by Clea Simon
Even without her own work, the next few days would be busy. Tomorrow – Thursday – the guests would be arriving – dozens of grad students and other low-level scholars and three top-flight academics, all of whom were candidates for an open position here at the university.
On Friday, the conference would kick off for real, with Martin Thorpe, the acting head of the department, giving the keynote speech. For the rest of the weekend, Dulcie knew, in addition to polishing her own paper, she was supposed to attend back-to-back talks from nine until three, not to mention the numerous gatherings that would follow. The guest lists for these could be political, but Dulcie figured as a member of the hosting university she’d receive invites to the major ones. She hoped so, anyway. That’s where she and all the other aspiring academics would have their chance to mix and mingle with the tenured set, almost, sort of, on equal terms.
Some of her fellow academics, she acknowledged, would be here just for the socializing: the conference’s reputation had to have some basis in fact. But with any luck, a few of them might also come to hear her present her paper – ‘The Moon in the Branches: Tracing the Family Tree of a Gothic She-Author’ – setting in motion the kind of relationship she desired – the kind that, in a year or two, might lead to a job.
It was exhilarating but also, Dulcie had to admit, exhausting. In some ways, she thought to herself as she made her way into the Square, she just wanted life to continue as it had for the last five years. Looking at the hallowed brick buildings around her, she thought about how easy it would be to do research here another five years, spending her days in the library – and her nights with her newly present boyfriend. They’d come through some, well, interesting times, and survived them intact. Now their domestic routine seemed the epitome of comfort. Plus, she still wasn’t sure about that title. If only she could have some sense of the future.
‘I guess I chose the wrong field for that, huh?’ The moon over her head didn’t answer. Maybe that was because it was well overhead, far from the spare branches of the sickly street tree. It didn’t really matter. While Dulcie could have continued researching her topic forever, and, in fact, hoped to make it her life’s work, she was nearing the end of her thesis.
For the last five years, she’d lived and breathed The Ravages of Umbria, a little-known Gothic novel that she’d fallen for, hard. Only two fragments of the novel survived, but Dulcie had managed not only to extract its themes but also to piece together some information about the work’s anonymous author. Recently, she’d even identified a later – possibly greater – work by the same author. And now, with Mina’s help, she was closing in on giving that author a name. The paper she was presenting at the conference would be her third on the mysterious author and her haunting works. By this time next year, Dulcie would probably be defending her dissertation, if she could somehow come up with a way to sum up everything she had discovered – and was learning still. ‘The Mysteries of The Ravages’; she rehearsed her latest title for that in her head, not daring to speak out loud this close to the library. ‘The Political Ramifications of the Unfinished Umbria Author’.
Well, she was going to have to work on that, too. Somehow, she decided as she swiped her university ID, she needed to get in that her subject might still be anonymous. But also, she amended as she jogged up the stairs, that Dulcie had uncovered a lot about her. And while she felt compelled to acknowledge that the author’s great work was incomplete – there, that was a better word than ‘unfinished’ – the author herself seemed to have lived quite a full life. Including, Dulcie suspected, giving birth to one of Dulcie’s great-great-grandmothers. One of whose other descendants might be the undergrad upon whose door she now knocked.
‘There you are.’ Mina Love opened the door, relief washing over her pale, round face. ‘I was beginning to worry.’
‘Esmé,’ said Dulcie, by way of an explanation. Ever since they had met, Dulcie had found the younger woman surprisingly easy to talk to and therefore often didn’t have to say much at all. One reason for this was that they shared certain interests. Although the undergrad was in a different department, focusing more on the sociological side of things, they were both studying the same anonymous author. That was partly because they had both begun to believe that they might be descended from that author, making them cousins of some sort.
Maybe it was all just wishful thinking, Dulcie thought. Following the young woman into her dorm room, she noticed how Mina’s hair – a true auburn – waved, rather than curled, how her few extra inches of height put her curves into perspective. Despite the childhood accident that left her often reliant on a cane, Mina was like the idealized version of what Dulcie ought to be, she thought with a touch of rue. And the younger woman didn’t even seem to notice.
‘Do you want some cocoa?’ Mina called from the other room. Dulcie was tempted to say yes. Growing up the only child of a single mother, Dulcie had not had much in the way of family. Too many years moving around had forced her to rely on herself or her books, and by the time Dulcie’s mother had settled them into the commune – what her mother called the ‘arts colony’ – she’d grown used to her solitude. Since coming to college, she’d found a soulmate in Suze, her long-time room-mate. But even a surrogate sister was not a blood relative.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t.’ And work was still work. After all, not only was Dulcie presenting at the conference, she – or, okay, her department – was the unofficial host. That was an honor, but it was also time-consuming. It didn’t help that her thesis adviser had recently been named interim chair of the department. He was up for the permanent position, and Dulcie suspected that if he could just hold on long enough the wheels of the university would eventually turn in his favor. But she knew the balding, nervous scholar didn’t see it that way, and instead viewed the temporary post as merely a stay of execution. And while the conference gave Thorpe an opportunity to strut his stuff, it gave the same to his competitors – and also various chances to schmooze with the university’s sundry deans and senior faculty. By this point, Dulcie almost didn’t care who got it. Well, that wasn’t really true: she favored another candidate – Professor Renée Showalter – but despite his flaws, she also felt bad for Thorpe. He hadn’t been that terrible an adviser. If she could help relieve some of the pressure, she would.
‘Thorpe wants me at the departmental headquarters bright and early to go over the scheduling, and you know he’ll have a million errands for me,’ Dulcie called into the other room. ‘I’ll call once Showalter has gone over this.’
‘I hope she likes it.’ The younger woman came back in, slowly, the paper in her hand. This hour of the night, she leaned heavily on the cane. ‘I can’t believe I’m getting a credit on this.’
‘Hey, you did the preliminary trace on the genealogy.’ Dulcie smiled at her. ‘Everyone at the conference should know that.’
‘Still, thanks.’ Mina didn’t have to say what they both knew: that student researchers were often uncredited. ‘Are you going to hear Roebuck, too?’
Dulcie nodded as she pulled on her coat. ‘I think I have to.’ She looked at the other woman for understanding. ‘As little as I care about all that postmodernist stuff, she’s a big deal. Supposedly she’s going to deliver the biggest breakthrough our field has seen since … since, I don’t know.’
‘Since you tracked down the anonymous author of The Ravages of Umbria!’
Dulcie couldn’t help returning the younger woman’s smile. Or her compliment. ‘With the help of a certain History and Literature major.’
With that, she gave the other woman a gentle hug, tucked the marked-up paper under her arm, and headed out into the night.
‘The Moon in the Branches …’ Dulcie let her mind wander. The presentation was already in the conference program, not under her title but under the workmanlike but decidedly unpoetic rubric of ‘Additional Theories on an Anonymous Gothic Author’. That had been Thorpe’s doing. ‘Let’s not overreach,’ he’d said. Now, in the lig
ht of the moon, Dulcie wished she’d pushed harder for something that captured more of what she would actually say. Caught in the branches, like that mysterious moon …
Wrapped up in her own poetic vision, she started to cross the empty street. It was all so exciting; the bright moonlight seemed designed to reflect her mood. Only two years ago, she’d been foundering, her thesis stalled. In the last year, however, she’d not only identified additional writings by the anonymous author, she had practically confirmed a long-held suspicion. The author had emigrated, probably fleeing some kind of abuse, and brought her fiery writing style to the new Republic. That was the kind of breakthrough that made an academic’s name, she thought as she crossed the quiet street. This was—
‘Watch it!’ The bicyclist hit her arm, throwing Dulcie sideways and the pages she held on to the street. ‘Share the road!’ he yelled behind him.
‘Jerk.’ The voice behind her was almost as startling. Still, she was grateful for the firm grip on her other arm that steadied her; then the man, following her gaze, bent to retrieve the papers. ‘Share the road yourself!’ he called after the cyclist.
‘I wasn’t looking,’ confessed Dulcie, as the stranger stood and handed her the papers. ‘And, well, I was thinking of other things.’
‘I figured that, from the way you were gesturing.’ The man smiled. It was a nice smile and made him look younger than the salt-and-pepper hair implied. ‘Are you an actress?’
‘Oh, no.’ Dulcie looked down, to hide the growing flush, as they walked. Maybe the blue-white light of the street lamps wouldn’t show her crimson cheeks. ‘I’m a student. A graduate student. I was just thinking of a talk I have to give.’
‘On the genealogy of a Gothic novelist?’ He’d guided her to the opposite corner, but now stopped.
‘Wait, you know it?’ A cold chill replaced the warm flush. Had Mina shared her work with someone else?
But her companion was shaking his head. ‘Those pages.’ He pointed. ‘I saw the title.’
‘Are you here for the conference?’ Dulcie might not know everyone at the university, but surely she knew anyone interested in Gothic literature.
He nodded. ‘Paul.’ He held out a gloved hand. ‘Paul Barnes. From Humbard.’
‘Of course.’ Dulcie nodded. Then belatedly reached out to shake. ‘Sorry, I’m Dulcie, Dulcie Schwartz. I’m organizing ELLA.’ It was an exaggeration, but perhaps an understandable one. Paul Barnes, after all, was one of the luminaries of her little field. Which meant that he probably knew Thorpe, as well as the dean. ‘I mean, I’m helping with the organizing,’ she amended her claim. ‘I’m a doctoral candidate.’
‘I know who you are now.’ He was nodding as if he did indeed recognize her. ‘I read your last paper. You’re presenting?’
Somehow, without bursting, she gave him the details about her paper – and about her latest discovery. ‘It’s just one of the small talks,’ she confessed. ‘And Martin Thorpe thinks I’ve gotten a bit off track. He thinks I should have defended my dissertation a year ago.’
‘There’s no such thing as a “small talk”, and don’t let anyone rush you.’ The visiting scholar’s face turned serious. ‘There’s so much work to do, and you want to do it correctly.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and stood there smiling as he walked off down the street into the night.
‘Paul Barnes,’ she said, as much to the moon as to herself. ‘Paul Barnes knows who I am! Maybe he’ll even come to hear me speak.’
It wasn’t, she told herself, that he was a star. A dashing star who had rescued her. It was that he had recognized her. She couldn’t wait to tell Chris. Except then she’d have to confess to being out walking, close to midnight. Well, it wasn’t like they were married, she told herself as she picked up her pace. And even if they were, she’d still be able to make her own decisions. It wasn’t like in the days of her author, when a woman gave up everything. She was a person in her own right.
And he was Chris, she reminded herself. He didn’t even want to be out nights any more. Said he was sick of moonlight, that he felt like the nocturnal schedule was depleting him somehow. Poor dear. She looked up at the moon, now so bright it might as well be a street light. He’d gotten so turned around by the schedule changes that he could barely sleep through the night, especially when the moon was so bright. In a way, she admitted to herself, she was glad he was working tonight. Full moon like this, he’d have been tossing and turning. Better he should earn some money. And she should get home and get some more work done. Carpe diem wasn’t the only rule academics followed. Carpe noctem, too. Especially with conference prep to do in the morning.
She turned off Mass Ave and down the long street that led to their apartment. The wind had picked up, coming straight off the river, and she hugged her sweater – and the pages – closer. Before going to sleep, she’d type in Mina’s changes and print out a clean copy. The professor had requested a hard copy. They were book people, paper people, in a way that Chris and his colleagues would never understand.
Paul Barnes would. The traitorous thought snuck in, like a draft between her buttons. Paul Barnes may have been out on a similar errand – she hadn’t asked him. At any rate, his timing had been fortuitous, not that the cyclist had done her any real harm. One block left, and Dulcie cradled her elbow. It was sore where the cyclist had hit it. She hadn’t even seen him coming.
Maybe it was dangerous to walk around the city at night. Maybe Chris had a point. Well, once he was completely off the overnights, she’d give up that particular bad habit. It was too cold to be out here anyway.
I wonder how busy he is? she asked herself as she unlocked their building’s front door. I could call, just to say hi. She let herself in, careful to make sure the door latched behind her. The old tile floors were loud, but she enjoyed the clatter as she made her way up to the fourth floor. A skylight, old and pigeon-grimed, let that cool blue moonlight in.
‘Esmé, I’m home!’ Her stage whisper was simply for effect. The little cat knew when she was arriving without an announcement. When she opened the door, however, there was no pet to greet her, and Dulcie looked around with dismay.
‘Esmé? Esmeralda?’ She called, and wandered into the kitchen. There, silhouetted against the moonlight, she saw the seated feline form. From her perch on the window sill, the cat’s green eyes seemed focused not on the street below but on the moon. Listening.
It was a trick of the light, surely. Or the wind, which now whistled off the river, looking for a way in. From out in the city, Dulcie heard it. Lonely, and as cold as that moon: a howl.
TWO
Violent as a blade ripping through sable velvet, the night was pierc’d, not by stars but by the shaft of lightning that tore the darkness, heralding the storm to come. In its wake, grey against the new-inked midnight, thund’rous clouds rolled in, lowering on to the rooftops and the river beyond. Yet, safe, for now, within the stone confines of her tower keep, She stood fast against the terror of the storm. No Spectre, nor any Spirit ephemeral as those clouds, approached. The one she awaited would forge a path through the deepening gloom. O’er the river, she could spy the faintest glimmer. Dawn, perhaps, or its earliest Herald, reflecting off the storm-toss’d waters. But, no, the hour was not near. ’Twas a different glow, a hellish light, spreading as she watched, her eyes grown wide with Horror. Whipped by hellhounds Atmospheric and dark, the phantasm grew, threatening the Town below, that eerie Wind foretelling its arrival, a Howl upon the dark.
Dulcie woke with a headache and the feeling of fur in her mouth. If the hour she’d finally gone to sleep explained the former, the bright green eyes that peered down at her from the back of the sofa gave plausible grounds for the latter.
‘I know, Esmé, I should have gone to bed.’ She picked a cat hair from her lip as she sat up. ‘I just wanted to go through this one more time.’ The laptop, warm on her legs, brightened as she pulled it toward her. On the screen, her presentation, incorporating Mina’s lat
est edits, came to life. She must have fallen asleep while proofing it, Dulcie realized. At least she’d been saving as she went along.
‘Oof!’ With a thud that belied the young cat’s size, Esmé jumped from the sofa back, landing on Dulcie’s legs. The spot must still be warm from where the computer had lain, but the tuxedo’s arrival – and the furious purring that commenced as she kneaded – sent her back to other, colder thoughts.
‘Was that you, purring, last night?’ She thought of the dream, of the rumbling thunder. It made sense, in a way, considering that she’d been rereading that passage about a dark night only hours before. And in the dream, the thunder hadn’t sounded ominous, not that she recalled. More like a message, a harbinger of a storm to come. ‘Or was it just my laptop?’ She looked at the cat, hoping for an answer. The thunder in the dream hadn’t been scary. Still, something in it had left her unsettled.
‘Meh.’ The soft exhalation could have been a reply or simply a comment on the afghan Dulcie had pulled over herself at some point in the night.
‘Was it Mr Grey, Esmé?’ Dulcie asked, her voice going soft. The relationship between the two felines in her life was complicated. At times, she had thought of Mr Grey as a parent figure for the living cat, even though that wasn’t physically possible. Sometimes she thought the two discussed things behind her back, conspiring how best to manage the humans in their household. Recently, however, it seemed that Esmé was rebelling against the spirit. Having worked to free herself from her own mother’s influence, Dulcie understood the need for the younger cat to assert herself. She worried, though, that simply by being here, by being the actual living pet in Dulcie’s life, Esmé would end up banishing her spectral companion, not seeing how Dulcie – and even Chris – could love them both.