Ashes and Bones by Dana Cameron Page B

bottles of water to keep me going a little longer.
    I kept at it for another two hours and made some good progress, but it was getting hot up there. Moving downstairs was not an option—I’d be way too distracted by the work that I hoped was going on—but outside…I was never good at working outside, and besides my battery was running low now. I backed up my work and then the phone rang.
    “Hello?”
    “Em, it’s Meg. Are you going to be on campus any time soon?”
    “Um, not sure. Anything wrong? You sound anxious.”
    “I am, I guess. I wanted your opinion on something.”
    “Can’t do it over the phone?”
    “Not really. It’s not…about anything…you know. It’s the wedding.”
    “Okay. But I’m not sure what I can do about that.” I glanced over at my clock, a battered and battery-run near antique that had also seen use in the basement and barn. “Actually, I could use someplace with power; we’re out here. I’ll see you in my office in an hour?”
    “That would be great!” The relief in Meg’s voice made me wonder whether my student had been telling me the whole truth. “See you then.”
    I gathered up my stuff, told Artie that I’d be about three hours, and called the alarm company to let them know that our power would be out for the day and they shouldn’t call in.
    The trip took less time than usual, in part because the traffic was long gone, and partly because I was indulging in my latest bad habit of driving too fast. My first new-new car, a sound and eager engine that didn’t shudder over sixty-five, and suddenly, I had discovered my inner speed-demon. Okay, maybe it wasn’t so much as a walk on the wild side as edging one toe over the line, but it was a small escape.
    I got there early enough to dodge into the library and find one of the books I needed to check for my class. Ha! Another week and it would have been on reserve or out. As much as I love teaching, I get so much more work done when there aren’t any students around. Now was a great time to be on campus, as everyone there was trying to prepare for the mob scene that was freshman orientation.
    A woman hurried from the library to the Fine Arts building; something about her long black hair was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I craned to get another look at her, but a pack of male students heading down Maple Walk erupted with bawdy laughter, and I scurried up the stairs to the department to avoid them.
    I was on my way to my office when I heard a raised voice down the hall by the main office. Veering down the other corridor, I was confronted by the unlikely spectacle of our department administrator, Chuck, exchanging words with my colleague from the Art History Department, Dora Sarkes-Robinson. It was her voice I’d heard. The contrast between the two couldn’t have been more marked: Chuck was a white, five foot hippy in granny glasses, and Dora was black and she towered over him, an imposing figure of a queen crowned with a lattice of intricately woven braids. Chuck was wearing a hemp shirt and a pair of army surplus pants. His hair was in dreads, possibly last combed shortly after his birth, which had to have been just after the Bicentennial. Dora was dressed in something impeccable and Italian; Cerruti, I was willing to bet, only because she told me so repeatedly, and it was something the gods themselves would have envied.
    “Huh, so your paper’s on Raphael Santi, then?” Chuck, whose pronunciation usually reminded me more of West Coast surfers than his actual Maine upbringing, spoke the Italian carefully.
    “Yes.” Dora seemed amused, which in itself was reason for curiosity. And reason for caution. She highjacked other people’s lives when it suited her, and generally carried onher own affairs with the noble disregard of a Medici pope. I had reason to know this for a fact: Dora’s insinuation of herself into my affairs several years ago had involved me in a criminal investigation and led me in the right