Stages of Grey

by Clea Simon

  ‘Would seem a little short-sighted.’ Chris upended his mug. ‘But stranger things—’

  ‘Oh, bother.’ Dulcie sat up so fast that Esmé protested.

  ‘What?’ Chris put his mug down.

  ‘I think I just did something wrong.’ She held the phone close, ignoring Esmé’s aggrieved mew.

  ‘Give it here.’ She handed him the phone. ‘Dulcie, what’s your password?’

  ‘Um, Mr Grey.’ She heard her voice sink. Chris was always on her case to change her passwords regularly. But not only was it a bother, it also meant giving up one of the last remaining ties she had to her late pet. ‘Or maybe Mr Grey One,’ she offered.

  Chris didn’t seem about to lecture her. Instead, he was busily punching buttons on the phone, a crease forming on his brow. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Chris, what is it?’ She must have let her hand rest too long on the cat. Esmé stirred and pulled herself up to a seated position.

  ‘Hang on.’ While she watched, Chris peeled the phone’s case off and opened its battery compartment, shaking out the battery into his palm. ‘Well, that should work.’

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘Dulcie, that email wasn’t just spam. By acknowledging it at all – I know, you didn’t know – you activated it. It was downloading a worm. If I hadn’t stopped it, it would have gotten all your security codes and who knows what else off your phone. If you had opened that email on your computer, your thesis might be gone.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  The first manifestation fell upon her like a Shadow with the darkness of the Moon. Deep her chamber sat, set among the ancient Stones of his close, protected it would seem by the mold of Honour and of Name, beneath the very watchful eyes of Ancestors both venerable and fierce. This chamber, to which she had been accompanied, would seem the very Heart of Soundness, and with grateful tears she had fallen upon the thick-furred rugs laid out for both Comfort and for Warmth. Such had been the stress of her o’er long winter Journey that she ne’er questioned the Lord who gave her succor, not yet till like a creeping thing, he did …

  Dulcie sat up, gasping. She was not alone.

  ‘Of course not, silly.’ Esmé, beside her, yawned and stretched. Chris, facing the wall, snored gently. The room was dark, as in her dream. Outside, the storm still raged. But the room was their regular old comfy bedroom. No stone walls, no blazing fire. No luxurious furs, unless you counted the cat, who had sat up to knead the pillow to her satisfaction.

  ‘Sorry, Esmé.’ She settled back down to watch the cat at work. ‘Bad dream.’

  The cat lay down, her black back to Dulcie’s face. Dulcie decided not to take it personally and instead stared up at where the ceiling probably was. The room wasn’t quiet: Esmé’s soft vocalizations now joined Chris’s snorts, and the windows rattled with each gust. But it was cozy. So very unlike the scene in her dreams that Dulcie was at a loss to figure out from where she had conjured that.

  A traveler, a room – a midnight manifestation. It seemed taken right from the book, only this scene had no precedent. More troubling, to Dulcie’s mind, was the nature of the manifestation. So far, she had only seen her heroine with the green-eyed stranger, and while she considered him quite catlike, something about this midnight visitor did not seem feline. Nor friendly, for that matter. It was silly, she knew that, but she had come to associate him with Mr Grey. To find out that she was wrong would be disheartening. Though, of course, that would be all it would mean. It wouldn’t – it couldn’t – mean that Mr Grey was bad in any way, an evil spirit insinuating himself into her life …

  Another gust sent a volley of snow against the panes, the window rattling as if a malignant spirit did indeed want in. It was the wind, it had to be, that had sparked the dream. Or maybe, she realized with relief, that stupid spam. What had Chris called it? A worm, slinking into the heart of her phone.

  Ick. She almost giggled at the mashed-up metaphor, and with that she felt better. Yes, it was the wind, combined with the nasty virus that had tried to attack her phone. But their apartment house was solid, and she had Chris to protect her from a cyber attack. On top of it all, Gus was safe, and she had done Roni a favor, warning her about the hacking.

  Dulcie turned toward Esmé and felt the luxuriousness of fur on her face. She should call Roni in the morning, she decided, to tell her about this latest attack. The little troupe might be blamed if this happened to more people. And she should ask about how Gus managed to get in and out.

  Maybe, she thought, her eyes growing heavy, Gus himself would tell her. What was it Esmé had said to her? She needed to learn to listen. To listen to learn. To learn …

  Outside, the wind was dying down, replaced by the patter of falling snow. Inside, the soft breathing of the cat was soon joined by another, as Dulcie joined her companions in sleep.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘I’m checking on the weather.’ Chris was looking at his cellphone when Dulcie entered the kitchen.

  ‘Why not just look outside?’ Dulcie was glad for her fuzzy slippers and heavy robe. As she walked over to the window, she could feel the draft that leaked in, and the sight of the white world outside only made her feel colder. ‘Wow,’ she said, her voice hushed. ‘It is beautiful, though.’

  ‘You won’t think so when you have to walk through two-foot drifts.’ Chris put his phone down. ‘But I guess the university doesn’t care that the T and most of the city is calling for a snow day. They never do.’

  ‘Most of the students just have to make it from the houses.’ Turning her back on the sparkly white world, Dulcie went for the coffee. ‘Of course, I’ve got to go meet Thorpe this morning.’

  ‘Ugh, I’m sorry, Dulce.’ He looked up. ‘Can you wait till noon? I’ll be going in then.’

  She shook her head. ‘Ten a.m. And I’ve got the English Ten section at eleven. In fact.’ She paused to look up at the clock. ‘I should get dressed.’

  ‘Here.’ He took her mug and poked around the cabinet until he found her travel mug. ‘I don’t want you running out of gas out there.’

  ‘Thanks, sweetie.’ She looked back out the window. ‘I don’t think I can count on Nancy being there to make coffee today.’

  Ten minutes later, she was pulling her boots on while Chris waited, holding her scarf. ‘My phone?’ She asked, wrapping the long muffler around her neck.

  ‘Sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think it’s safe to start it back up yet. I want to take a look at where that worm went.’

  She nodded, as if she understood what he meant, and wrapped the wool around her mouth.

  ‘I should have it back to you by the end of the day.’ Chris leaned forward, looking for some face to kiss. ‘But you’ve got your laptop.’ She nodded. ‘I’ve updated the virus protection on that pretty recently. Dulcie? I know you’re a trusting soul. It’s one of the things I love most about you. But, please, don’t open any emails from anyone you don’t know.’

  It was, Dulcie decided as she turned for the door, a good thing that her scarf kept her from replying.

  Ten minutes later, Dulcie nearly lost her coffee. Dulcie had thanked Chris for filling her travel mug for her, never realizing that one small canister would be a problem. But as she clambered over the second waist-high pile of snow, she found she couldn’t hold on to it and keep herself upright at the same time. It simply wasn’t possible.

  ‘Bother.’ Dulcie screwed the mug into the top of the pile – a compact, icy wall that stood between her and the other side of the street. ‘This is crazy.’

  Using both mittened hands to steady herself, she managed to find a toehold. Clearly, someone else – someone also of diminutive height – had passed this way before. With a grunt of exertion, she pulled herself to the top and jumped down, only remembering to reach back for the beached mug as she turned to survey the peak she had scaled.

  ‘Damn plows.’ Another pedestrian, head down to watch for the icy patches, looked up and smiled. No other words were necessary. Winter in New
England could be a beautiful thing, and snow should be its frosting. Except that the plows that must have been working all through the night to clear the streets had no place to deposit the snow they scooped up, apparently, except the sides of the roads. Which may have meant that cars – of which Dulcie saw precious few – were able to get around and about in the first hours after the storm. But any pedestrian who had the temerity to actually cross one of those cleared roadways had first to climb over the hard-packed wall of what had been pushed aside.

  The next block was worse. Dulcie once again anchored her travel mug in the man-made drift, made sure her bag was secure on her shoulder, and pulled herself up over the barrier. Only this time, instead of dropping down to a nicely shoveled walk, she found herself in calf-deep snow. Clearly, someone had shoveled at some point, but hadn’t kept up with the overnight storm. Pausing just long enough for some snow to drip, melting, inside her boot, Dulcie decided to turn back. It would be easier to walk in the street, and with the lack of cars on the road, probably safer. Another plow was heading toward her, but its progress was slow and steady as it scraped up the last of the storm.

  Unlike at the corner, the frozen barrier here had no pre-made footholds. On the sidewalk side, however, the waist-high pile was still rough and uneven – churned up from where it had fallen. Grabbing the top, she was able to step into a crevice and pull herself up, before swinging a leg over and feeling for a place to dig her toe in.

  ‘Hey, did you forget something?’ A man called out as she eyed the street side of the pile. ‘Miss?’

  Dulcie looked up as she pulled her second boot over the curbside pile. ‘Are you—?’

  Too late, she realized that turning would change her balance. Her foothold on the street side slipped, and she scrambled, unable to gain purchase on the snow that had been compressed into ice by the plow.

  ‘Watch it!’ A horn sounded, deep and loud, and she turned to see the snowplow. Up high, the driver, eyes wide with horror, leaned frantically on the wheel. It was too little, too late. Dulcie felt herself slipping down the ice, into the street.

  ‘Got you.’ A hand latched on to her forearm and pulled, and Dulcie looked up in surprise.

  ‘Heath?’ With her free hand, she grabbed the top of the snow pile and swung her leg over it. Sitting up here, she found herself eye to eye with the handsome actor, his blond mane peeking out from a wool cap.

  ‘Dulcie.’ His smile, as he helped her down the other side of the snow wall, looked intensely bright in the reflected light. And, Dulcie thought, a tad inappropriate considering that she had nearly slipped under what was essentially a truck. ‘I saw you start to climb, and you’d forgotten your mug.’

  He turned from her now and took the few steps back to the corner, where her silver travel mug was still standing at hip height in the snow.

  ‘Thanks.’ Dulcie, waiting for him to return with it, realized her legs were shaking. ‘For the mug and for – well – everything.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ He tilted that overlarge head toward her and dropped his voice. ‘Those of us who aren’t giants have to help each other.’

  Dulcie could only nod. Heath might not be a big man, but he was taller than she was. And stronger, too. Dulcie thought of the strength of his grip. If he hadn’t been so strong … No, she didn’t want to think of it.

  ‘Are you heading into the Square?’ He didn’t seem to notice how flustered she still was. Or, she realized, he might be used to women reacting with shaken silence.

  ‘Yeah. You too?’ The thought that he might mistake the cause of her agitation did her more good than the now-cold coffee she swigged. ‘Is the theater open today?’

  He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Nobody answered the phone this morning, but I figured I’d better go in.’

  ‘That’s dedication.’ She took his outstretched hand as she clambered through the snow. ‘Wouldn’t Roni usually be in by now?’

  ‘You’d think.’ He shuffled his feet to clear a path. ‘Maybe you should walk behind me?’

  ‘Thanks.’ With anyone else, Dulcie would turn it into a joke. Right now, she was too grateful. Besides, the system worked. The two were making progress.

  ‘Hey, if she’s in, would you bring her a message for me?’ Dulcie was getting her breath back, despite the difficulty of the walk. ‘Or I can stop in, with you, if that’s okay.’ Dulcie didn’t know what her status was at the little theater. But surely this man knew her motives were good.

  ‘Is this about Gus?’ Heath glanced over his shoulder at her, before plowing ahead. ‘Cause I promise you, we’re going to try to keep him inside from now on.’

  ‘Did you find out how he got out?’ Even with Heath clearing a path, Dulcie needed both her hands out for balance. ‘That would be the best way to keep him safe.’

  ‘No, not yet.’ Even he seemed to be having trouble with the snow. ‘That’s one of the reasons I want to go in. Poke around, see what I can find.’

  It could have been a trick of the snow, or maybe because the actor was looking down as he spoke. Dulcie found his voice strangely muffled.

  ‘Heath, I know about what’s happening.’ It could also, she realized, have another source. ‘About the money. In fact, that’s what I want to talk to Roni about. I found something …’

  She stopped short, because he had. But the Heath that turned to face her was not kind or smiling. At that moment, he wasn’t even handsome.

  ‘Don’t you dare.’ The blue eyes were wild, the handsome lips drawn back in a grimace. ‘You keep away from Roni. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Sheesh.’ Dulcie stepped back, and felt herself stopped by the snow piled behind her. ‘I’m not … I didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He wiped one gloved hand over his face. ‘It’s been a bad week. People are …’ He shook his head, and Dulcie thought she saw tears in his eyes. ‘People are saying crazy things about her. About us.’

  ‘I was just trying to be helpful.’ Dulcie’s own voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘Roni had shared some things with me, and I thought I could help.’

  He nodded, and suddenly he looked older. Tired. ‘I’ll tell her,’ he said. ‘I will. Just … let me, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Nodding once more, he turned and trudged on. Dulcie followed in silence, trying to make sense of what had just happened. She didn’t know enough about the troupe – about the theater world in general – but it seemed that what she had witnessed might be more than the bonding of a theatrical company.

  As they reached the end of the block, she found herself stuck on one question: Was there more going on between Roni and the handsome lead than she had thought? With a grunt and heave, Heath broke through the piled-up snow blocking them from the intersection and started crossing the street. Dulcie began to follow, but as she stepped through the barrier, she hesitated.

  The plow had long gone by, but if she closed her eyes she could still see it, remembering that moment when it had loomed right before her, bearing down. And remembered, too, the strength of the slight actor as he gripped her arm and pulled.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Nancy was seated in the front room of the departmental offices, struggling with her boots when Dulcie arrived.

  ‘Here, let me.’ Dulcie knelt in front of the plump secretary and pulled.

  ‘Thank you, Dulcie.’ The second boot off, Nancy stood in her stocking feet and turned toward her own office. She emerged with an old-fashioned boot jack, which she placed by the door. ‘Here we go,’ she said. ‘Not that I expect many visitors today.’

  ‘They still haven’t cancelled classes, have they?’ Dulcie pulled her own boots off.

  ‘The world’s greatest university? Of course not.’ The normally soft-spoken secretary’s voice took on a bit of an edge. ‘I’m sorry, Dulcie,’ she immediately recanted. ‘My bus was late, and the walk from the Square was simply treacherous.’

  ‘You could have taken the day off, you know.’ Following Nancy’s example, Dulcie left her
boots to dry on the mat by the door.

  ‘Thank you, dear, but I felt somebody should open the office.’

  Dulcie must have made a sound, because the secretary looked up from the coffee maker. ‘You didn’t hear? I’m so sorry, Dulcie. Mr Thorpe said he was going to call you.’

  ‘My phone’s broken.’ Dulcie sat down with a thud. ‘He’s going to be late?’

  She knew what Nancy was going to say even before she answered. ‘I’m so sorry. He’s not coming in at all. But now you have all this extra time!’

  Dulcie forced a smile. ‘I confess, the pages I was going to give him aren’t in the best shape.’

  ‘Well, there you go then.’ Nancy’s good cheer never seemed forced. ‘Coffee?’

  It was, Dulcie had to admit, a perfect way to work – the departmental offices had never been quieter and her first section wasn’t until noon. Hunkered down in the upstairs conference room, away from the distractions of home or her own office, Dulcie opened her laptop. Today, she would finally get some writing done.

  Picking up from the rough pages she had been going to present to Thorpe, she began right away with her main argument:

  ‘Considering the pages from the Philadelphia bequest in light of new discoveries, certain phrasings, last seen in the works of a London-based author, call out for further study.’ It wasn’t how she’d chosen to say it, but it was close enough. After all, wasn’t all scholarship a question of interpretation?

  She typed a little more, copying passages from her notes that most closely echoed those she had already discussed in both The Ravages and the political writings of the anonymous author. ‘Call out …’ She stopped. Yes, she’d be revising later, but still, if she could avoid repeating phrases, she should. ‘Call,’ she said out loud. ‘Point out, cry out, yell.’