A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,23

we do to the future.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then picked up a measuring tape. “Now, stop fidgeting and straighten out that wall before you dig any deeper.”

That memory made me smile. Shaking myself free of my funk, I turned on a light, flipped on my portable radio, and turned up the heat in my room. As I looked around the room, my glance landed on the picture of Brian that usually sat on my bookcase at work and was now on the bureau here. It wasn’t the best picture I ever took. It’s from a birthday party and it’s not horrible; I mean, you can tell he’s a guy, that he’s got cowlicks that resist any sort of tampering. It’s not great as a formal portrait, that’s all. But the reason I take it with me whenever I leave home is that I’d caught him in mid-laugh, and it reflects a true image of his soul: I love him for his humor, his curiosity, persistence, and optimism, and somehow that all showed up on the print.

The photo was one more thing to cheer me; I wasn’t going to cave in to my doubts.

I also reminded myself of why I had finally decided that my work was important. History tends to be about grand events or trends that are dissociated from the common person. Historical archaeology is about everyday things, it’s finding out about people who didn’t always have a voice or fair representation by those who kept the public records, it’s about filling in the blanks. By teaching what archaeology teaches about the past, I was letting my audiences know how people like them made the great things possible. On the good days, I felt like I was a preacher, teaching empowerment, hope, and ownership. On the bad days, like today, I felt like an empty vessel. It was so much a matter of faith, and sometimes faith has to be jump-started by self-discipline. Resolutely, I picked up the last unopened box and began to unpack it.

When I opened it, I was surprised to see two packages, one very small and the other about a foot long wrapped in tissue paper and nestled between my Chicago Manual of Style and Grandpa Oscar’s much-worn Riverside edition of the complete works of Shakespeare. A brief susurrus and I found that the smaller box contained a small silver bracelet with dense square links, a style that was popular during the Art Deco period. I will reveal under no circumstances what the card that accompanied the gift said; suffice it to say that I was troubled with no further worries about petty tyrants like Belcher and Constantino, or the well-intentioned predations of bureaucrats like Whitlow in the face of the accompanying note. I went into the hall to call Brian, but as he wasn’t in, I left no other message on the machine apart from telling him I found his surprise. I didn’t want to melt the answering machine.

When I tore the wrapping from the other, larger package, I found a box marked on the outside in chaste letters: “THE MACALLAN, Aged 18 Years.” The note that accompanied it was in our friend Kam’s handwriting. Kam was Brian’s friend and boss, and he’d married Marty, my old college roommate, more than a year ago. They were expecting their first child shortly. The note read

Marty and I were concerned about you being in the wilderness without medical supplies—this ought to serve admirably. In addition to being a first-rate sterilising agent and anaesthetic, you’ll find it’s also effective as a social facilitator. Congratulations on your fellowship again,

Kam

I noticed that “facilitator” had not been his first choice of words. If dear Kam weren’t trying to come off as an older brother instead of a flirt, he would have left “lubricant.”

Beneath that was one of Marty’s hastily scribbled notes, familiar from our college days together:

Dearie, if this child doesn’t make her appearance soon, I’m going in there after her with an eviction notice. In the meantime, one of us has to have a good time, so have a sup and think of me and my bottle of fizzy water. À bientôt.

M.

So, Marty still wasn’t telling us what the name of the baby would be. I couldn’t wait to see what kind of a mother she’d make, or what the baby would be like, as far as that went. As a matter of fact, I recalled with a frown, it seemed as though all of my