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time difference for a moment. I’ll call back later.” I hung up and tossed the phone on the bed. Wiped the back of my hand across my eyes.
    All right, time to focus.
    Someone knocked on my door. Taking a deep breath, I stood up, turned the lock, and opened it.
    Jens, the chemistry postdoc from Germany, stood out there, grinning at me. He was a nice enough guy who often invited me out drinking with his friends.
    “Out all night?”
    “Bumped into an old friend,” I said tightly, knowing I had to say something if I didn’t want to deal with winks and teasing. Especially considering Jens had hit on me several times already. Even though he was attractive and funny and I likely would have slept with him last year, I’d been determined to focus on my research.
    Until Sebastian.
    Thinking about Sebastian made me want to strip my clothes off and masturbate again. Almost made me want to have sex with Jens just to be having sex.
    “Ah, well, I’m going out to Leeds with friends. Want to come?”
    I did want to. It sounded like a fun diversion, and the last thing I really wanted to do, despite my protestations to Sebastian, was work. I was tired and facing down these last twelve days with a growing sense of dread that I might actually not be able to find the proof I needed. And the more I thought that, the more I wanted to stick my head in the sand.
    But I had an appointment on Monday afternoon with one of the staff at the Saint Bride Printing Library, and in the morning I had several calls to make to descendants of Anne Gracechurch, the ones I hadn’t been able to reach previously or whose connection was slightly more obscure, who very likely didn’t even know that their ancestor had been a fairly well-known author in her time.
    He shrugged and left. I spent the day organizing myself for the week, and then working on the historical/cultural-context chapters of my dissertation. By seven in the evening, my creativity was sapped and my eyes were strained from staring at the computer. And I was hungry. The nuts, fruit, and cheese I’d snacked on throughout the day weren’t going to cut it.
    I stepped out into the living room. Neil, my other flatmate, was sitting on the futon sofa watching a rugby match, which was a regular occurrence. Both he and Jens had lived in the apartment months before I arrived, and apparently my room had belonged to a “chap” named Paul, who’d moved in with his girlfriend between terms.
    The apartment looked like a bachelor pad and, aside from clearing a space in the fridge and cleaning off the kitchen counters whenever I cooked, I hadn’t made any effort to make it any less so.
    I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. As I remembered, there was nearly nothing inside other than cheese, Neil’s beer and a cardboard pizza box. I should have gone to the grocery store earlier since the one in the neighborhood closed at 5 P.M. on Sundays.
    I was bored and hungry and had a stupid urge to call Sebastian. After all, if I wasn’t going to work, why shouldn’t I have some fun? Except, it was one night. Any more than that (even the fact that I wanted more than that) was a death wish. Dark Ages were officially over. I just had to stick to that.
    I opened the freezer and magically found a frozen burrito I’d bought a few weeks earlier. There. Dinner found; problem solved. I could eat and push myself through a few more hours of work.
    M ONDAY STARTED GRE AT. I made fabulous progress. If crossing people off of a list could be considered progress. But there was a lovely, middle-aged woman, Roberta Small, who was fascinated to learn about her ancestor, Anne Gracechurch, and who then assured me the only heirloom item she had was some silver plate from her paternal grandmother (who was from Spain). But she offered to call all of her relatives on her mother’s side and see if anyone knew anything or had any old family records.
    Then there was another branch of descendants, of whom Mrs. Small had