Free A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron Page B

caught almost immediately. I took a glass and my bottle and dragged one of the chairs closer to the hearth.
    As I tucked my feet under me and wrestled with the stopper, I tried to conjure up some image of a private club and was startled to realize that all my companions would have been men. Places like the Bellona, Diogenes, and Drones, although fictional, were strictly male preserves, as were the real-life Mohocks, White’s, and Button’s.
    Well, damn, I thought disgustedly. I suppose if you can only afford prunes and stewed beef, there’s really no point in having a quiet place to enjoy sherry you haven’t got. In that case, I decided, lifting my glass, I will inaugurate the first, occasional meeting of the…what should it be called? Something to do with pioneering women, libraries, research…Hypatia popped into my mind, but I quickly rejected her name as too bad an omen. She had been a scholar at the library of ancient Alexandria, and met her demise when an angry crowd murdered her, believing that it was inappropriate for women to do such men’s work.
    I shuddered and quickly ran down a list of other possible honorees: Bradstreet, Behn, Elizabeth, Franklin, Hathshepsut, Mead, Montagu, Roosevelt…I realized that I didn’t want anything too specific to one woman and immediately came up with the answer: The Bluestocking Club.
    The whiskey was sterling. I let the next sip linger a bit more, savoring the sharp peaty bite, and allowed my eyes to unfocus on the fire as it hungrily devoured the dry wood. Lovely. I didn’t bother worrying about wretches with too much power and not enough to do, I didn’t worry about existential puzzles, I didn’t even bother trying to unravel more of the mysterious Madam C’s life. I snuggled into my sweater and tucked my feet up underneath me, nearly drowsing as I listened to the crackle and hissing of the fire, letting the smoke of the single-malt mingle with the smell of burning wood. After admiring the dull glow of my bracelet in the flickering light, I was feeling so mellow and content when the door opened a crack, that I didn’t even mind the intrusion. I decided that whoever it was would be welcome; the Bluestocking way was to be generous with guests. I would even show Jack what real booze was. Whoever knocked would be voted in with all the privileges, moved and seconded and passed by unanimous vote of one.
    It took me a moment to realize that although it was neither Jack nor Michael, I recognized the face that peered from the narrow opening between the sliding doors. “Sasha? What are you—?”
    But although there was a superficial resemblance to the manuscript librarian—blonde hair, same approximate height and build—this woman had none of Sasha’s vibrancy. Instead, angles and planes seemed to dominate the stranger’s profile, as if she was built to deflect unwanted attention. Over a dark turtleneck, she wore a sleek, narrowly cut jumper that I could see was made of a fine wool, but none of its warmth seemed to be conveyed to her features; her skin was as pale and cool as marble.
    Then a name from the past surfaced and snapped into place alongside my vague recognition of the work being conducted by the fourth Shrewsbury Fellow.
    “Good God, Faith Burnes!” I said with more enthusiasm than I might have without the soothing effect of the fire and the whiskey. “I haven’t seen you since…well, since Coolidge I guess! What are you doing here? How are you?”
    The other woman started visibly at my robust greeting and looked around her, as if out of habit. “I’m not Faith Burnes anymore. I go by my maiden name, Morgan.” Then the penny dropped for her too, and her face relaxed into a cautious half smile. “Emma…Fielding, right?” she said slowly, working memory from the mire. “It has been a while, hasn’t it, since graduate school?” Then, almost reluctantly, “I thought I recognized your name on the memo. It’s been a long time.”
    “It’s me, all