One Touch of Silver

by Elizabeth Cole

  As she began to eat, Silver asked whether Dunne ever received her telegram about her arrival.

  “Even telegram service is unreliable in this town. Likely it got misdirected, or it’s sitting in the office on Salt St.” He looked a little repentant. “Sorry you had to walk the whole way.”

  “I like walking,” she said. “And the shore must be beautiful when the weather is better. Is that why you live here?”

  “I live here because the house was cheap and there’s no one around most of the year. I travel in the summer.”

  “Oh.” Silver digested that information, along with a tender piece of chicken. The silverware was real silver, and plainly quite valuable. It lent a certain class to the simple meal. “Where? Where do you travel to?”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m trying to make polite conversation, Mr. Dunne.”

  “You should pick a better companion then,” he said. “Your cat, perhaps. Why the hell did you bring a cat, anyway?”

  “There’s no one to watch her at home,” Silver said. “Not since Daddy…since my father passed away.”

  Dunne closed his eyes. “This is why I don’t talk to people. I never say the right thing. How did he die?”

  “A heart attack,” she said quietly. The pain of her loss welled up, constricting her throat. It seemed only yesterday that it happened. “While he was sleeping. He never even woke up.”

  “You lived with him? You were there when it happened?”

  She nodded, hoping she wouldn’t cry. “Yes.”

  “He wasn’t alone then,” Dunne said. “That’s good.”

  Silver was comforted by the idea. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “I never met him,” Dunne went on, “but he was said to be the man to go to for anything involving artifacts from the Crusades.”

  Silver’s interest sharpened, and she focused on Dunne’s comment, happy to have something to think of besides her loss. “Yes, he spent his whole life studying the culture of the Crusader States. He was fascinated by the mix of peoples and politics and religions at the time. He was quite certain that even with the tensions between East and West, there must have been an exchange of knowledge, however clandestine or unsanctioned.” Silver warmed to her subject, and went on, “He knew there was much more to be discovered too. He traveled to the area as often as he could. He met my mother there. She was born in Palestine. He first hired her to help him find a tomb or a tell in the desert—she knew the way. By the time they reached it, he proposed to her for the first time.”

  “Well, that explains it,” Dunne said.

  “What?”

  “Your coloring.” His gaze raked over her, making her blush. Then he said, “What do you mean by the first time?”

  “She didn’t believe he was serious. He asked her six times before she said yes, and then only after he promised her parents that they’d visit every three years after they married in the States.”

  “Did she look like you? She must have.” His gaze flickered over Silver again.

  “She was beautiful,” Silver said. “I have her hair and eyes, but she was beautiful.” There were pictures of Mariam, and in all of them she looked boldly into the camera, as if daring the viewer to challenge her. She rode horses and camels, braved sandstorms, could find waterholes in the desert, and could speak four languages (and curse in seven). Naturally, she also looked like a goddess, slender and graceful and smooth as sandstone.

  Silver had adored her mother, but she was nothing like her. Losing her had been a blow that brought father and daughter closer together, now a family of two. No wonder Silver learned all he could teach. Unfortunately, no one had use for a woman with such esoteric skills, and no university would hire her, even if the country was not in the middle of a terrible economic collapse. Malachi Salem’s savings were nearly wiped out in the crash of ’29. Silver had almost nothing left.

  “I know all the languages my father did,” Silver said, hoping to broach the topic of translation again. “You’d find me valuable.”

  “You’ll leave in the morning,” he replied, his manner cool again. “You may accuse me of being old-fashioned, but I’m not getting a woman involved in this.”

  That made her bristle immediately. “Do you not believe I can translate? Because I’m a woman?”

  “It’s not that,” he said.

  “Then what?”

  “The work could be,” he paused, searching for the right word, “unbelievable.”

  Unbelievable? “What do you mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I mean.” When she would have protested again, he put up a hand. “I’ll pay for all your expenses, to and from. Plus something for the inconvenience. Let’s call it an honorarium.”

  “For what? I’ve done nothing.”

  A very faint smile appeared. “You ate my cooking. That alone deserves compensation.”

  “You made this?” she asked in surprise. The meal had been plain, but good.

  “I’m a hermit, Miss Salem. Hermits don’t have housekeepers. Or cooks.”

  “Oh.” That meant they must be alone in the house. If she wasn’t already a widow, her reputation might have been rather tarnished after this. Assuming anyone ever laid eyes on her in this ghost town.

  After dinner, he showed Silver to a room on the second floor, Piewicket trailing after them. The guest room overlooked the ocean, though in the darkness there was nothing to see. Piewicket leapt onto the bed, landing in the middle with a soft thump.

  Quite acceptable, the cat opined, happily kneading her claws into the bedspread.

  “You should have what you need for the night,” Dunne said. “Not that I’ve got the slightest idea what a lady needs.”

  “I will make do. Thank you.”

  “Stop thanking me,” he said. “Once you retire for the night, stay in this room. Do not leave it until morning. Understood?”

  “Are you going to lock me in? You think I’m after the good silverware?”

  He didn’t laugh. “The lock is on the inside, Miss Salem. Use it.”

  The way he looked at her made her wonder exactly what might happen if she didn’t.

  * * * *

  Sleeping in this house would be a challenge. After Dunne left, she shut the door and turned to the cat.

  “Pie, have I done something very stupid by coming here? Do you think he’s dangerous?”

  Of course he’s dangerous, the cat responded. More so than most men. But you should not fear him.

  “Those are two contradictory statements!” Silver sat on the edge of the bed.

  There is a great nobility inside him. You may help restore it. The cat began to lick her face clean. At the very least, you’ll be paid for the job, and then you can buy me fish.

  “Why are you being so blasé about this, Pie?”

  I am a cat.

  “I meant…can’t you feel it? There’s some sort of magic here. I felt something when I crossed the border onto the property.”

  Indeed. I will investigate.

  “You mean you’ll go hunting for mice.”

  That too. Piewicket walked over to nuzzle Silver’s hand. Fear not. I have been with the Salem family for some time, child. Do you think I would let you wander into danger alone?

  “I suppose not.”

  Very good. Go to sleep, Silver. Humans sleep now. The night belongs to my kind.

  So Silver opened the door a smidge, allowing Piewicket through. Then she locked it, as ordered. That left Silver all alone in a dark bedroom with nothing to do besides ponder her odd situation.

  Dunne was a strange man. Rude and then polite, civilized and then almost savage. He was also hiding something, as Piewicket hinted at. Silver burned with curiosity to see the mysterious book Dunne talked about. What was so valuable that he’d begged Professor Salem to come all the way here to examine it? But he wouldn’t even let Silver glance at it, because she was a mere woman. How like a man.

  Sure, he
claimed it wasn’t that. But what other reason could there be? Silver tossed and turned on her bed, trying to get Collier Dunne out of her mind. If only he wasn’t so damned attractive. Men like him thought they could get everything they wanted, just because of the way they looked. Silver knew all about that from her time in school, both high school and college.

  She’d been painfully shy as a girl, always ashamed of her weight and far too embarrassed to even speak to boys. But she watched as the popular ones lured the beautiful ones off for dates and romantic evenings. She heard all the flattery and false words men said to get women to go with them, and she heard what the boys said to each other when they thought no one was listening. But Silver was fat, ugly, invisible. No one noticed her.

  After one devastating incident, she decided her shyness was actually a survival trait. The incident started simply enough: a boy had asked her out. She was a freshman in college, he was a sophomore. They were in the same archeology class, and the boy told her he never met a girl as smart as she was. He knew a little restaurant he’d love to take her to.

  Silver managed to stammer a yes, and then couldn’t concentrate on her work for the rest of the afternoon. Just before heading home to prepare for her very first real date, Silver stopped in the library to check out a few books.

  While she was in the stacks, she heard a familiar voice. Her date, talking to a few other boys. He mentioned that he asked the Salem girl out, and Silver smiled.

  But then one of the other boys said, “How far you think you’ll get? She’s probably desperate. I bet she’ll let you grab those huge titties.”

  There was an odd pause—during which Silver died inside—then the boy responded, “Yeah, if I’m lucky.”

  Silver burned with embarrassment. She rushed home, told her father that she was sick, and if anyone came to the door, he should send them away. She never even said another word to the boy for the rest of the semester, and he never spoke to her again, though she sometimes caught him looking at her as if he wanted to speak. She never let him. Silver was getting an education at college. Just not the one she hoped for.

  A sudden sound broke into her unhappy recollections. She sat up in bed, wide-eyed, alert, staring into the dark bedroom. It repeated. A door slammed somewhere downstairs. Was Mr. Dunne leaving? Or was someone else entering? Silver slid out of the bed and walked to the door, ready to open it. Then she paused. Dunne told her under no uncertain terms to keep it locked, for her own safety.

  Before she could decide what to do, she heard slow footsteps coming up the stairs, dragging, as if exhausted.

  She remained still, waiting breathlessly to hear if the footsteps would come towards her door. She’d scream the house down if someone tried the handle.

  But the footsteps only went a short way, and she heard another door open and close. Dunne was going into his own room. Which was his right, Silver told herself in disgust at her wild imagination. It was his house, after all.

  She crept back to bed. Her watch lay on the stand, so she peeked at the time. What was Dunne doing outside at four in the morning? Silver was too tired to think clearly. Her eyes felt gritty.

  She pulled the covers up over her head and recited a little verse her mother used to tell her at bedtime. Silver hadn’t thought of it for years. But by the seventh repetition, she dropped off to sleep.

  * * * *

  When Silver woke again, sunlight suffused the room. This was not necessarily an asset—the brightness revealed the cracks in the plaster and the general shabbiness of the place. Things were clean, but worn. Whoever Collier Dunne was, he spent little on appearances. At least not in the guest room.

  She stepped into the hallway and found Dunne standing at the other end, by the head of the stairs. Exactly where she’d heard the door close last night.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Did you sleep all right?” he asked. He himself looked like he hadn’t. He was unshaven and rather scruffy looking.

  No, Silver had not slept well. Not exactly. She’d dreamed, but all she recalled were odd snippets—college classrooms, her father and mother laughing, a nameless boy in a letter jacket who made her cry.

  “I slept just fine, thank you,” she fibbed.

  “You’ll want breakfast. I can make you something.”

  “Just point me to the kitchen, Mr. Dunne. I’m quite capable of tending to myself.”

  “Follow me.”

  Dunne led her to the kitchen, but he didn’t allow her to cook, saying she’d only bumble around in the unfamiliar space. “I have a method,” he told her.

  “I don’t suppose you have tea?”

  “Only coffee,” he grunted. “That’ll do?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. She disliked the taste of coffee, but on a cold morning, she needed something hot to drink. So Silver sat at the plain, heavy wooden kitchen table with a mug of scalding hot coffee while Dunne went to work.

  He must have had a method, because he was efficient in all his movements. He could open cabinets and grab what he wanted without looking. His mood seemed slightly better than the previous night. Perhaps because she’d be out of his way by afternoon.

  Silver glanced over at the back door as Piewicket slinked in from outside. The cat was excellent at opening doors. She sauntered over to a bowl of milk set on the floor and started lapping it up. Silver smiled a bit. So Dunne offered hospitality to the cat after all, and without any prompting. He couldn’t be as cold as he’d first acted.

  A moment later, he put a plate of food down in front of Silver. Fresh eggs, sausages, bread. Jam and butter were on the table already. Her stomach growled. He grabbed another plate, piled just as high, and sat down opposite her. “Dig in.”

  She did, enjoying every bite. Whatever he claimed, Dunne knew his way around a kitchen.

  “Your trunks are in the front room,” he announced then. “In case you need anything. I retrieved them last night. Didn’t think anyone would be around to steal them, but better not to take chances.”

  “Thank you.” She was touched that he made the effort, considering he would have to take them right back for the train out. She was relieved, too, since one trunk was filled with rare, irreplaceable books.

  “Also, there’s no train on Sundays,” he added, as if reading her mind.

  “Oh,” said Silver. That meant another night at Dunne’s home before she could leave on Monday. “I’ll not bother you. I can walk to the shore. That will occupy me well enough.”

  He nodded absently, staring into his coffee mug. “You could. Or you could have a look at the book.”

  That surprised her enough that she put her fork down. “You were quite adamant last evening that my services were not required.”

  “I slept on it,” he said, then added, “the idea, not the book.”

  Silver almost laughed, but thought better of it. “You’ve reconsidered?”

  “If you can translate the key passage, and it’s what I need…”

  “Yes?”

  “I would be grateful.”

  She smiled, suddenly quite proud that she’d be permitted to do this job after all. “Then I’m your girl, Mr. Dunne.”

  An odd expression crossed his face. “If only,” he said softly.

  Silver shook her head. She must have misheard that last part.

  * * * *

  After breakfast, Dunne showed Silver to the third floor, which consisted of one large room, set up as a study. There were bookcases built in between the window bays on each side, and the walls sloped in as they narrowed to a small, square cupola with glass windows in the center of the roof. There was no fireplace, but a wood-burning stove stood in one corner.

  A desk stood in the middle of the room, and a leather chair near the stove.

  “What a lovely space,” she said, delighted.

  “Glad you like it. You’ll be working here for as long as it takes to translate, even if it takes you until Halloween. I don’t want the b
ook to leave this floor.”

  She nodded, then walked to the desk. A small, leather-bound book rested on a felt blotter in the middle. “May I?” she asked.

  “That’s what you’re here for,” he said, sitting in the leather chair, looking more relaxed than the day before.

  Silver sat at the desk and pulled the book toward her. She picked it up and examined it with an expert eye. She’d been around ancient books and scrolls her whole life. She frequently startled older scholars with the breadth of her knowledge, even though she was not yet thirty. But they never took into account what a girl could learn with encouraging parents and a healthy desire for education.

  She spent a few moments reading the cover, the frontispiece, the inscriptions on the flyleaf. She ran her fingers over the spine, the cover, and the inside pages, assessing the quality of the work, which was remarkably fine. The paper was beautiful—barely yellow, with only the lightest foxing on the edges. The leather of the cover was also surprisingly supple, with no hint of drying out. A well-cared-for book indeed.

  She flipped through the pages, gazing in wonder at the text, which was handwritten, not printed. A rainbow of ink colors had been used, and various people had written glosses in the margins, in Arabic, in Latin. Silver was immediately fascinated.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Miss Salem,” Dunne said from his chair.

  She looked over, surprised to see a fire crackling in the stove. She’d been so absorbed that she hadn’t even heard the clatter of him loading logs in.

  “I’ll add it to the bill,” she warned.

  He smiled, adding a new dimension to the warmth she felt from the fire. She immediately wanted to make him smile again.

  But she was there strictly as a professional scholar.

  Silver took a breath, then said, “From what I can tell, the book was written in the thirteenth century, though it appears that some of the passages are either copied out from older works, or translations of parts of other books. The last owner’s mark is Italian, but I suspect it was made elsewhere, either in the Holy Land, or possibly Spain, considering the mix of languages—you’ve got Latin, Hebrew, some Arabic, and Aramaic. That last makes me think the Holy Land is more likely.”