Free Quiver by Holly Luhning

Hungary. She was in what is now many countries. Her papers, I thought, they could be anywhere. The National Archives is not the only possibility. So I began to look at university archives. I asked in Budapest, but nothing. Then I had a little contract with the House of Terror, the new museum about the dictatorial regimes in Hungary. I suggested, I think, that you visit it—did you go there?”
    “No. So, you had the contract, and?”
    “There was a reception. I met Professor Orbán.” She twirls her wrist in the air, a ta-da kind of flourish. “She is based at the university in Szeged. It is said it is the best university in Hungary. More known for the medical school, but—”
    I cut her off. “And how did this help you find the diaries?”
    “Ah, you cannot wait for the whole story! Fine, the shorter version. I went to visit her at Szeged. She is a young professor—she reminded me of you, Dani, really, very pretty, very smart—and so she introduced me to some of her colleagues, I met the librarian in charge of the rare books and manuscripts, we discussed some things. They had holdings about the Báthory family, many things.”
    “And the diaries were in the collections? Just sitting there? Nobody else had bothered to check, to report them before?”
    “Ah, no, it was not so easy, Danica! The diaries, they were not in the catalogued collections. After some time, the librarian, he began to appreciate my devotion to my subject, my respect for Báthory. He allowed me to search the uncatalogued manuscripts, the material they have not filed or identified, the ones they do not allow the students, the public to view. And,” Maria twirls her wrist in the air again, “she was there.”
    “That was lucky for you.” Maria’s story seemed plausible. But she hadn’t told me much that I could fact-check or verify. “And what does this manuscript look like? Where is it now?”
    “The librarian, Polanyi, we have made an arrangement. He agreed, he will hold the manuscript, will not catalogue or tell any other researchers it is there, until I have made secure my deal with a publisher. He will be mentioned in the book, of course.” She says this last sentence in a hushed, serious tone, her doll eyes wide. The offer of acknowledgement seems like a very small token of thanks, but I’ve noticed that Maria often gets away with arrangements like this. She could make you feel like your short end of the stick was a bejewelled scepter. “And I have a few photos. I can show you, but you must promise me, you will keep it confidential.”
    “Photos?”
    “It is not the usual practice for the university to allow photographs of the uncatalogued material. But Polanyi, he said for me, a small exception. He allowed me to take a few, and I will return to take more when I have finished the translations.”
    “How far along are you?”
    “You have not told me—how did you like the section I sent you?”
    “It was...compelling. If it is true, as you say.”
    “More compelling than Foster?”
    I let the question linger. If she is telling the truth, she’s sharing the diaries, even offering to show me the confidential proof. She’s trusting me. I consider giving her some harmless piece of information, maybe something that could be found on public record. Like the length of his sentence, a detail from the trial. Anyone could check into that, it wouldn’t be confidential.
    But before I think of something, she says, “Edward tells me Foster is getting a new lawyer.”
    What? “Where did he hear that?” It had to be another empty rumour.
    “Oh, it is the talk, a story the newspaper is working on, for next week. Foster, he is a celebrity. Everything connected to him, they write about.”
    “Well, I haven’t heard anything about it.” I say this in a way that implies Edward and his supposed sources are speculative hacks. “What else...I mean, are they planning any other articles?”
    “It is possible. Foster, he is popular, there