splash, she dropped the paper-wrapped burger that Lala had hurried to wrap for her. She looked down in time to see it run over, its orange-red sauce seeping out of the paper like blood. The final straw. Her foot was wet and cold. Her boyfriend AWOL. Her favorite student seemed to consider Dulcieâs best efforts to keep her on track expendable. And now her lunch was roadkill. Dulcie bit her lip and fought back a sudden rush of tears. It didnât work, and she found herself blinking up at the sky until she could regain control.
Or be distracted. Sometimes, in the gray winter sky, sheâd see one of the red-tailed hawks that had repatriated Cambridge. They made a majestic sight, like something that would have circled Hermetriaâs remote castle keep. Lonely, proud, and strong.
Today, though, the sky was empty of everything but mottled clouds. A depressing sky, good for nothing but hiding from. Or, Goddess forbid â at times of stress, Dulcie always heard Lucyâs voice â snow.
Pulling her collar tighter, Dulcie plodded through the yard. The toes on her left foot were half numb, but she had dry socks in her office. If she put her boot up on the radiator, maybe she could dry out the worst of it before heading home.
Head down, to avoid any further mishaps, she made her way across the icy yard. Would this winter never end? But as she emerged near the Science Center, a flash â like a fleeting shadow â caused her to look up. Could it be one of the hawks? She never found out. For not fifty yards ahead, she spied Corkie, making her way up a side street to the new psych annex.
âCorkie!â The younger girl had a lead, as well as the advantage of longer legs, and Dulcie lost her in the crowd milling in front of the new building. The fountains had been turned off for the season, of course, but as Dulcie trotted across the stone courtyard, leaving dark, wet footsteps in her wake, she couldnât help but feel a bit resentful. The humanities never got new buildings. The English department in particular had had to lobby non-stop simply to have the roof of its departmental offices repaired. Martin Thorpe had been saving up mildewed theses for months to show the comptroller.
âCorkie?â A church tower tolled the hour, and the students scattered. Anyone heading back to the Square would have to hustle. Inside the glass-fronted lobby, Dulcie saw a coat and a door. An elevator. She was no longer sure it was her student, but followed anyway. At least sheâd be warm.
âMay I help you?â The guard looked Dulcie up and down with a skeptical eye.
âMy student, Philomena McCorkle? Did you see her go by?â At the end of the lobby, one of the elevator doors closed.
âYour ID, please?â With a ping, the elevator began to ascend. âMiss?â
At least he was being polite, but Dulcie could not resist a heavy sigh as she dropped her bag on his desk and began rummaging through it. Why, at times like these, was something as simple as a wallet so hard to find? âHere.â She smiled in relief.
The guard took his time. âGo on up,â he said finally, sounding resigned as he waved her by. But before she could get to the bank of elevators, before she could even begin to guess which floor her student had chosen, or why, a dull thud made them both turn. A truck going over a pothole, Dulcie told herself. Someone rough-housing into the glass. Orâ
The afternoon was shattered by a piercing shriek.
âWhat the?â The guard turned toward the doors, one hand on the phone, the other on what looked like a baton at his waist.
âCorkie?â It didnât make sense, but Dulcie was suddenly seized by a horrible premonition. Her student was in danger. Her student was hurt. Her student â her charge, a young woman she should have taken better care of . . .
âItâs Fritz!â A young woman ran in, eyes wild. âFritz Herschoft!
Or be distracted. Sometimes, in the gray winter sky, sheâd see one of the red-tailed hawks that had repatriated Cambridge. They made a majestic sight, like something that would have circled Hermetriaâs remote castle keep. Lonely, proud, and strong.
Today, though, the sky was empty of everything but mottled clouds. A depressing sky, good for nothing but hiding from. Or, Goddess forbid â at times of stress, Dulcie always heard Lucyâs voice â snow.
Pulling her collar tighter, Dulcie plodded through the yard. The toes on her left foot were half numb, but she had dry socks in her office. If she put her boot up on the radiator, maybe she could dry out the worst of it before heading home.
Head down, to avoid any further mishaps, she made her way across the icy yard. Would this winter never end? But as she emerged near the Science Center, a flash â like a fleeting shadow â caused her to look up. Could it be one of the hawks? She never found out. For not fifty yards ahead, she spied Corkie, making her way up a side street to the new psych annex.
âCorkie!â The younger girl had a lead, as well as the advantage of longer legs, and Dulcie lost her in the crowd milling in front of the new building. The fountains had been turned off for the season, of course, but as Dulcie trotted across the stone courtyard, leaving dark, wet footsteps in her wake, she couldnât help but feel a bit resentful. The humanities never got new buildings. The English department in particular had had to lobby non-stop simply to have the roof of its departmental offices repaired. Martin Thorpe had been saving up mildewed theses for months to show the comptroller.
âCorkie?â A church tower tolled the hour, and the students scattered. Anyone heading back to the Square would have to hustle. Inside the glass-fronted lobby, Dulcie saw a coat and a door. An elevator. She was no longer sure it was her student, but followed anyway. At least sheâd be warm.
âMay I help you?â The guard looked Dulcie up and down with a skeptical eye.
âMy student, Philomena McCorkle? Did you see her go by?â At the end of the lobby, one of the elevator doors closed.
âYour ID, please?â With a ping, the elevator began to ascend. âMiss?â
At least he was being polite, but Dulcie could not resist a heavy sigh as she dropped her bag on his desk and began rummaging through it. Why, at times like these, was something as simple as a wallet so hard to find? âHere.â She smiled in relief.
The guard took his time. âGo on up,â he said finally, sounding resigned as he waved her by. But before she could get to the bank of elevators, before she could even begin to guess which floor her student had chosen, or why, a dull thud made them both turn. A truck going over a pothole, Dulcie told herself. Someone rough-housing into the glass. Orâ
The afternoon was shattered by a piercing shriek.
âWhat the?â The guard turned toward the doors, one hand on the phone, the other on what looked like a baton at his waist.
âCorkie?â It didnât make sense, but Dulcie was suddenly seized by a horrible premonition. Her student was in danger. Her student was hurt. Her student â her charge, a young woman she should have taken better care of . . .
âItâs Fritz!â A young woman ran in, eyes wild. âFritz Herschoft!
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