Page 39 of Given Our History

Clara: I really am sorry

I waggle my thumbs as I debate whether I want to add anything else. I feel compelled to let us both off the hook. To make sure he knows that regardless of whatever was said last night, he doesn’t have to worry about rehashing the past. But before I figure out what exactly I’m going to say, my previous message switches to read. Ellipses pop up, then disappear. I stare at the screen.

“Sorry about that,” Mack says, pushing out the door and sitting back down at the table. “So, back to this scholarship business.”

“I’ll have to discuss it with my colleagues,” I say, setting my phone face down. “I can’t make any promises, but we might be able to divert a small amount of funds into an award, as a thank-you for your generosity. It would have to be on a limited basis, of course. Maybe one scholarship given out in your—Bucky’s—name, for the next five years, or something like that. Without an endowment earning interest, it won’t be possible to set it up indefinitely.”

“Hey, that’s good enough for me.” With a grin so broad that a gold-capped molar glints in the sun, he thrusts a hand across the table. We shake on it, his grip so strong I wonder whether the circulation is being cut from my fingers. “Consider yourselves catered.”

I spend the remainder of my lazy Sunday driving Reagan to pick up her Jeep and composing an email for Julien Zabini’s former colleague—Dr. Lorna P. Foster, an Honorary Fellow at the School of History, Classics & Archaeology at University of Edinburgh, and author of several books, including Meeting in the Middle Ages: The Intersection of Archeology and Manuscripts in Understanding Early Medieval Britain. Going off her headshot on the university website—unsmiling, her white hair slicked into a military-grade bun and an enamel pin of a white rose fastened to her tweed lapel—I have a strong suspicion that she’s one of those no-nonsense types, which frankly makes sending an unsolicited email a little scary.

I can only hope Julien reached out to her first, but considering he didn’t mention it, I’m probably on my own here.

From: Clara Fernsby ([email protected])

To: Lorna P. Foster ([email protected])

Date: September 15, 7:42 P.M.

Subject: Invitation to guest lecture

Hello, Dr. Foster,

My name is Clara Fernsby. I’m a colleague of Julien Zabini’s at University of Irving in Maryland. He passed your email along to me to see whether you might be interested in coming to campus to give a guest lecture while you’re visiting D.C. in November. I realize it’s a bit of a drive, but I’d be more than happy to arrange transportation if you’re at all interested.

Thank you for your time.

Warm regards,

Clara Fernsby

I send off the email before letting myself fret over it any further and set about making some dinner. Reagan’s suffering enough that there’s no chance of her disappearing on me again, so I stick my head in her bedroom. “Mac and cheese, or fettuccine Alfredo?”

She’s buried beneath a fuzzy Halloween blanket covered in pumpkins and witches’ hats, but she peeks out from behind her phone. She’s been flicking through TikTok videos for long enough that it’s probably starting to melt her brain—whichever part’s still left after last night. “They’re the same thing. They’re both pasta with cheese.”

“No, they’re not. One is macaroni and cheese and the other is fettuccine Alfredo.” To be fair, I’m not sure I could explain what the actual difference is. “So, no preference, then?”

“Mac and cheese,” she grumbles before tugging the blanket up over her head.

I’m in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil when my phone buzzes against the counter. I flip it over, half-expecting it to be Teddy finally answering my last message, but instead it’s an email.

From: Lorna P. Foster ([email protected])

To: Clara Fernsby ([email protected])

Date: September 15, 7:48 P.M.

Subject: Re: Invitation to guest lecture

Julien mentioned you’d be reaching out. Let’s get something on the books—I have a conference I’ll be attending on the 7th, 8th, and 9th, but I should be free on the 6th or the 11th. I imagine the 10th won’t work very well, seeing as it’s a Sunday.

Cheers,

Lorna

It’s almost 8 P.M. here, which means it’s well after midnight in Scotland. But a surprising number of academic types seem to operate on odd hours, working until two in the morning and answering texts in the middle of Red Bull–fueled research sessions. Growing up homeschooled, I was never really aware that the world thought there was such a thing as a good or bad sleep schedule, because sleep was just sleep when you didn’t have anyone to answer to. It made for a bit of rude awakening my first year of college, when my classes didn’t wait for me to wake up.

I send Lorna a quick and enthusiastic reply—The 11th would be great!—as well as a few questions to iron out details before I open the box of dried elbow pasta and dump it into the boiling water. I should be in a good mood—today’s been a pretty productive day—but it feels like my head’s everywhere except today. In the past, in the future, in a strange sort of in-between, thinking about what the past might have been and what the future will never be. And for some reason, I’m thinking about Federal Hill Park.