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Boston for a few days. She’s been studying some rare examples of Antebellum fiction, doing wonderful stuff on the nature of expressed emotion. With such an interesting topic, you’d think she’d be a little more…a little less…you know, more of a people person. I mean, she and Harry get on famously, there’s no denying that—”
    Something in Sasha’s voice changed and her face went red. I was certain that there was at least a little possessive jealousy at play here.
    “—and I know the interns are fascinated, she strikes them all as rather mysterious, but she doesn’t make much effort with the rest of us. When she does, it’s almost like she’s trying to push buttons, trying to manipulate you.” Suddenly, Sasha realized that she was speaking out of turn again, and a moment hung awkwardly between us so that when her phone rang, she was eager to excuse herself. “I’ll bring the journal when I get done. I’ll be real quick, I promise.”
    Her description of Dr. Morgan’s project rang a bell with me, but I couldn’t remember why. I was too distracted by the length of time that it took Sasha to come back out with the diary—she was taking forever! Eventually she emerged with my book and a slip of paper. “Sorry about that, my phone. It was the director, Evert Whitlow. He likes to have the new Fellows for lunch the first day, but he won’t be able to see you until Wednesday.”
    “Okay, thanks.” I paused, not quite certain how to bring up the question I had on my mind. “Dr. Morgan’s work sounds familiar to me. Where does she teach?”
    “Out in California somewhere, I think.” She flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…before…you know, some people are just easier to get…and she…just…” Sasha paused, still holding the diary and apparently reconsidering what she was going to say. Finally, she put the Chandler volume down in front of me. “Well, here’s the journal. Good luck. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
    All other thoughts fled as I was left alone with my treasure. I moved the journal so that it was perfectly square on the desk before me and examined it as an object for a moment. What would it tell me about its former owner? Already it was more than I expected: So many diaries were simply sheets of paper sewn together with a little cardboard cover pasted on the end pages, simple recordings of the quotidian facts of a life, sometimes only a list of visitors or chores. This one already struck me as different. It was about eight inches long and six wide, with a faded blue leather cover, leafy vines outlining its edge, tooled in gold leaf that still shone. Although the corners of the book were dog-eared and browned with age, the cover and endpapers were clean of mildew and other decay. The only problem was that the pages were a little loose within the binding: there was no way that I could photocopy the journal without damaging it further, if in fact Shrewsbury allowed photocopying of bound volumes. That didn’t matter so much, as I would have to transcribe it into my notebook computer anyway.
    Taking a deep breath, as if I were about to plunge from the high board, I opened to the first page.
    It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the eighteenth-century handwriting, but the first of my several fears was allayed: Madam Chandler wrote with a beautifully clear hand. It would be a pleasure to read this elegant script, and I knew that my work would go so much faster than if I had to contend with poor penmanship. I read the superscript at the top of the page, the once-black ink faded to blurred brown, but still legible:
     
    Margaret Amalie Chase Chandler, her IIId Booke,
    Begun this Year of Grace 1723
    Stone Harbour, Massachusetts
    Since it is possible that thou mayst
    depart from Life this very Moment,
    regulate every Act and Thought accordingly.
     
    A flood of ideas cascaded through my head even before I finished reading that heading. Her middle