by Clea Simon
‘My mom’s really into her squashes,’ she said softly. ‘No, really. They’re like the one thing she can grow and so she’s really proud of them.’
‘Well, she can be proud of her daughter, too.’ He bent to kiss her, and it didn’t hurt at all.
It was afternoon the next day before the doctors let her go. And while it was awkward to be wheeled to the hospital entrance, the crew assembled outside greeted her with such a round of applause that Dulcie blushed with happiness.
‘The avenging angel of the English Department!’ Lloyd came up as Chris helped her out of the chair. She seemed to have done something to her ankle, but together they got her to the car as Ariano jumped out from behind the driver’s seat to open the door.
‘Oh, come on. I’m not that bad off,’ she protested. And looked up to see Raleigh coming up the drive from the parking lot. ‘Um, I don’t think we’re all going to fit.’
‘Not to worry.’ Lloyd smiled. ‘Raleigh’s got her car. Suze said we could all come over. That is, if you’re up for it?’
‘You kidding? I could use a party.’
In truth, Dulcie still felt exhausted and dozed against Chris’s shoulder as Ariano drove them home. Suze, in the front seat, was going on about the kitten. ‘I guess she really missed you. She was bouncing off the walls. Clawing at the windows. At one point, she even threw herself against the door of your room. I thought she was going to injure herself!’
‘I wonder if she knew . . .’ Dulcie had a hint of an idea, but it faded. And then they were home.
‘Surprise!’ Trista and Jerry were waiting in the living room, and someone had ordered what looked like the entire Lala’s menu.
‘I don’t know if I’m up for any more surprises at this point.’ She looked at Chris and smiled. ‘But thank you.’ Jerry had come back from the kitchen with a bottle of something that bubbled, and after the toasts, the serious eating commenced.
Lloyd had grabbed the seat next to her, and in a lull in the feasting, Dulcie nudged him. ‘So, you and Raleigh?’ She glanced over at the pretty undergrad.
Lloyd blushed and nodded. ‘She was taking time off when we met. And, well, she graduates in just a few months.’
‘Assuming she finishes her thesis.’ Dulcie smiled, and he recognized her teasing for what it was. In the overall scheme of things, Lloyd’s transgression seemed fairly minor.
‘So that was the famous fake she dropped off, right?’ Dulcie asked Lloyd once his color had returned to normal.
Lloyd nodded. ‘I’d already arranged to send it to Browning’s for appraisal. But, um, I’d left it at her place.’ His blush returned. ‘But when I told all that to the cops, they didn’t even seem interested. I guess the professor never followed through with the charges. He was just angry, but he knew he had as much to lose as I did. More.’ He took another bite of felafel. ‘I did pass through the Square this morning. Gosham’s is closed up. I don’t know if they’ve arrested him or he’s fled, but I don’t think Professor Bullock will be buying any more books there, real or counterfeit.’
‘Well, that’s a good thing.’ Dulcie paused, the stray edge of a thought sticking in her mind. ‘Hey, Lloyd? What was the forged book, anyway? I mean, what was it called?’
Lloyd snorted, a dismissive sound. ‘That’s just it, Dulcie. If Bullock had been in his right mind, he’d have known it was totally wrong.’
‘Why?’ Dulcie held her breath, a feeling like cat’s claws pricking at the back of her neck.
‘The Purloin’d Sword, or The Jewel of the Night.’
Dulcie burst out laughing, so hard that Lloyd looked nervous. ‘No, no,’ she waved off his concern. ‘It’s not you or even the professor . . .’ Catching her breath, she explained the dream, the recurring image – and the small, stolen trinket that had finally clued her in.
‘It should have been obvious,’ said Lloyd, finally. ‘And then, maybe . . .’
‘Yeah.’ Dulcie, quiet at last, nodded. They both paused a moment, thinking of the odd relationship: the declining professor and the artisan-tradesman who must have hated his dependent position.
‘So, what’s going to happen to Bullock?’ Dulcie’s voice was soft. This felt private, between the two of them.
Lloyd shook his head. ‘I know they’re keeping him in the hospital, at least for a few more days. They said it was because of his more intensive injuries, but I think they’re doing other tests, too. Neurological tests.’ He glanced over at Trista and Dulcie shook her head. She hadn’t had time to tell anyone else about the professor’s dementia.
‘It’s my guess that the professor will take some kind of personal leave,’ Lloyd continued. ‘I mean, his house was just destroyed by a fire. And then, maybe he’ll just quietly retire. Which I guess leaves us both without thesis advisers.’ He made a face.
‘At least you have a thesis.’ Dulcie shifted in her seat. She was going to need more pain pills soon, champagne or not.
‘Yeah, you’d said something about that earlier, but I never followed up. What did you mean?’
Promising herself a Percocet and another drink as soon as she got through it, Dulcie told him the whole tiring tale. How she’d been tracking down unusual phrases from The Ravages of Umbria, hoping to get a clue to the author’s identity. ‘I guess if I’d been more alert, I’d have noticed something more about the emerald.’ She thought of the phrase from the book – and from her dream. Maybe she should have put it together with the letter opener; maybe she could have uncovered the truth about Polly’s kleptomania earlier and saved them all some trouble. ‘But the crushing blow was when I found that essay.’ She described that day in the library. The way her stomach had sank as she read the passage and realized what it meant. ‘I mean, Lloyd, that’s impossible. That essay was from forty years later. It could only mean one thing.’ She swallowed hard, felafel dry in her throat. ‘The Ravages of Umbria must really be a later book. A pastiche. Another fake.’
She couldn’t understand why Lloyd was laughing. ‘Oh, Dulcie! Is that what you were worried about? And you were trying to keep it from Bullock while you sorted it out?’ He was actually wiping tears from his eyes. ‘I wish you’d told me earlier. Dulcie, this is what I do. Eighteenth-century non-fiction. Biographies. Critical essays. I could have told you that Gunning isn’t a reliable source for dates! Bullock could’ve told you, too, if he still had it together. Hugely popular up through the late Victorian period, but his books are compendiums, collections of essays that have been previously published. The Gunnings were talented amateurs, collecting old journals and chapbooks that would otherwise have been lost. That’s why we still use them. But the sourcing? The dates for the original material itself? I’m sorry, Dulcie. I thought you knew.’
He paused. ‘Actually, you may have made an important find. I don’t know if anyone has ever put those two together. I think you’re on your way to prove that the author of The Ravages was indeed someone who thought about these issues, one of those early feminist essayists. You might not have her name, but you have found her signature, and that . . . Well, Dulcie Schwartz, that might be the key to the text!’
By the time everyone left, Dulcie was fading. Although her mood couldn’t have been higher, Chris kept looking at her bandages and so when he’d urged her to take another pain pill, she agreed. ‘You just want to keep me from working,’ she said drowsily as he helped her upstairs. ‘But I’m on to something with The Ravages, Chris. I really am.’
‘I believe you, sweetie.’ He tucked her in and kissed her gently. ‘But I think it will wait. And I have one more overnight shift. Ken covered for me last night, so I owe him.’
‘G’night.’ Her eyes were closing as he left, but she heard the soft thud as the kitten jumped up on her bed. ‘Kitten!’ She reached out to feel the downy soft fur and was rewarded by a heavy purr. ‘I hear you were with me, at least in spirit.’ A damp nose touched her cheek. ‘Mr Grey was, too. Did you know him?’ The kitten kneaded the pillow by her head, and Dulcie imagine
d the two felines meeting. ‘Mr Grey, this is Kitten. No, that won’t do.’
She forced her eyes open and looked over at the little cat. Green eyes. Black and white fur. Whiskers white and wider even than her huge ears. She was going to be a big cat. But right now, she was still a kitten. A little jewel . . .
‘Esmeralda,’ she said. It was Spanish, not Italian, but it had a ring to it. ‘That sounds about right. Esmeralda the cat. I can call you Esmé.’ The kitten blinked. ‘Does that sound OK to you, Esmé?’
‘Finally!’ The voice, young and strong, seemed to come from nowhere and Dulcie jerked back, startling the cat, who sat up and stared, green eyes wide. ‘But none of this nickname stuff. It’s Esmeralda, please. Principessa Esmeralda. I am royalty, you know.’ And with that she grabbed Dulcie’s hand for a tussle.
‘Now, now, little one. Settle down.’ The voice was deep and gentle, this time. The voice of Mr Grey. ‘It’s been a big day for everyone, and it’s time to sleep. We’ve a lot to learn, all of us, but I believe we’re making progress.’