Houses of Stone Read Online Free Page A

college."
    "Yes, I understand that. But you—"
    "Let me finish." He hated being interrupted, and now she had done it twice. She plunged on, desperately seeking words that would convince him. "Do you know what a less scrupulous person would do in my place? Accept your invitation to spend the night, slip you a sleeping pill and sneak out, with the manuscript, to one of those all-night copying places."
    Simon's eyes widened. "That would be a despicable act."
    "Of course. I'd never commit it, but I can think of several other people who wouldn't hesitate for a second. You of all people ought to know that the definition of legal ownership with regard to old manuscripts is hideously complex. The pages themselves, the physical manuscript, can be bought or sold, inherited, given away. I would be guilty of theft if I stole it. But what about the text—the words? They can't be copyrighted, they are old enough to be in the public domain. If I had a copy of the text, I doubt very much if you could prevent me from publishing it. I'd sure as hell be willing to take that chance—and so would Bill Meyer, or dear old Joe Cropsey, my favorite departmental chairman. That's why I have to own it, Simon, and guard it with my life—to keep other people from getting their hands on it. It wouldn't take more than two hours to have a copy made."
    She was breathless when she finished, but she had made her point. Simon was looking very sober. "I hadn't thought of it that way. It is true that there are other interested parties. Your own fault, Karen; you were the one who made Ismene famous. How many copies of your edition of the poems were sold? How many articles on her have appeared since then?"
    Karen didn't answer. It was particularly embittering to realize that if she hadn't made Ismene famous, in the scholarly world at least, she wouldn't have to fear competition. On the other hand, Simon would not have called her first if she had not been the acknowledged authority. The manuscript itself might have been overlooked, discarded, if she had not publicized that vital name. The very idea made her break into a cold sweat.
    "Where did you get it?" she asked.
    "From a trunk in a dusty attic, of course. Isn't that the traditional source for such finds? In fact, most discoveries of this nature do come from places like that. Remember the first half of the Huckleberry Finn manuscript that was found a few years ago? Mark Twain had sent it to a friend, who evidently mislaid it; it remained in a trunk in Gluck's attic for over a century."
    Karen smiled sweetly. "If you think you are going to distract me, Simon, you are sadly mistaken."
    Simon sighed. "The house from which this manuscript came belonged to an old gentleman who was a pack rat, like his ancestors before him. When he died, the new owner called in a local auctioneer and told him to clear the place out in preparation for a sale. The auctioneer is a man with whom I've dealt before; local dealers often consult me about books and manuscripts. He and the owner agreed to let me handle this particular item, since it was—shall we say—somewhat esoteric."
    "Who—" she began.
    "You know I can't tell you that," Simon interrupted with a frown.
    "Are you selling on consignment?"
    "No. I bought it outright." He hesitated for a moment, and then named a figure. It was less than she had feared, but more than she had hoped. Simon was too damned honorable; he could have told the owner the manuscript was worthless, and offered him ten dollars as a gesture of goodwill.
    "I'll top your highest bid," she repeated. "Whatever it is." Reaching into her purse, she took out her checkbook. "I've got seven thousand, six hundred in my savings account. I'll give you seven thousand as a deposit. And yes, thank you—I will spend the night."

Chapter Two
    All women, as authors, are feeble and tiresome. I wish they were forbidden to write, on pain of having their faces deeply scarified with an oyster shell.
    Nathaniel Hawthorne,