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dean of research. According to its typed instructions, a visiting scholar, one Melinda Sloane Harquist, had been granted permission at the highest level to look through the Mildon collection. Miss Sloane Harquist, a personalized note from the dean himself added, was particularly interested in literary fragments from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, especially those written by unnamed female Gothic novelists.
    The scholar, the note continued, was to be given all access and help possible in her search for a previously undiscovered work. She was, it concluded, the author of the soon-to-be-published blockbuster,
Anonymous Unveiled: The Real-Life Heroine Behind
The Ravages of Umbria.

THREE
    â€˜H ow could I not know about this? How could I never have
heard
of her?’ As the warm day had progressed into an equally sultry night, Dulcie had moved beyond her initial shock. Sitting at the People’s Republik with her friends, her joy in the day’s work – in that single page – was forgotten, and she was progressing well into anger. ‘I mean, she’s been in none of the journals. And what kind of name is Sloane Harquist anyway?’
    Chris, her boyfriend, reached over and took the mug from her hand. Dulcie really only drank beer to be social, and the way she was gesticulating now was likely to spread her untouched brew among her companions.
    â€˜Well, maybe this woman hasn’t published before.’ Chris took an exploratory taste of Dulcie’s beer and grimaced. Despite the pub’s noisy air conditioning, some of the day’s humidity had followed them in, and Dulcie had let her brew get warm. ‘Maybe she’s been saving it all up?’
    â€˜Ha.’ Trista Dunlop, Dulcie’s best buddy in the department, scoffed at the idea. ‘She’s been hiding out, waiting to spring this on us.’
    Dulcie glanced up. Trista had actually finished her thesis and her postdoc research had nothing to do with the Goths; the ‘us’ was pure friendship. ‘Thanks, Tris. I’m just . . .’ She reached for the beer and took a sip without noticing its temperature. ‘I’m just confused.’
    â€˜This doesn’t mean your thesis isn’t going to be good.
As
good,’ Chris corrected himself. Beside him, Jerry – Trista’s boyfriend – nodded vigorously. Computer science students, they’d both had to adjust to the relatively arcane and convoluted nature of their sweethearts’ field. ‘Or better,’ he tried again.
    Dulcie didn’t even answer, and Trista stopped any further well-meaning remarks with a look. A bleached blonde with multiple piercings, Trista could stare down the best of them, and even six-foot-two Chris blanched.
    â€˜Another pitcher?’ Jerry asked, standing.
    â€˜Why don’t I come with you?’ Chris nearly knocked his chair over in his haste.
    Left alone – as alone as they could be in the crowded pub – Dulcie let out a sigh and shook her head one more time. ‘Trista, I . . .’ But words would not suffice.
    â€˜I know, kid. It’s awful.’ Trista slid over to take Chris’s seat, the better to talk over the jukebox. ‘I bet she doesn’t have half of what you have, though.’
    â€˜Doesn’t matter,’ said Dulcie, her dispirited tone at odds with the lively music. ‘I’ve already shown my hand with my paper. Anyone who reads that will know I’m on the trail of a missing work. Only the only thing I’ve found since those political essays is that fragment today. And I haven’t even started the work of verifying.’
    Trista nodded. She knew the drudgery that followed the thrill of discovery. ‘You’ve started though, right? You’re not giving up?’
    â€˜I’ve plugged it in.’ One advantage of having mathematically minded beaus was the customized software Chris and Jerry had worked up for the