by Clea Simon
‘You can do that?’ She put her bag on the counter and began to dig through it. This was what she’d hoped for, of course. She hadn’t expected it to be so simple.
‘As long as I can make out the number.’ Of course. That mysterious ‘5’ hadn’t been a date, it had been a register number.
She found the stub. ‘It’s a bit smudged,’ she said, handing it over.
‘Nuh,’ the mouse man muttered to himself and then turned and scurried away. Dulcie longed to follow him, despite the unavoidable feeling that he had, in fact, darted down some minuscule hole in the library floor. She leaned over the counter. The tidy entrance seemed to open up to a regular warren of space, and she craned her neck, hoping to catch sight of where the little man had gone.
To the left, she recognized the reading area, where scholars would sit and wait for their requests to be delivered. She could make out the cup of pencils, but none of them seemed to be in use. Beyond, she saw a hallway, all in the same gleaming white as the entrance. Two doors, closed, were visible, and Dulcie seemed to remember – or maybe she just suspected – that there were more in the warren-like space. To her right, rows of bookcases – again of the nicer material – filled a large room. Beyond that, she thought she could see the chain-link wall, the fence that caged off the Mildon from the general stacks.
Directly in front of her were two closed doors, these taking on a decidedly more formal look. Although small nickel plates seemed to identify the row of locked doors, these were too small for her to make out what they said. One of them, she guessed, might have housed the Dunster Codex, a thought that led her to wonder about security procedures.
On a whim, she examined the counter before her. Almost undetectable hinges attached to one side. Yes – she worked it out – one panel would lift, allowing access. She slid her hands beneath it and tried. Nothing. Of course, there was probably a release button or switch on the inside of the counter. She pulled herself up on to the white surface and leaned over the back to have a peek.
‘Excuse me? Miss?’
Dulcie looked up. From the stacks area on the right, a woman was approaching. The young blonde who looked like Trista. ‘Oof?’ Lying on her belly, it was the best she could manage.
‘Oh!’ The blonde stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh!’
‘Wait!’ Dulcie slid back and called out, but the blonde had slipped into one of the two closed doors. ‘Miss?’
‘Excuse me?’ The other door opened, and the mouse-like receptionist stepped out. ‘Sorry, that took longer than I expected.’
‘Oh, that’s fine.’ Dulcie craned her head to see if the thin blonde would reappear. ‘I just saw one of your colleagues? A slim woman – undergrad, maybe?’
‘One of our work-studies, probably. At any rate, I’ve found the listing.’ He hoisted a large black leather register up to the edge of the counter, all the while keeping his finger in one page. Dulcie wanted to follow up, to ask about the girl, but hesitated. Maybe it was better if she didn’t draw any attention to her near-trespass.
Instead, she helped pull the heavy volume up and waited while the mousy clerk opened it. The pages on the right were visibly doubled, each white page backed by one in blue. To the left, only the white pages were left. The tiny man was looking one page back, his finger tracing a line in the middle of the page.
‘Says here that this ticket was issued a week ago, Friday.’ He blinked down at the page, then back up at her. ‘Here.’
With no small effort, he flipped the book around so she could read it. She looked to where he pointed: ticket number 5837 had been issued the previous Friday.
She shook her head. She’d been writing all that day. That had been the good day, when she had finally gotten down to work and hadn’t stopped till Chris had come home. She remembered him clearing his throat. She’d looked up, blinking. He’d been standing in front of the window. Outside, it had been almost dark.
It didn’t make sense. She looked back at the ledger. Yes, the date was the same: FRIDAY, MAY 22. And on the next line she read her own name: DULCINEA SCHWARTZ. The handwriting in the ledger was quite clear, written in big block letters. But she’d been home that day, all day. Writing. At least, as best she remembered.
‘Could someone else have filled this out?’ Visions of alternative universes were beginning to take hold.
‘We do check ID.’ The little mouse sniffed. ‘And see this? This is our content-request notation.’ The mouse-like man was still talking. He pointed to a set of initials, over in the corner of the ticket: DC. ‘This is proof that someone in-house wrote this up. The content-notation is our private system. Most of our scholars aren’t even aware that we keep track, because it doesn’t come through on the stub, but it’s our in-house system. That’s how we know what work was requested.’
‘What work?’ Nothing was making sense. Dulcie hadn’t been in the Mildon the week before. Not on Friday.
‘Why, the Dunster Codex, of course.’
TWENTY-SIX
Dulcie did not know how she got out of there. One moment, she was staring, her eyes as wide as the Mildon staffer’s glasses, the next she was in her carrel, staring at the wall. She remembered stuttering out a question, and the collection staffer repeating himself, his look of confusion exaggerated by those glasses. It didn’t make sense, any of it. And when she asked the mousy staffer to double-check her copy of the blue ticket, he’d only blinked at it and handed it back to her.
‘That’s the blue ticket,’ he’d said. ‘The number is correct, as is the name.’
‘But . . .’ Dulcie had been at a loss for words. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘We’ve checked it.’ He’d tapped the edge of the binder with his fingertips. ‘This is the source.’
Somehow, Dulcie gotten away from there, her mind racing. Was it possible that she had been dreaming – sleepwalking into the Mildon? No, her dreams might be vivid, but surely that was impossible. Besides, the Mildon had limited hours, and she wasn’t likely to have wandered down here in a daze at midday.
Maybe it wasn’t her. The fat detective’s warning sprang to her mind, and Dulcie reached for her wallet. No, her university ID was in its usual place. In fact, she’d used it to get into the library – just as she did every day. Could there have been some other way of stealing her identity?
A quick glance around revealed nobody else and, feeling truly guilty now, Dulcie pulled out her phone. Yes, even down here, she could get a signal. She turned it on and dialed Chris.
‘Hey, sweetie, I’m waiting for Jerry. What’s up?’ He sounded so normal that Dulcie started, cupping the phone to keep the sound contained.
‘Chris,’ she whispered. ‘Can you hear me? I’m having a kind of emergency.’
‘Where are you? Are you OK? I’m coming to get you.’ With each successive question, his voice rose in volume and urgency.
‘No, no, no,’ she shushed him. ‘Nothing like that. I’m safe. For now.’ How to explain . . . ‘I’m in the library.’
‘Oh!’ He got it and waited.
‘Look, Chris, did you get a chance to look at my account yet?’ It was too much to hope for, really.
‘Actually, I just finished.’ He sounded rather proud of himself. ‘I just ran a check to see who had been using your login, where it’s been used, the usual.’
‘And?’ Dulcie held her breath. Identity theft was the logical solution. If he could provide some sort of proof . . .
‘Nothing. I mean, nothing that I wouldn’t expect.’ She felt the breath go out of her as her boyfriend explained. ‘All the logons are from your laptop – nothing from any remotes. They all fit with places you usually go. There are no huge purchases or foreign sites, nothing like that. Though there is one to PetPsychic.Com.’
‘I was just looking.’ She felt her face color.
‘I figured.’ He chuckled. When she didn’t, he sounded concerned. ‘Dulcie, really, I’d understand if you did contact someone. Though, honestly, I think in our special case,
with Mr Grey and all . . .’
‘No, it’s not that, Chris, honest.’ Her eyes closed now, she could picture his sweet face. Would he believe her? ‘It’s that I was hoping I was hacked. You see, I think I’m being set up. My name is on the books as having gone into the Mildon Collection last week. To see the Dunster Codex. And I didn’t. I haven’t. Someone is framing me for the theft.’
‘Dulce, that’s horrible!’ Chris’s outrage warmed her. But just then, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
‘No cellphone use.’ The guard looked down at her as if she were a stranger. ‘You’ll have to come with me.’
‘Gotta go,’ Dulcie said as the stern-looking guard waited to escort her out.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Oh, Dulcie.’ Mona’s voice was soft, but her round face sagged with sorrow as she looked over at her friend. ‘How could you?’
‘It was an emergency?’ Dulcie heard the uncertainty in her own voice and watched her librarian friend shake her head. ‘Kind of?’
‘I just hope they go lightly on you.’ The large librarian looked over her shoulder at the small office that the guard had entered several minutes before. ‘I mean, if you lose your privileges . . .’
Dulcie winced. If she lost her library privileges, she might as well give up on her thesis. She looked toward the office. Through a small glass window, she could see the back of the guard’s head bobbing up and down. Apparently, he was talking to someone. She could only hope it wasn’t Coffin or anybody else connected to the Mildon collection. If anyone there looked at the evidence piling up, she’d be lucky to get a job at an auction house. She’d be lucky to get a job at Lala’s.
‘I just wouldn’t have thought it of you.’ Mona looked so sad, it made Dulcie feel worse. But before Dulcie could even attempt to explain, the head inside the window turned, and the door opened.
‘Well, we spoke with your department head,’ the guard said, shaking his head. Dulcie felt herself shrink further. Thorpe wasn’t a bad man. She thought he even liked her, but he wasn’t one to stand up to authority – for anyone. ‘And he was shocked,’ the guard continued. ‘Shocked by your behavior.’
She waited for the death blow.
‘But he said you were a good student, only under a lot of pressure.’ The guard didn’t look convinced. Dulcie herself could barely believe what she was hearing. ‘So, after consulting with the head of services, we’ve decided not to follow through on this officially.’
She opened her mouth to thank him, when he held up a hand. ‘Officially. Unofficially, I’m keeping my eye on you.’
She closed her mouth and nodded to show she understood.
‘OK, you’re free to go.’ He turned to head back to his post. ‘Remember,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘You’ve been warned.’
Dulcie looked over at Mona, but her large friend, usually so boisterous and outgoing, had turned away.
She thought about going back to her carrel then. ‘Back on the horse,’ she muttered to herself. She even walked toward the elevator and punched its button. Only just then two undergrads walked by, and one of them started giggling. She was laughing at something private, no doubt. Perhaps they were sharing summer plans, but at that moment, Dulcie felt like she had a scarlet letter on her, a big ‘P’ for phone, perhaps. And as she backed up into a corner, she realized that there would be little chance of concentration here today. No, her best shot at getting any work done at all would be to go home. Maybe Chris would have found something out. Maybe Esmé would be a comforting presence, for once, or at the very least, not all bitey.
The kitten, however, was not in evidence when Dulcie got home. Nor was Chris, though at least he had written a note:
Gather you got nabbed, he’d written. Hope it isn’t a big deal. Had a thought about your ID – tell you later.
She smiled at it. Now that at least one particular storm cloud seemed to have passed, she could relax a little. If her hands ever stopped shaking, that is. But the fact that she hadn’t lost her library privileges – or worse – and that her high-tech sweetie might be able to help her figure out how her name ended up on that ticket was encouraging. If only she could find the kitten.
‘Esmé?’ she called and was greeted by a resounding thump before the little cat came into the room. ‘Where were you, kitten?’
The cat turned her green eyes up at her person and blinked before leaning in to rub against Dulcie’s shins.
‘OK, keep your secrets.’ Her mood lifting by the moment, Dulcie reached down for the young cat. ‘You’re getting quite round, aren’t you?’
At this, Esmé let out a small peep, and Dulcie couldn’t help laughing. ‘You and me both, Esmé.’
Maybe it had been the note from Chris, or maybe it was the comforting softness of the cat. Maybe there was something lingering in the atmosphere, a sense of deep contentment rumbling like a purr, but something had changed. Dulcie felt like herself again, which was to say, she felt like studying. And so with Esmé in one arm, she reached for her bag with the other, taking them both with her to the living room. Depositing the cat on the sofa beside her, she took out the big blue-bound volume. Finally, she was going to get something done.
TWENTY-EIGHT
As much as Dulcie wanted to work, Esmé seemed to want her not to. Although the little cat had been happy to sit beside her, the moment Dulcie reached for the bound volume, the kitten went into play mode.
‘No, Esmé. Bad—’ She thought of her own recent reprimand. ‘Bad behavior!’ She gently unhooked the tiny claws and held the white paws for a moment to emphasize her words. ‘No!’
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?’