A Fugitive Truth: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,25

shuddered and quickly ran down a list of other possible honorees: Bradstreet, Behn, Elizabeth, Franklin, Hathshepsut, Mead, Montagu, Roosevelt…I realized that I didn’t want anything too specific to one woman and immediately came up with the answer: The Bluestocking Club.

The whiskey was sterling. I let the next sip linger a bit more, savoring the sharp peaty bite, and allowed my eyes to unfocus on the fire as it hungrily devoured the dry wood. Lovely. I didn’t bother worrying about wretches with too much power and not enough to do, I didn’t worry about existential puzzles, I didn’t even bother trying to unravel more of the mysterious Madam C’s life. I snuggled into my sweater and tucked my feet up underneath me, nearly drowsing as I listened to the crackle and hissing of the fire, letting the smoke of the single-malt mingle with the smell of burning wood. After admiring the dull glow of my bracelet in the flickering light, I was feeling so mellow and content when the door opened a crack, that I didn’t even mind the intrusion. I decided that whoever it was would be welcome; the Bluestocking way was to be generous with guests. I would even show Jack what real booze was. Whoever knocked would be voted in with all the privileges, moved and seconded and passed by unanimous vote of one.

It took me a moment to realize that although it was neither Jack nor Michael, I recognized the face that peered from the narrow opening between the sliding doors. “Sasha? What are you—?”

But although there was a superficial resemblance to the manuscript librarian—blonde hair, same approximate height and build—this woman had none of Sasha’s vibrancy. Instead, angles and planes seemed to dominate the stranger’s profile, as if she was built to deflect unwanted attention. Over a dark turtleneck, she wore a sleek, narrowly cut jumper that I could see was made of a fine wool, but none of its warmth seemed to be conveyed to her features; her skin was as pale and cool as marble.

Then a name from the past surfaced and snapped into place alongside my vague recognition of the work being conducted by the fourth Shrewsbury Fellow.

“Good God, Faith Burnes!” I said with more enthusiasm than I might have without the soothing effect of the fire and the whiskey. “I haven’t seen you since…well, since Coolidge I guess! What are you doing here? How are you?”

The other woman started visibly at my robust greeting and looked around her, as if out of habit. “I’m not Faith Burnes anymore. I go by my maiden name, Morgan.” Then the penny dropped for her too, and her face relaxed into a cautious half smile. “Emma…Fielding, right?” she said slowly, working memory from the mire. “It has been a while, hasn’t it, since graduate school?” Then, almost reluctantly, “I thought I recognized your name on the memo. It’s been a long time.”

“It’s me, all right,” I said. “Look, come in, come in, have a seat, Dr. B—er, Doctor!” I gestured grandly. “Pull up a pew.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” she said, backing away quickly. “I just thought I’d left my notebook in here…”

There was no notebook, and we both knew it. “Nonsense, disturb! Look, really, let me get you a glass, this stuff is brilliant.” Perhaps a little too much “r” in brilliant, Emma? Better slow down, you’re overtired and the whiskey’s got a kick.

With a little effort, I extricated myself from my nest and toddled over to the cabinet and fetched another glass. “Honestly, won’t you join me? I’ve had the whole place to myself all night, I’ve been telling myself ghost stories and I need a bit of human companionship. You’d be doing me a favor. What have you been up to?”

Faith seemed to think about it for a moment, then, as if compelled by something other than her own will, slid the doors together behind her and glided over to the other chair. She picked up the bottle and looked at it thoughtfully, then turned her gaze at me. Her pause was overburdened with contemplation of a decision that had nothing to do with a drink, I thought. “Why not? For old times’ sake.”

I got the impression that she was talking about old times that had nothing to do with our brief, shared time in graduate school. Even though I’d been in the anthropology department and Faith had been in the English department, we’d ended up together in several classes on early