by Cynthia Kuhn
Judith smiled at me.
“So why was it called the Briar Rose Society?” I asked her.
“We thought Briar Rose or Sleeping Beauty was symbolically evocative of the oppression women writers had experienced—”
“The thorny branches,” I murmured.
“Yes, and she also embodied a sense of awakening that we hoped to champion. Putting the emblem on the ritual knife was representative of cutting ties with the traditional canon.”
“I’m glad you went with Briar Rose,” Calista said. “The Sleeping Beauty Society sounds like a never-ending makeover party.”
We laughed.
“How many people belong to the society?” I asked.
“About forty professors from across campus. All of the women in our department were members—except for you and Simone,” said Judith. “We make it a rule not to approach anyone until they’ve been here at least a full semester. New assistant professors have enough to deal with right away. We would have invited you next term.”
“Makes sense—” I began, but Calista interrupted me with an apologetic expression.
“That’s why I couldn’t say anything.” she said, squeezing my arm. “Members are sworn to secrecy, and I took that seriously. The knife was Elisabetta’s—she gave it to me when she retired. I knew if I said it was hers, people would think she had something to do with Roland. I didn’t want to get her in any trouble. And I transferred the knife symbol into a graphic as a way to…I don’t know…celebrate us. Signal solidarity. Once I recreated it as a digital file, we could use it all over the place. Members were given necklaces, and it just seemed natural to emboss the Briar editions when we started making them. But in any case, forgive me for not being able to tell you before.”
“Forgiven,” I reassured her.
“Also, when you came to the jail and showed me the necklace, I knew something was wrong. There was no way you would have been given one since you weren’t initiated yet. And I knew we weren’t inviting new members until spring. So someone was trying to get you arrested too or trying to send me a message, but I didn’t know what it was.”
“I didn’t know either. It was weird how everything seemed potentially meaningful but didn’t add up to anything. For example, what were you and Willa arguing about at your party, Judith?”
“We were strategizing about the drama course syllabus she wanted to pass. We weren’t angry at each other…just anxious about the matter at hand, I suppose.”
“I see. Okay, and now for the big question: why did you meet down in that extremely creepy basement?”
All of the women laughed.
“We simply wanted to keep a low profile for the group and that was the only place we knew about where we wouldn’t be disturbed,” said Judith. “When we first conceived of the society, we were very passionate about creating an appropriate sense of community for our work—”
“A sacred space,” clarified Willa.
“Precisely,” said Judith. “We knew, of course, about other societies that used costumes—robes, hoods, and so forth—to immerse their members in the experience. We didn’t want to go quite that far, but we did develop elements that made sense to us at the time, like the symbol, which was inspired by an old woodcut of the folktale. The knife was simply ceremonial and metaphorical.”
“Until Millicent came along,” said Calista, frowning.
Judith nodded. “She truly believed she was Liz’s protector. You know, I do remember Liz mentioning a few strange things that happened while they were growing up…Millicent may always have had obsessive tendencies.”
“It’s especially bizarre considering Liz is entirely capable of taking care of herself,” Calista said. “She’s one of the strongest people I know.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t only about protection,” said Willa. “It was about their relationship as sisters. Millicent saw us as a threat. She would have done anything to remain the most important person in Liz’s life.”
We fell quiet for a moment.
Judith addressed me. “Have you seen the statue between Crandall and Randsworth?”
“The veiled woman? Yes,” I said. “She’s beautiful. Kind of sad, though.”
“Many years ago, Liz and I found her at an antique store and fell in love with her instantly. She seemed to represent all the women writers we were fighting for, so we spirited her on campus in the middle of the night. The school newspaper did a story about the statue, then it was picked up by the news wire and, well, we became a national mystery. No one at Stonedale could figure out where she came from.”
I smiled at her.
Judith continued. “I don’t know if you noticed, but she is located directly over the underground meeting room. She was our symbol of being visible and invisible at the same time.”
“Secrecy for truth,” Willa added with a shrug.
“No more secrecy,” said Calista happily. “Just truth. Which is a lot easier to remember.”
The last faculty meeting of fall term was blessedly uneventful.
First on the agenda was an update on the crimes. Spencer described our ordeal in some detail, apologized for Millicent’s behavior, and thanked Judith, Willa, Calista, Nate, Tad, and me for our “bravery, both past and future,” as he put it. We had all been subpoenaed to testify at the upcoming trial. He was sure, he said, that Millicent would be convicted several times over.
Reports were invited, and Norton treated us to a twenty-minute play-by-play of the assessment project. I don’t know if a single person in the room could have identified his main point, but when he sat down, we all applauded courteously.
Simone reported on the recent efforts of the Literature Club, somehow making her own participation sound like the vital key to their success, and smiled prettily as expressions of gratitude were extended her way. She studiously avoided my gaze afterwards, I noticed. Judith announced the launch of a new scholarly group focused on the study and preservation of women’s literature. Suggestions for a name would be taken at the first meeting. She invited everyone to become a member and added that she hoped I would consider co-chairing.
Simone pursed her lips at that.
Spencer reminded us that exams would end the first week of December. He also encouraged us to suggest candidates for the executive assistant and Renaissance literature positions, if we had anyone in mind. “And since we won’t have another department meeting until January, I’d like to take this opportunity to wish you all a very safe and a very pleasant winter break—which should not begin until after you submit final grades, of course.”
There were polite chuckles all around.
Nate, sitting next to me, jabbed me with his elbow. “Hey, you made it through your first semester,” he whispered.
“Barely,” I whispered back.
“But you made it.” He grinned at me, his blue eyes crinkling up rather adorably at the corners.
Maybe I did belong here at Stonedale after all.
About the Author
Cynthia Kuhn is professor of English at MSU Denver, where she teaches literature and writing. Her work has appeared in McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, Literary Mama, Copper Nickel, Prick of the Spindle, Mama, PhD and other publications; she also blogs with Mysteristas. The first book in the Lila Maclean series received a William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant.
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