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meant to ask about the missing girl, but as soon as the meeting had broken up, Trista had jumped in, demanding to hear about Dulcie’s meeting with her adviser. With one thing and another – mostly, Trista’s righteous anger on her friend’s part – she ended up talking about her thesis topic. Or what would be her thesis topic if she ever did end up writing it.
    Trista had been a friend for long enough to know about Dulcie’s research, including her breakthrough with The Ravages. Walking toward the Yard, Dulcie summed up her theory about the work’s anonymous author. ‘And I think that’s a big deal. A huge deal. He says I’m wasting my time, but think about it. The Ravages was pubbed in ’91 or ’92, latest. And I’ve found a score of other essays that I am pretty sure are hers from the years before and for about two years after: she’s got some very distinctive catchphrases. These appear pretty steadily going up to 1794, and then – nothing. What, did she just disappear?’
    Trista bit her lip. ‘Could have, though. Couldn’t she? We wouldn’t know. I mean, she published anonymously, right?’
    â€˜She published anonymously, and we don’t know her name. But nobody writes – or gets a book published – in a vacuum. People have reasons for not using their names, maybe this woman especially. But after her death?’ Dulcie shook her head. ‘People would talk about it. There’d have been a notice of some kind.’
    â€˜If only this had all happened a hundred years later – you’d have been golden, Dulce.’ As a Victorian, Trista had an easier time with research. ‘My people saved everything.’
    â€˜But then there might not have been anything left for me to discover.’ No matter what the challenges were, Dulcie wouldn’t trade. ‘And, I mean, it’s not like we’re talking pre-Revolution. Nobody was burning papers, not usually. Unless, I don’t know, they were seen as a threat for some reason.’ She paused; her train of thought followed the hypothetical pages. A flick of a tail – silver gray, probably another squirrel – brought her back. ‘Anyway, my author writes these essays, and then, for some reason, she gives up on them. Maybe they’re not having any effect. So she writes The Ravages . Then a few more essays, but bolder. Like, she’s really sick of people not getting it. For a strong woman, the 1790s were not an easy time.’
    â€˜Wollstonecraft.’ Trista didn’t have to say more.
    â€˜Yes, but these days everyone looks at the Rights of Woman like it was some marvelous piece of writing. Which it is,’ Dulcie added quickly. ‘But it wasn’t entirely original. There was so much going on then. The Romantics were coming in. Science. Industrialization. Women’s rights were just one more cause – and not a popular one. I mean, when did women get the vote?’
    Trista started to answer, but Dulcie kept talking.
    â€˜What I mean is, we tend to look at that era with feminist hindsight. To be an actual independent woman back then, a woman writing about these new ideas, must have been hard. Dangerous, even. And so here’s my author, speaking out – and suddenly, nothing.’ She stopped short, and Trista turned.
    â€˜What?’ Trista waited.
    â€˜Oh, dear Goddess, Chris was right.’ Dulcie smiled. ‘He didn’t mean to be, but he was.’
    Trista looked at her, not even sure what to ask.
    â€˜My author? The woman who used her so-called radical theories to bring The Ravages of Umbria to life?’ Dulcie posed the question for her. ‘There is one good reason she might have disappeared without notice. One thing her family would not have wanted known. She really might have been murdered.’

SIX
    T rista might have been more sympathetic than Chelowski had been, but not by much. By the