By Dana Cameron
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Additional info for A Fugitive Truth
I really was showing off, but Michael Glasscock didn’t notice. “Oh. Goody,” he said in a monotone. I combed desperately through my memory. ” “Idealists. ” he said. Michael got up and stretched, catlike, then slunk over to prop up the mantelpiece. “I just can’t stand how naive they were. ” That floored me; shouldn’t he have been acting more the role of the apologist, if he were interested in them? “Sure, naive, but they thought they could change the world with their ideals. ” Then I couldn’t resist asking.
I was startled by a man’s voice behind me. “I’m Henry Saunders, the head librarian. ” The man I faced was a few inches taller than I, and a few pounds lighter, but not weedy, with thinning blond hair and glasses. He was dressed, as are most of the men of my academic tribe, in chinos, a blue oxford shirt, and a tweed jacket. Unlike most of my colleagues, however, the jacket was nicely made out of good wool, and his tie was subtle, interesting, and not spotted with grease stains. Henry Saunders’s glasses weren’t the usual default gold wire rims, either, but a carefully chosen pair of French frames in a brown tortoiseshell that showed off some pretty compelling cheekbones.
It was clear that the house and other buildings were in the southwest corner of the enormous property, because I could see the fence following the stream to the west, and nothing but gently rolling hills, valleys, and woods to the east and south. I noted with some irony that Monroe was obscured, being behind the next hill to the south—nothing to obscure the views of sunrise and sunset, nothing to remind the former—or present—inhabitants of Shrewsbury of the world outside. The stream marked part of the western boundary, then cut across and down the slope on which the house sat, following the road for a while before it cut across that in a culvert and flowed off to the south.
A Fugitive Truth by Dana Cameron