was tempted to follow up, but from the sounds in the other room, Esmé was already busy with one of her toys. Maybe that was her job: catnip monitor. And Dulcieâs? Well, with the Mildon off limits and her thesis hanging by a thread, she had little better to do than actually try to teach. If she hurried, she told herself as she screwed on the top of her travel mug, sheâd make it to her section on time. Even the strange conversation with the cat had cost her a few minutes she could ill afford. For her Saturday section was all the way down by the river â in the library of Dardley House.
Dardley House, where Melinda Sloane Harquist would be holding court in only a few hours. The visiting scholar had her sights set on Dulcieâs topic â and seemingly had no interest in sharing. For all that Esmé had been talking about connections, Dulcie couldnât see how that would work here. Maybe cats simply were superior creatures. Taking a sip from the mug, Dulcie clattered down the apartment stairs and set off.
English 10, the year-long survey course by which potential majors lived or failed, had been one of her favorite classes, she reminded herself as she darted across a one-way street with barely a glance at traffic. Like most such courses, it covered way too much â jumping from Puritan sermons to Mark Twainâs satires, all before midterms. As an undergrad, Dulcie had loved the way it drew connections between these, linking entire schools of thought through philosophical arguments over time. Only now, teaching the course, did she understand that for some students, those links were a bit too much.
âThe key is attitude,â Dulcie rehearsed to herself, as she waited for a light. âLet yourself see how ideas can do the connecting.â
She tried a few takes on it, attempting to sound as encouraging as possible and startling another pedestrian as she spoke out loud. âItâs all about attitude,â she said, and realized she was beginning to sound like Esmé.
Wednesdayâs lecture had involved the courseâs first difficult leap, from those early sermons to the first-hand reports of Kentucky explorers. Some of her students â she was thinking of two in particular â were not going to make it, she feared. Well, speaking of roles, it was her responsibility to reach down and haul those two up. The fact that this section was held in one of the conference rooms of Dardley House was neither here nor there. Melinda Sloane Harquist wouldnât have arrived yet, anyway. And she would get to talk to her later. The Dardley clock rang the quarter hour. Nearly eleven. Picking up the pace as she turned on to the walkway to the house entrance Dulcie took another chug of coffee. Almost there. Which meant a few more moments to focus on the task at hand.
âTry thinking about the mindset of the writers.â It sounded good. Maybe it would work with the scared and scattered undergrads she was about to face. âHow did they view this big new country of theirs? Were they frightened? Invigorated? A little bit of both?â
Such questions invariably brought up her thesis topic.
The Ravages
was not covered in any of the big courses â Dulcie had only discovered the remaining fragments of the book in a graduate-level discussion group sheâd wiggled into in her junior year â and its author was firmly identified with a British tradition. Still, she couldnât help asking herself the same questions. Her author had been here, somewhere. A newcomer to a new world, fleeing some kind of danger. What had she thought of her new world?
âI donât care.â She was steps from the open door when a woman burst out of the houseâs front door, voice raised nearly to a shriek. The clock chimed again, but it didnât come close to drowning her out. âIâm sorry, Rafe, but I donât,â Dulcie heard, between peals. âYouâre always on
Dardley House, where Melinda Sloane Harquist would be holding court in only a few hours. The visiting scholar had her sights set on Dulcieâs topic â and seemingly had no interest in sharing. For all that Esmé had been talking about connections, Dulcie couldnât see how that would work here. Maybe cats simply were superior creatures. Taking a sip from the mug, Dulcie clattered down the apartment stairs and set off.
English 10, the year-long survey course by which potential majors lived or failed, had been one of her favorite classes, she reminded herself as she darted across a one-way street with barely a glance at traffic. Like most such courses, it covered way too much â jumping from Puritan sermons to Mark Twainâs satires, all before midterms. As an undergrad, Dulcie had loved the way it drew connections between these, linking entire schools of thought through philosophical arguments over time. Only now, teaching the course, did she understand that for some students, those links were a bit too much.
âThe key is attitude,â Dulcie rehearsed to herself, as she waited for a light. âLet yourself see how ideas can do the connecting.â
She tried a few takes on it, attempting to sound as encouraging as possible and startling another pedestrian as she spoke out loud. âItâs all about attitude,â she said, and realized she was beginning to sound like Esmé.
Wednesdayâs lecture had involved the courseâs first difficult leap, from those early sermons to the first-hand reports of Kentucky explorers. Some of her students â she was thinking of two in particular â were not going to make it, she feared. Well, speaking of roles, it was her responsibility to reach down and haul those two up. The fact that this section was held in one of the conference rooms of Dardley House was neither here nor there. Melinda Sloane Harquist wouldnât have arrived yet, anyway. And she would get to talk to her later. The Dardley clock rang the quarter hour. Nearly eleven. Picking up the pace as she turned on to the walkway to the house entrance Dulcie took another chug of coffee. Almost there. Which meant a few more moments to focus on the task at hand.
âTry thinking about the mindset of the writers.â It sounded good. Maybe it would work with the scared and scattered undergrads she was about to face. âHow did they view this big new country of theirs? Were they frightened? Invigorated? A little bit of both?â
Such questions invariably brought up her thesis topic.
The Ravages
was not covered in any of the big courses â Dulcie had only discovered the remaining fragments of the book in a graduate-level discussion group sheâd wiggled into in her junior year â and its author was firmly identified with a British tradition. Still, she couldnât help asking herself the same questions. Her author had been here, somewhere. A newcomer to a new world, fleeing some kind of danger. What had she thought of her new world?
âI donât care.â She was steps from the open door when a woman burst out of the houseâs front door, voice raised nearly to a shriek. The clock chimed again, but it didnât come close to drowning her out. âIâm sorry, Rafe, but I donât,â Dulcie heard, between peals. âYouâre always on
Similar Books
