Read Online The Angel Stone: A Novel by Juliet Dark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Juliet Dark
Ads: Link
responsibility of protecting the female students on campus from the Alphas.
For the most part, my students were polite, well-mannered young people. The biggest challenge was getting them to think outside the box and speak up in class, but they were soon all chiming in. The fairy-tales class worked especially well for the freshmen. They were, after all, venturing out on their own for the first time, leaving the safety of their childhood homes andsetting forth into the unknown, much like Little Red Riding Hood heading into the woods for Grandmother’s house or Beauty embarking for the Beast’s castle. By the end of September, most of them had identified some topic to explore in the term’s final research paper. Surprisingly, it was Nicky Ballard, a sophomore and one of my best students, who came to see me with a problem one late September evening at the end of my office hours.
“It turns out there’s just not a whole lot written about Mary McGowan.”
“I know,” I told her. “I’ve been looking, too.”
“Really? To help me with my project?” Nicky beamed as if she wanted to nominate me for Teacher of the Year.
“Well, she sounds fascinating. I’ve never heard of a seventeenth-century female folklorist.” I didn’t mention that my interest in her stemmed from the fact she’d recorded the origin story of my demon lover. “Where did you first hear of her?”
“In this book I found in a used-book shop in Edinburgh.” Nicky removed a book from her backpack. It was bound in soft burgundy leather, its spine stamped with a pattern of intertwining heather and thistles and the title,
Scottish Ballads of the Borderlands
, and the author’s name, Mary McGowan. I turned to the title page and my heart skipped a beat. On the facing page was an engraving of a rustic scene—the ruins of an arched doorway overgrown with thistles and climbing roses. It was the door from my dream. I read the caption beneath the doorway.
The hallow door from the ballad of William Duffy
.
“I’ve read the whole book twice,” Nicky was saying, “but I don’t know what I should do next.”
I tore my eyes away from the illustration and looked backat the title page; the book had been published by McGowan & Sons, Edinburgh. It was the fifth edition. The first edition had been published in 1670.
“Look, the publisher has the same name as her
and
they published the first edition. Perhaps she was the wife or daughter of the publisher. Why don’t you try writing to The Center for the Book in Edinburgh? They might have records about McGowan & Sons that contain information on Mary McGowan. While you’re waiting to hear from them, you should go back to the book. All these other ballads—Tam Lin, The Twa Corbies, Proud Lady Margaret—they’re all pretty standard except for William Duffy, which I haven’t been able to find anywhere else. Maybe there are details in that ballad that reveal biographical information about Mary McGowan. If you compare it to Tam Lin, which it so closely resembles, and examine the details that are different, you may be able to find out some clues about the author. Here …” I held out the book for Nicky regretfully. I liked the feel of the book in my hand, its leather cover smooth and warm to the touch, its pages softly dog-eared, and wanted to conduct my own research into Mary McGowan and her story that had somehow traveled into my dreams. But I couldn’t take it away from Nicky when it was the only copy of the William Duffy ballad.
“You can keep it,” Nicky said. “I made a copy of the William Duffy ballad and the title page so I could makes notes on it.”
“Oh, of course you couldn’t write notes in this,” I said, stroking my thumb along the smooth beveled curve of the pages. “But are you sure? It’s such a beautiful book.”
“To tell you the truth, Professor McFay, I bought it for you.” I looked up, surprised, and saw that Nicky was blushing. “As a thank-you for helping me get the
For the most part, my students were polite, well-mannered young people. The biggest challenge was getting them to think outside the box and speak up in class, but they were soon all chiming in. The fairy-tales class worked especially well for the freshmen. They were, after all, venturing out on their own for the first time, leaving the safety of their childhood homes andsetting forth into the unknown, much like Little Red Riding Hood heading into the woods for Grandmother’s house or Beauty embarking for the Beast’s castle. By the end of September, most of them had identified some topic to explore in the term’s final research paper. Surprisingly, it was Nicky Ballard, a sophomore and one of my best students, who came to see me with a problem one late September evening at the end of my office hours.
“It turns out there’s just not a whole lot written about Mary McGowan.”
“I know,” I told her. “I’ve been looking, too.”
“Really? To help me with my project?” Nicky beamed as if she wanted to nominate me for Teacher of the Year.
“Well, she sounds fascinating. I’ve never heard of a seventeenth-century female folklorist.” I didn’t mention that my interest in her stemmed from the fact she’d recorded the origin story of my demon lover. “Where did you first hear of her?”
“In this book I found in a used-book shop in Edinburgh.” Nicky removed a book from her backpack. It was bound in soft burgundy leather, its spine stamped with a pattern of intertwining heather and thistles and the title,
Scottish Ballads of the Borderlands
, and the author’s name, Mary McGowan. I turned to the title page and my heart skipped a beat. On the facing page was an engraving of a rustic scene—the ruins of an arched doorway overgrown with thistles and climbing roses. It was the door from my dream. I read the caption beneath the doorway.
The hallow door from the ballad of William Duffy
.
“I’ve read the whole book twice,” Nicky was saying, “but I don’t know what I should do next.”
I tore my eyes away from the illustration and looked backat the title page; the book had been published by McGowan & Sons, Edinburgh. It was the fifth edition. The first edition had been published in 1670.
“Look, the publisher has the same name as her
and
they published the first edition. Perhaps she was the wife or daughter of the publisher. Why don’t you try writing to The Center for the Book in Edinburgh? They might have records about McGowan & Sons that contain information on Mary McGowan. While you’re waiting to hear from them, you should go back to the book. All these other ballads—Tam Lin, The Twa Corbies, Proud Lady Margaret—they’re all pretty standard except for William Duffy, which I haven’t been able to find anywhere else. Maybe there are details in that ballad that reveal biographical information about Mary McGowan. If you compare it to Tam Lin, which it so closely resembles, and examine the details that are different, you may be able to find out some clues about the author. Here …” I held out the book for Nicky regretfully. I liked the feel of the book in my hand, its leather cover smooth and warm to the touch, its pages softly dog-eared, and wanted to conduct my own research into Mary McGowan and her story that had somehow traveled into my dreams. But I couldn’t take it away from Nicky when it was the only copy of the William Duffy ballad.
“You can keep it,” Nicky said. “I made a copy of the William Duffy ballad and the title page so I could makes notes on it.”
“Oh, of course you couldn’t write notes in this,” I said, stroking my thumb along the smooth beveled curve of the pages. “But are you sure? It’s such a beautiful book.”
“To tell you the truth, Professor McFay, I bought it for you.” I looked up, surprised, and saw that Nicky was blushing. “As a thank-you for helping me get the
Similar Books
