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arts colony where her mother had settled, Lucy had little concept of cell phones. Or of the demands on her daughter’s time. ‘No, Mom. It’s three hours later here, and you didn’t call me at home. I’m in Harvard Yard.’ She looked out over the spread of lawn and the intersecting paths that guided students and tourists alike under the now-bare trees. ‘I’m on the steps of Widener, if you must know. I was about to do some work.’
    Guilt didn’t have any effect on Lucy. ‘That’s a library, right? I knew it. I’ve been having this dream. More like a vision, really . . .’
    Dulcie rolled her eyes. Recently, Lucy’s premonitions had focused on Dulcie’s chosen field. She didn’t know if her mother resented the research that kept her in Cambridge, away from their carbon-neutral community, in some delayed form of empty-nest syndrome, or if there was something else at play. Sometimes, she admitted to herself, Lucy was even right. But then, stopped clocks were right twice a day, too.
    Lucy continued talking. ‘So, in the dream, it’s something about the books – or, rather, one specific book. You’re writing about one particular book, aren’t you, dear?’
    ‘Yes, Lucy,’ Dulcie confirmed, hearing the resignation in her own voice. With any prompting Dulcie would have gone on about The Ravages of Umbria . She’d originally thought that as a single mother (Dulcie’s dad had taken off before she turned five) Lucy would love a story about a beleaguered heroine who triumphs. Particularly one who communes with various spirits. But Lucy had heard it all before, and obviously failed to retain it, so Dulcie just let her go on.
    ‘And it’s an old book, too?’
    ‘Yes, Lucy.’ Dulcie couldn’t resist. ‘Most scholars think it was probably written around 1790 and published in London, probably in serial chapbooks—’
    ‘Yes, yes.’ Lucy was already interrupting her. ‘That must be it. Because the book in the dream is very old, dear. And it’s in very bad shape.’
    Dulcie waited. She wasn’t going to explain that the main sixty-page fragment of The Ravages really had more going for it than most modern novels.
    ‘Yes, it’s in very bad shape.’ Lucy was obviously consulting notes, and if Dulcie’s memory served, her mother’s midnight handwriting was even worse than her scrawled daytime penmanship. ‘And the disrepair is what’s fooled everybody. Because, you see, Dulcie – oh, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, dear! – there’s something wrong with the book. I believe it’s fake. And, well, there’s something else – something about poking about being wrong or even dangerous . . .’
    ‘Mom!’ That did it. ‘You’re talking about research, about my life! Look, I know you believe in your dreams. But I’m a scholar, and it’s my research that tells me they’re real. I mean, I’ve read about them. Looked up their provenance, their history, in order to verify they are what they say they are, and—’ Dulcie was well launched into a spirited defense when a tone broke in. ‘Look, Lucy,’ she recovered herself. ‘Thank you for your concern. I know you love me and you mean well. But, please, leave my discipline to me, okay? I’ve got another call. I’ve got to go.’
    Without giving her mother a chance to respond, Dulcie clicked through to the other call. ‘Yes?’ She heard the snappish tone in her own voice and hoped it wasn’t Chris or Suze or, Goddess forbid, Professor Bullock.
    ‘Dulcie? Dulcie Schwartz?’ The female voice sounded young and a little uncertain.
    ‘Oh, this must be Raleigh! I’m so glad you called back.’
    ‘No, I’m sorry. This is Ms Schwartz, right? This is Detective Carioli, with the Cambridge Police Department. We’d like to ask you to come into the precinct office in Central Square. We have a few questions.’

SEVEN
    B y the time Dulcie finally got into the stacks, she felt like hiding. The call from the police had been the final straw,