Free Grey Expectations by Clea Simon Page A

the world.
    And then she heard a voice, female, that she didn’t recognize. Coming in a lull in the communal hubbub, it sounded as clear as an emergency broadcasting announcement.
    â€˜What I want to know,’ the voice said, ‘is who would want to steal the Dunster Codex? From what I hear, that horrible old thing is haunted.’

ELEVEN
    D ulcie was out on the street before she knew it, the concerned voices of her friends fading behind her. She knew she had blanched, had sputtered into the coffee, but she’d had no time to explain. Air had suddenly seemed more important than caffeine, and in the spring warmth, the crowded coffee room had become unbearably close.
    Halfway down the block, she stopped to think. Haunted? Was the Dunster Codex haunted? Something had been tickling the edge of her mind since that horrible meeting, but she didn’t think that was it. She tried closing her eyes, but when she did all she saw was Dr Coffin’s face, stern and looming. Maybe it was that moustache. ‘But I always found grey so comforting. And whiskers!’ She opened her eyes to see a squirrel looking on suspiciously. If Mr Grey were here, his tail would be lashing in excitement, she knew. Esmé, on the other hand, would probably see the fuzzy rodent and then turn to bite Dulcie’s foot. Displaced aggression. Dulcie understood the theory, but that knowledge didn’t help her miss her gentle old cat any less.
    â€˜Mr Grey, can you help me with this?’ Even though Esmé had shown signs of being able to communicate, Dulcie never thought of asking her for advice or aid. In life, Mr Grey had been a quiet cat, mature and contemplative. Since that awful day, nearly a year and a half before, his occasional presence had only become more so – and if the spectral cat’s advice was often cryptic, well, Dulcie was willing to overlook that. Or, to be honest, blame her own lack of comprehension. Esmé, though, would never be anything but a kitten to her. Especially, she thought ruefully, if Chris kept encouraging her worst habits.
    This bright morning must not have been cut out for ghosts, however, because her plea remained unanswered. But she had other, more ordinary, sources of information. And so she took another sip from her travel mug for courage, hiked her bag higher over her shoulder, and headed off to meet Trista.
    The Brew House was everything a student hang-out should be: cheap, accessible, and filled with friendly faces. Trista probably hadn’t counted on the latter when she’d suggested it, Dulcie decided, and so she waited outside for her friend. She’d quickly finished the departmental coffee, but she’d take Trista up on her offer. The Brew House double latte was more of a milk drink, anyway, she reasoned.
    Ten minutes later, she was wondering if her friend had had second thoughts. Juggling her empty mug, she fished her phone from her bag. No, no messages. No missed calls, either. She started to type in Trista’s number – there had to be an explanation – when a pack of undergrads barreled into her.
    â€˜Sorry!’ one of them had the grace to yell over his shoulder, as the five – or was it six? – hurtled down the sidewalk. Shouldn’t they be gone already? Dulcie wondered. Each year, they seemed to linger longer and longer into what Dulcie thought of as her private time: post-exams and pre-summer session. She turned to look into the coffee house. It was still crowded. Well, exam period lasted till the end of the week. Maybe some of the hunched-over bodies in there were studying.
    â€˜Goddess be!’ Dulcie could have smacked herself. Almost did when she heard Lucy’s favorite exclamation come out of her mouth. Of course, she’d been waiting out here, when Trista must have been inside, buried in the mob. She waved through the window at the slim blonde.
    â€˜Trista!’ Her friend hadn’t seen her and was staring into