"But that's what women's writing is all about," Karen said. "That's the theme of Ismene's poem. 'They have shut me in a house of stone.' She wasn't talking about a physical prison."
Much of Simon's business was conducted by mail; drop-in customers were rare, and the dismal weather did not encourage shoppers. They were not interrupted again. However, Simon waited until the stroke of twelve before locking the front door. Karen preceded him up the stairs at the back of the shop, moving slowly so that the necessary deliberation of his own ascent would not humiliate him.
The apartment over the shop was small and a little shabby, but it was impeccably neat—except for the books. They lined the walls, covered all the flat surfaces, stood stacked in uneven piles beside chairs and sofa. Simon turned on the lights and led the way to the kitchen.
The rich, spicy smell of the goulash filled the room. Simon held a chair for Karen and moved back and forth with wineglasses, a basket of bread, and the steaming tureen. She knew better than to offer assistance.
After they finished eating Simon took out one of his thin black cigars. "May I smoke?" he inquired.
Karen jumped up. Snatching his plate and hers, she carried them to the sink, and finished clearing the table. Then she sat down and stared fixedly at him. "Now, Simon."
With a sigh Simon rose and left the room. The set of his shoulders expressed the resignation of a long-suffering male yielding to feminine whims. When he came back he was carrying a parcel and a clean white cloth, which he spread carefully across the table. "Now may I smoke?" he inquired, handing her the parcel.
He took her silence for consent; she had realized early on that he would be unmoved by lectures on the dangers of smoking and would regard any comment on his habits as rude and impertinent. In fact, she scarcely heard the question. She was too intent on the parcel.
It was small but bulky. Carefully Karen removed an outer covering of padded cloth to disclose a layer of the inert plastic used by museum conservators. Unlike ordinary plastic, it would not react chemically with fragile substances such as paper and cloth.
Her mouth was dry and her hands shook as she unwrapped the plastic. The object felt like a book. Well, she had expected that, hadn't she? Something old, something rare . . .
It wasn't a printed book. It was a pile of loose papers—a manuscript. If there had been covers, they were missing. The pages were raveled along one side, like mouse-nibbled wool, and the corners were so worn that the shape was more elliptical than rectangular. The lower edge was black and crumbling. She could just make out traces of writing on the topmost sheet, though it was so darkened by time and by disfiguring spots of brown—a condition known in the trade as "foxing"—that only a few words were legible.
Karen tried to control her voice. "I can't ... I don't ..."
"Don't be afraid to touch it, it is not as fragile as it appears," Simon said. "Except along the edges. The paper is handmade, lacking the destructive chemicals modern paper manufacturers employ. Well? What are you waiting for? All morning you nagged me to see it, and now you sit with folded hands staring at a blank page."
"Not . . . completely blank. I can read a few words." She turned to face him. "Simon. This isn't a joke, is it? You wouldn't . . ."
"No." A single sharp word; the accusation had hurt and angered him. She held out her hands in silent apology, and his stiff features relaxed as he took them in his. "Well, I can hardly blame you. I could not believe it myself at first. But the name is there. Ismene."
"Maybe it's not the same woman. Maybe some other writer used that name. Maybe this isn't . . . What is it? More poems? A diary?"
"Why don't you look for yourself?"
"I'm afraid to. I'm afraid I'm imagining this. I'm afraid it will crumble when I touch it."
"It is not a diary," Simon said patiently. "It appears to be a novel, or part of one. The first pages are missing, and so are the last."
"I don't believe it!"
"What don't you believe? As a literary form, the novel is two and a half centuries old. Richardson's Pamela was published in 1740. Also eighteenth-century in date were The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Castle of Otranto. This appears to be an example of the latter genre—the true Gothic novel, as opposed to the so-called Gothics of this century, which bear little resemblance to—"
"Don't you dare lecture me on my own subject!"
Simon laughed aloud. "So, you are yourself again."
"Dammit, Simon, I've written two articles on the Gothic novel."
"And you are now wringing your hands," Simon said, grinning. "How appropriate!"
"I'm trying to keep them off that book," Karen said, returning his smile. He knew her well; he had chosen the most effective method of calming her. "I want to grab it and start reading."
"Go ahead. We have all afternoon. And if you care to spend the night, all evening."
"Not the original, it's too precious. I'll have a copy made ..." She broke off as she saw his face change, and a wave of genuine physical sickness swamped her. "Simon! You are going to let me have it? You wouldn't show it to me and then take it away? You haven't sold it to someone else? You couldn't!"
"Calm yourself," Simon exclaimed. "Let me get you a glass of wine, or—"
"Don't treat me like some Victorian lady with the vapors! Oh, all right. I'll have some coffee. Please," she added sulkily.
He filled two cups and joined her at the table. "My dear Karen, you are the first person other than myself to see this. How could I do less? But I can't let you have it—not now, at any rate. No, don't speak! You
