But beyond referring to the silvery feline as ‘our third room-mate’, Dulcie suspected that her friend wasn’t really a cat person.
‘They don’t have brains. I mean, did you ever meet Alana? I don’t think she’s ever read a book for pleasure in her life.’
‘So much the better for you, Dulce.’ She could hear her friend settling into her own easy chair. ‘Some men like brains.’
At that, Dulcie had to pause. It was true that she didn’t have a great social record. When she had been with Jonah, it hadn’t mattered. They had hung out with his friends and seen movies. When he had moved away, she had tended to work on weekends – the better to avoid temptation. Or to avoid noticing that there was no temptation. And then Mr Grey had started on his decline, and she hadn’t wanted to leave the house at all. This was a chance to get out. Plus, if she was totally honest with herself, she wouldn’t mind seeing Luke again. Would he be there? Judging from Alana’s comments, probably not. But there was a chance . . .
‘Ah, am I hearing some wheels turning?’ Suze always had been attuned to Dulcie’s moods. ‘Is there a possibility here?’
‘Probably not.’ She was smiling as she said it.
‘So there is !’
Dulcie remained silent, despite several entreaties, and finally Suze relented.
‘But you’ll go, right?’
‘Yeah. Unless something else comes up, I’ll go.’
The idea of seeing Luke again did have a certain appeal, Dulcie admitted. He’d said he was taking a seminar in Cambridge next month, so maybe he had hung around. For now, though, what she really wanted to do was return to the library.
Dulcie had called Suze after two stolen hours in the Widener stacks, and that had been just long enough to remind her of how much she missed it. Deep in the book-friendly 68-degrees air of the library’s innards, Dulcie had begun to feel like herself again. As she padded down to Level A, the third of ten that descended deep below Harvard Yard, her soft flip-flops barely made a sound. The building, home to three and a half million books, hummed softly, like a giant purring beast, and as she had edged down one narrow aisle, books shelved on either side, she’d begun to shed the all-around weirdness of the day. Never mind the data entry, mind numbing as it was, but why was she repeating it? And to think that her boss, a woman who probably could pay Dulcie’s loans with a personal check, had stolen her sweater . . . it was all just too odd.
Twenty minutes chasing down a half-remembered quote, and she’d felt like a scholar again. Flipping past the marbleized paper frontispiece, she’d ended up taking the relatively ‘modern’ anthology – dating from 1890 – over to a study carrel and rereading both of the existing bits of The Ravages of Umbria, as well as an essay on the book’s possible authorship . Dulcie knew she should be spending her time on something more valuable. Her own adviser scoffed whenever she brought up The Ravages , and Dulcie knew he had reason. To remind herself of why, she made herself focus on one of the story’s weakest scenes, when Hermetria confides in her attendant about her romantic and financial dilemmas, and Demetria responds with a long-winded and hackneyed speech, largely in verse. It was lousy writing, Dulcie admitted. But something in it drew her. While Hermetria’s part was quite touching, the attendant – more of a companion than a maid – replies with rote sympathy:
I do swear upon my heart, my friend belov’d!
Whatever rough winds blow from fate, I’ll not be mov’d.
The woman was always tearing up with some ‘sublime emotion’ or other. Maybe it was all the dramatic scenery.
‘Maybe she simply meant to go back and rework that part,’ Dulcie thought, flipping ahead. Dulcie always imagined the author of The Ravages to be a woman, one of the so-called ‘She-Authors’ who had made their mark with this kind of popular fiction. Perhaps this was what
‘They don’t have brains. I mean, did you ever meet Alana? I don’t think she’s ever read a book for pleasure in her life.’
‘So much the better for you, Dulce.’ She could hear her friend settling into her own easy chair. ‘Some men like brains.’
At that, Dulcie had to pause. It was true that she didn’t have a great social record. When she had been with Jonah, it hadn’t mattered. They had hung out with his friends and seen movies. When he had moved away, she had tended to work on weekends – the better to avoid temptation. Or to avoid noticing that there was no temptation. And then Mr Grey had started on his decline, and she hadn’t wanted to leave the house at all. This was a chance to get out. Plus, if she was totally honest with herself, she wouldn’t mind seeing Luke again. Would he be there? Judging from Alana’s comments, probably not. But there was a chance . . .
‘Ah, am I hearing some wheels turning?’ Suze always had been attuned to Dulcie’s moods. ‘Is there a possibility here?’
‘Probably not.’ She was smiling as she said it.
‘So there is !’
Dulcie remained silent, despite several entreaties, and finally Suze relented.
‘But you’ll go, right?’
‘Yeah. Unless something else comes up, I’ll go.’
The idea of seeing Luke again did have a certain appeal, Dulcie admitted. He’d said he was taking a seminar in Cambridge next month, so maybe he had hung around. For now, though, what she really wanted to do was return to the library.
Dulcie had called Suze after two stolen hours in the Widener stacks, and that had been just long enough to remind her of how much she missed it. Deep in the book-friendly 68-degrees air of the library’s innards, Dulcie had begun to feel like herself again. As she padded down to Level A, the third of ten that descended deep below Harvard Yard, her soft flip-flops barely made a sound. The building, home to three and a half million books, hummed softly, like a giant purring beast, and as she had edged down one narrow aisle, books shelved on either side, she’d begun to shed the all-around weirdness of the day. Never mind the data entry, mind numbing as it was, but why was she repeating it? And to think that her boss, a woman who probably could pay Dulcie’s loans with a personal check, had stolen her sweater . . . it was all just too odd.
Twenty minutes chasing down a half-remembered quote, and she’d felt like a scholar again. Flipping past the marbleized paper frontispiece, she’d ended up taking the relatively ‘modern’ anthology – dating from 1890 – over to a study carrel and rereading both of the existing bits of The Ravages of Umbria, as well as an essay on the book’s possible authorship . Dulcie knew she should be spending her time on something more valuable. Her own adviser scoffed whenever she brought up The Ravages , and Dulcie knew he had reason. To remind herself of why, she made herself focus on one of the story’s weakest scenes, when Hermetria confides in her attendant about her romantic and financial dilemmas, and Demetria responds with a long-winded and hackneyed speech, largely in verse. It was lousy writing, Dulcie admitted. But something in it drew her. While Hermetria’s part was quite touching, the attendant – more of a companion than a maid – replies with rote sympathy:
I do swear upon my heart, my friend belov’d!
Whatever rough winds blow from fate, I’ll not be mov’d.
The woman was always tearing up with some ‘sublime emotion’ or other. Maybe it was all the dramatic scenery.
‘Maybe she simply meant to go back and rework that part,’ Dulcie thought, flipping ahead. Dulcie always imagined the author of The Ravages to be a woman, one of the so-called ‘She-Authors’ who had made their mark with this kind of popular fiction. Perhaps this was what
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