressing to reveal a smile. ‘Well, the wound is small, and you seem to be alert and well oriented. I guess we can let you go. Though I'm going to want you to come in for a follow-up.'

Dulcie agreed with all the proscriptions – no drinking, no contact sports – only half listening. Yes, she did want to see Esmé. And Chris. But it was close to nine. Griddlehaus would be opening the Mildon soon. Three minutes after the doctor left, she was dressed.

‘You're leaving us?' The aide came in as she was lacing up her sneakers. ‘That's funny. I thought there was someone you would want to see.'

‘There is,' said Dulcie, flashing him a smile as she headed for the door. ‘Just not here.'

J
ogging made her head hurt, so Dulcie held herself to a fast walk. She'd probably take a sick day today, anyway. Chris would insist. She'd have all day – but after so long, she didn't want to wait any longer.

‘Ah, Ms Schwartz.' Mr Griddlehaus looked up from his ledger. It was two minutes past nine by the time she arrived, and the punctual clerk had the security gate already up. ‘Good to see you so bright and early this morning,' he said. ‘We are popular today.'

‘Excuse me?' She handed him her bag and tried not to fidget as he locked it up and signed her in. ‘Has someone been asking for me?'

‘Not for you, Ms Schwartz. You're simply not our first visitor today.' He leaned over with what could only be described as a conspiratorial grin. ‘I believe the university community is finally beginning to recognize what a treasure we have here.'

‘Another visitor?' Dulcie tried not to feel disappointed. It wasn't as if the Mildon were her private playground, after all. She and Mina just might be approaching the same woman from different angles, but right now Dulcie was too excited to feel threatened. She – they – were on the brink of something. Something nobody else – with the exception of Renée Showalter – even had a clue about.

‘Yes, indeed.' Griddlehaus was almost purring. ‘She's new, but she has clearly read the rules.' He put the ledger away. ‘And she's quite respectful. Asked me very nicely for the Philadelphia bequest.'

‘For the – what?' It couldn't be. It didn't make sense. Could Mina have recovered so completely? Had she talked to Showalter?

‘The Philadelphia bequest.' Griddlehaus looked vaguely annoyed. ‘A package of letters and family histories that were left to the Mildon several years ago, why—'

‘Excuse me.' Dulcie barged past him, ignoring his startled protest. Back to the reading room. There, behind the long table sat not Mina but Emily, looking positively green with fatigue. In front of her was a box; one of its documents, spotted and dark inside its polypropylene folder, lay on the table top before her. Now that she was used to the writing, Dulcie thought she could make out the words:
Worth such risk.
It was that curious question; the one she'd first deciphered four days before.

‘Ms Trainor, please excuse Ms Schwartz here.' Griddlehaus was right behind her.

‘Emily. What are you doing here? Where have you been?'

She blinked up at Dulcie, her large eyes set deep in her bruised-looking face. With one gloved hand, she brushed the hair back from her face. The other was in her sweatshirt pocket.

‘You're wondering why I'm not in custody?' Her voice was soft, but clear over Griddlehaus's protests. ‘Why your detective friend hasn't taken me away?'

Dulcie nodded, and Emily shrugged.

‘I had something to do first,' she said. ‘Something I had to see for myself.'

Dulcie couldn't help herself. She approached the table. ‘What is it?'

Emily reacted quickly, reaching around the page to shield it. Her other hand, Dulcie couldn't help noticing, stayed in her pocket. ‘I think you know.'

‘I think, maybe I do, too.' Dulcie was getting worried. ‘But it doesn't mean what you think it means.'

‘Because it lies?' Emily blinked up at her, something almost like hope lighting up her incredibly thin face.

‘Because it's fiction. A story, that's all.' Dulcie took a step closer. ‘Just because a story says that a woman was abused and had a baby, doesn't mean that the author went through anything similar. It doesn't mean that anyone is at fault, or that anyone's family is to blame.'