"Who—" she began.
"You know I can't tell you that," Simon interrupted with a frown.
"Are you selling on consignment?"
"No. I bought it outright." He hesitated for a moment, and then named a figure. It was less than she had feared, but more than she had hoped. Simon was too damned honorable; he could have told the owner the manuscript was worthless, and offered him ten dollars as a gesture of goodwill.
"I'll top your highest bid," she repeated. "Whatever it is." Reaching into her purse, she took out her checkbook. "I've got seven thousand, six hundred in my savings account. I'll give you seven thousand as a deposit. And yes, thank you—I will spend the night."
Chapter Two
All women, as authors, are feeble and tiresome. I wish they were forbidden to write, on pain of having their faces deeply scarified with an oyster shell.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, letter to his publisher, 1852
Darkness solid as stone weighted her limbs, filled her open mouth and flaring nostrils as she struggled for breath. Darkness like moist black earth, heavy, airless, imprisoning the hands that struggled to free themselves, pressing down upon her staring eyes . . .
She fought out of sleep into waking, the scream she had not been able to utter still trapped in her throat. The streetlight outside her bedroom window cast a pale illumination into the room. It was some time before her gasps settled into normal breathing; longer before she dared sleep again.
Karen had reached the faculty parking lot before she realized the sound— repeated, peremptory, vaguely familiar—was that of her own name. She turned. The form bearing down on her was also familiar: Dr. Margaret Finneyfrock, professor of American history, known to her friends as Peggy. She insisted on the diminutive, for reasons Karen had never understood; it certainly didn't suit her. Her crop of short gray curls looked as if it had been trimmed with garden shears, her weathered face was devoid of makeup, her stocky frame was clad in one of her legendary tweed suits. Her students claimed that when she bought a new one she weighted the pockets with stones and left it hanging in her closet until it had been suitably aged before putting it on. The skirts always bagged at the seat and the pockets always sagged and the fabric was always frayed by the claws of Peggy's cats.
Peggy was not wearing a coat, and Karen realized it was a mild, sunny day. She hadn't taken notice of the weather or the flowerbeds, which were bright with crocuses and daffodils.
"Are you going deaf, or just trying to avoid me?" Peggy demanded. "I've been bellowing at you for five minutes. Where the hell do you think you're going?"
"Home. Why the hell shouldn't I?"
"There is an extremely exasperated young woman outside your office door who could answer that. She claims she had an appointment with you at eleven."
"Oh, Lord." Karen bit her lip. "Debbie. This is the second ... I suppose I'll have to see her."
"Don't bother. She went stamping off after she'd unloaded on me. I don't know why they all unload on me. I certainly don't invite— Hey, wait a minute!" Karen turned. Peggy caught her by the arm. "I didn't chase you all this way just to tell you you'd screwed up. Why do you think I went by your office in the first place? I haven't seen you for over a week. Let's go have lunch."
"Sorry. I really don't have time."
Peggy gripped Karen's other arm and swung her around so that they stood face-to-face. The expression was not entirely accurate; Peggy was five inches shorter than Karen, and she had to tip her head back in order to meet the latter's eyes. Apparently she did not approve of what she saw.
"You look terrible," she said bluntly. "What have you been doing? Not eating or sleeping, obviously. Is something wrong?"
Not sleeping, Karen thought. Dreaming. The flash of memory—palpable darkness, weighting her down—shivered through her body, and Peggy's grip tightened. "What is it?"
"Nothing. I'm fine. I've been working, that's all. A new project. I've got to get back to it, I don't have time for—"
"Then you'd damned well better make time. You'll fall ill if you go on like this, and then where will your precious project be? This isn't an invitation, it's an order."
"Did Joan put you up to this?" Karen demanded. "Or Sharon?"
"They're worried about you too. You didn't show up for lunch last week, or call to tell them you weren't coming. You aren't answering your phone and you're hardly ever in your office."
"So? I've been busy. Those lunches aren't formal meetings, we just get together when we can. They aren't my keepers, I don't owe them—"
"They are your friends," Peggy interrupted. "You owe them. It was Sharon who called me; you know these psychologists, they're always reading sinister meanings into sudden alterations of behavior. Joan's theory is that you have a new boyfriend."
Karen smiled in spite of herself. She didn't need Peggy's critical stare to know she did not look like a woman in love. Her panty hose had a run and her lipstick must be ... Had she put on makeup that morning? She couldn't remember. "Oh, all right," she said ungraciously. "Where do you want to go?"
"Anyplace that has a liquor license and does not serve tofu in any form. Come on. I'll drive."
Once she had her prisoner safely in the car, Peggy relapsed into tactful silence, and Karen felt herself beginning to relax. Wilmington was a pretty town, nestled in the folds of the hills Marylanders euphemistically referred to as mountains; the spring sunshine freshened the facades of the old houses, and the new green of the lawns was freckled with bright-yellow dandelions. Quite a contrast to that gloomy day a week ago when she had driven back from Baltimore through a last-of-the season snowstorm. Spring had come on unnoticed by her; she
