The White Lion is quieted down a bit, though still showing an in and out flow to it that hints that on weekends, it sees more than its share of business. Gillian hasn't made too much of a stir; the hardest part was getting a table to herself and keeping it to herself, as ordering a plate of food plus a drink is enough for her to lay claim to tenancy for any reasonable amount of time. It's the footie lads who make it a bit challenging; every so often one wanders over to where she's laid out her books, making his best pitch, only to get shot down with a pleasant, friendly smile and a grey-eyed glimmer of steel over the rimless glasses.
     After about an hour, most of them have stopped trying, muttering perhaps about frigid birds. Gillian has either affected not to hear them or has genuinely tuned them out in favor of organizing a sheaf of papers and making meticulous notes in a spiral-bound book. As time goes on, the notes degenerate into rapid scribbles and a tortured labyrinth of venn diagrams. Her hair has definitely seen better days; it hangs over one eye floppily, and she sighs as she leans an elbow on the table, her cheek on her palm.
     She has almost, but not entirely, managed to put you out of her mind...

     It was a fantastic night. When the set was done, the last encore given, Balthazar Davies returned to his table to find a boot left behind and a drawing. A glance at the clock confirmed the hour. It's midnight, cinderella.
     He ate hurriedly, helped load the equipment into Reggie's SUV, and with his guitar in its case, slung over his shoulder and back, he took out his phone and searched...
     Cinderella...
     Lion...
     London...
     And there it was, with GPS to show the way: The White Lion Pub near Cinderella of London. In the otherworldly glow of the device, Balthazar smiled. It is a fabulous night.
     It's one-thirty and the crowd in the White Lion have come and gone. Footballers still linger -- they're Last Call gents -- but the larger crowds are starting to disperse. For home. For clubs. For late night restaurants.
     Balthazar Davies opens the door, his ears still ringing from his own concert. He is still dressed in the same clothes -- he didn't figure he had the time to shower and change -- but the tie's a bit looser and his shirt is untucked. His hair is a-kilter, sweat making the back of it stand on end. It just adds to the well-dressed punk mystique.
     In his hand, he holds a boot. It's nice, expensive, and seemingly completely random. He's a posh nutter, the footballers think. It stands to reason then that he's heading for the other oddball -- the woman who want given in to a footballer's charm. "When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes," Balthazar quotes, "... I all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my..." He pauses and presents the shoe to its owner, "... bootless cries. I believe you left something behind. Did you hobble all the way from the Piss and Moan to here?"
     Grinning, Balthazar tilts his head and bends down to look under the table and confirm whether you are, indeed, bootless.

     Grey eyes turn up, and there is a smile for the quotation; she recognizes it, of course. But there is also a thought. You came. It is impossible not to be flattered. "I didn't hobble, no," Gillian answers you with a cheerful lilt to her voice. "I took a taxi. And, I did prepare a little."
     She nudges a chair out, putting both feet up on it, toes poised. She has on a pair of soft pink, somewhat scuffed ballet slippers with pink elastic bands over the ankles. She draws her hair back from her face with both hands and lets her feet fall from the chair, leaving it vacant and out as if in offering. "Are you outcast? Though I can believe in deaf heaven. Someone must be deaf, after that concert. Did you want something to drink? You can have my plate if you like, if you're still hungry. I did order you the fish and chips, but I don't know if you actually got them. They seemed pretty slammed."
     She gives you a demure sidelong look, and then she grins. She is not quite giddy, she is suppressing any such thing. You came. "I'm a little shocked to see you here so soon. I was going to give you a whole additional hour, just to be fair..."

     "When I saw that you were not there, for a moment I did look upon myself, and curse my fate, wishing me like to one more rich in hope," he chuckles quietly. His voice is warm, the timbre of it still resonating with the residue of music. An instrument as much as any other. It has been warmed and now he sings even when he speaks.
     He leans forward, arms resting on the table, "But then I realized how famished I was. Thank you, the fish and chips were there, with the boot," he grins, relinquishing it at last. He looks to the pink slippered feet as he takes a seat upon the offered vacancy. "Am I shouting?" he wonders suddenly. "I expect I'll be able to hear again by noon."
     He is rather less sedate than he was before. At this rate, one might expect he would be up by dawn, if nothing else than unwinding and settling down enough to sleep. "We've gotten pretty good about packing it up after a show. I am looking forward to affording a road man, let alone a manager. I'd just as soon not do the loading at the end. Did you get your work done after all?" He nods to the paper. He doesn't say anything about surprising you, or beating your expectations really. Balthazar Davies simply smiles.

     "I got some stuff done. I doubt I'll be done any time that soon in general, but ... not bad progress for now. I made some notes for myself." And if in there somewhere is scribbled your name, well - she isn't going to admit to it. But her cheeks are about the same color as her slippers now. She takes the boot, setting it on top of her books, where it flops with a raffish air.
     Gillian picks up her drink - it's soda again - and takes a sip, taking the time to peek at you only somewhat covertly. "I'd offer to point you in the right direction, but I don't know anyone here yet, not really. Everyone I do know is about as busy with their coursework as I am. So, since I'm not an expert, how did the show go from your end of it? I thought it went pretty well. You had a standing room only crowd and not much room left at that."

     "From my end, I believe it went well. The crowd was good, they danced, they clapped. It was a good night," he says. He says it with the trace of a smile, but it is honest and genuine. "Did you enjoy yourself, then? Expert or no, you know what you like, right? If you enjoyed it, Gillian West, then... I would say it was a good night for the Oxford Comma. If not," Balthazar grins, "I will try not to be heartbroken."
     In this better lighting, you can see his eyes are a rich cinnamon brown, and even though he's a red-head, and he is somewhat fair, he isn't freckled like most. There is a kind of soft caramel to his skin. He is fair, but there is a kind of olive there.
     Balthazar twists in his seat to get the attention of what appears to be the only waitress. "A coffee for me, please, and a menu? You're still serving, yeah?"
     "We can probably arrange something, sure," she says. "I'll be back with the coffee. Cream and sugar?"
     "Please," he says with something of relief. You have his attention again. "I'm still hungry. I can't eat before a show, too much nervous energy. So how long have you been in London?"
     His interest is earnest and it is palpable. Sitting next to you, he leans in a bit as he asks it, and gets set to listen. Post show, post food, he is still alive -- even more alive -- with creative energy. You could light a candle from the air around him.

     She slides her plate - pickled veg and more chips, with an aioli dressing on the side - over towards you. "I enjoyed myself, though not knowing anyone and so on, I felt a little out of place," Gillian admits cheerfully enough. "But it wasn't bad, and you guys are good musicians. Even if it's not what I mostly have listened to. I'm flexible, though."
     She sips her soda again, swinging one foot so it bumps against a leg of the table. Your energy is infectious. "Only since September - one semester, in other words. I went home for the holidays, been back about a month - well, 'home'. Dad's currently on a boat in the Florida Keys, so that's where I was. I got to see my family, though, and my grandparents flew down to their condo too, in Miami Beach, so it was nice. I got some sun."
     Gillian smiles at you, then looks down to her soda in mild embarrassment. "I hope I'm not talking about myself too much." Her skin is golden - but it is a gold that will fade to peaches and cream, if not maintained. If she didn't pace herself, she'd burn to a crisp...

     He smiles at you, reaching for a chip. He'll leave the aioli be for the moment. "You left before I could make proper introductions. But.. I'm glad you liked it." His eyes glance toward the sound of your bumping foot. "No, not too much," Balthazar grins. "I like hearing about your life. It sounds... warm. How do you get used to the rain and the cold after being so near there Caribbean? That has to sting a bit. Still, when you have so much work going on, maybe the weather just...fades to the background."
     His coffee, cream, sugar and menu appear. He tends to the coffee first, adding a bit of cream and two cubes of the sugar. He enjoys the quiet for a moment, the stillness interrupted by the stirring of the coffee and the dissolving of sugar. He glances to you, watching the pink move across your sun-gilded complexion.
     Balthazar Davies is relaxed around you. There is an openness to the way he sits, the way he holds his coffee, sipping at it now an then, to the way he looks at you. "I like to go to Greece over the summer," he says, trading you a story, "... stay in the sun, swim. I store it all up for nights like this, when I think I may well never see the sun again." His mouth dips his smile canting sideways as he lifts his cup for a sip. "Have you been to Greece at all?"

     "New Hampshire isn't exactly a tropical hotspot," Gillian answers you, laughing. "I like to think of it as taking things in balance. I like the heat, the sun, swimming - but I also like riding over snowy fields, stars glittering in the sky like so many pieces of cut glass, beyond counting, candles on the windowsill, the fire in the fireplace, hot chocolate and marshmallows... everything has at least some beauty. It just takes looking for, sometimes."
     She grins, then shakes her head. "I sound like a Hallmark card. You're a dangerous man, Balthazar Davies, reducing me to trite things like that. I've never been to Greece, no. Dad's work never took him there - Maddie's been there, though. School trip last year. She raved about it. So tell me something you do like about London."

     "Am I making you prone to sentimentality, Miss West?" he teases with a tsk. "Oh dear." He winks and steal another chip. He hasn't taken a look at the menu yet -- your plate will serve him well enough. "I love London actually," Balthazar admits quietly, glancing up to you, the smile lingering. "It's enormous, surprising, dangerous, it's lovely. It's ancient. It's young. It's stuck. It's struggling to break free. It's a classical riot of traffic noise, pubs, clubs and bars." Pausing, he looks at you sidelong. "Now you have me doing it." Such a soft accusation.
     "I should imagine that for a history scholar, London is a bit like Everest. The irresistible climb. I don't think I asked earlier," he realizes, "...but what's your specialty? Not Victorian, I hope." He wears a mock look of concern, as if studying Victorian history were a thing to be pitied or dismayed of. He grins and takes another sip of coffee.

     "I'm not a Victorian, no," she laughs, picking up a bit of pickled carrot and tossing it at you lightly. "I'm a medievalist. Which means I spend a lot of time on laundry lists. It is fascinating," Gillian admits freely, "and ... well, I admit I didn't think I'd get the chance. Not to brag or anything, I just ... didn't really think I'd get it. But I had to try."
     She draws the combs out of her hair, running her fingers through it and pushing it back out of the way. It's the one overt flaw in her otherwise exceptionless persona; the jarring note in the otherwise flawless grooming. "So how do your parents feel about you being a rock star?" Gillian asks curiously. "I can't even imagine what mine would say. I don't think there'd be screaming so much as ... puzzlement."

     He smiles in that charming, wayward way of his. There's even a touch of red at the upper apples of his cheeks. "They don't ... actually know. They know I am in London. They know I am studying music. But not the specifics. When I get a recording contract, then I'll tell them," he chuckles. "I'm a little superstitious. The more I talk about it, I feel... the less likely it is. If I keep writing, keep playing, singing, pushing, then I will get there. We're close, Gillian. We're... very close."
     His confidence is not bragging; it is passionate, it is sure in the knowledge of himself.

     "I try to give them only one thing to freak out about at a time. My brother's recently married, about to move further up in politics. So I figure that's enough for them for now," he chuckles and takes another swallow of the coffee.
     Your hair is no flaw. When you pin it, he watches you pin it. It has an independent streak, maybe even a little stubborn. It reveals You in the way it insists upon its own path. He smiles at it, and you.
     "A medievalist," he mulls with momentary distraction. "Legends and myths and fact, colliding. Interesting period. I like the twelfth century poets, the French troubadours. Bernardt de Ventadorn, Marcabru. My grandfather's a bit of a medievalist himself. He has a fantastic library."

     There is the sudden light of lust in her eyes - no, not for you, but for your grandfather's library. "Perhaps I'll have to beg an invitation from you - or an introduction, at least." Gillian grins at you, the cheeky side showing up to brighten her eyes. "I can be charming to grandparents! I've got four of them, after all. You said the magic words, you know. Every historian is eager for access to fantastic libraries, especially if it's within their period."
     She toys with her soda, looking into it with a pinkness to her own cheeks before she glances up at you, halfway smiling. "So you're determined not to follow your brother's path? Sounds like the sort of thing that might make some guys turn and run the other way. Marriage. Promotions. Ball and chain. Though a contract's a contract. Still, I think you'll manage. I'd ... offer to help, but the closest to that sort of thing I have access to is - not music, exactly."

     "I think I can probably arrange for a visit," he smoothly replies, bronze eyelashes sweeping downward as he finishes his coffee with the tilt of his head. He twists, turning about for the waitress again as he lifts the empty cup. "The library's in Wales." Turning back to you, he grins. "You would actually have to travel with me. So perhaps Hawaii is not out of the question. Turnabout being fair play." The teasing tone coils around those lilting syllables.
     "You're very charming," Balthazar nods. "I am certain he would be smitten. Which is why I would go with you." He pauses as the waitress refills the cup. He is quiet as he doctors it with cream and sugar yet again. Brown eyes are bright when he looks up at you. "I have no problem with marriage, actually. A bit rare for a musician, I realize. I just haven't the stomach for government and politics. It's not merely the sedentary nature of it," he explains seriously, "... but ... it's just not for me. Gruffydd," what an odd combination of consonants and sounds that is! "... is a natural at it. I'm not sure what it says about him," Balthazar suddenly laughs, "..or me that I'm not natural at it."
     He peers at you, his smile wandering again. "Too revealing?" Oh well. To your last point he wonders. "Maybe there's a connection. What is that closest thing?"

     She laughs again, tipping her chin down, cheeks reddening further. "Well, I've never been to Wales, but as far as frequent flyer miles go, it doesn't seem a very fair exchange. Show me the library first, and then we'll talk." It's no surprise she comes from generations of Yankee traders.
     You tease her and she teases back. She is having a very good time; it shows, in her eyes behind the rimless glasses, in the curve and quirk of her lips as she tries not to show quite entirely how charmed she is by you. "Is it that you don't trust me with your grandfather, or you don't trust him with me?" Gillian teases as she picks up her soda. "...I admit, I don't know how I feel about politics. Of course, if I were to go do a thing like that, it'd be in America, not here. Pres has already pointed out," she wrinkles her nose, "that I'm somewhat on the fast track to it, if I wanted to. Pres is very good at pointing out uncomfortable truths."
     A pink-toed slipper finds a rung of her chair, and she leans back again, watching you with her glass held loosely in both hands. "Well," Gillian says slowly, "someone I know ... my brother's friend more than mine, though he's a little bit older than us ... his dad's in Hollywood. I could see if he's going to be in town any time soon - his dad's English, lives locally. His other dad, I mean."
     "Show me, she says," he almost sings his, his voice dropping quietly between you, a melodic hush. He's quiet for a moment after. The tone and the words are tucked away, and in his head a song is brewing. Can you see the poet's mind burning?

     He looks at your cheeks, your neck, your face -- quick glances that take you all in as you speak. You are charmed; he is delighted. "I trust you with him... maybe not his books," he grins. "But I would have to make sure he behaved. He's a bit... too Medieval for his own good at times. You would like the house as well. It has historical relevance. In fact, it has medieval relevance. It would be like a candy store to you, I should think."
     Balthazar listens with interest to the proposition -- well, it's more information than proposal. "We have two CDs. I could slip him the most recent demo. That would be fantastic, actually. And here we are... talking quid pro quo after saying we don't much fancy politics."
     His voice is quiet. The surroundings are quiet too. There's just one other table full in the bar now. Most of the rest have already filed out. It is nearly last call.
     "Are you staying in town or heading back to Oxford tonight? It's a bit late for a train. I could drive you, if so. I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Gillian, but i would like to see you again. Libraries and Hollywood notwithstanding. Apart from all that," he smiles. "I would like that. What do you say? Have you made up your mind, Madame Cinquante-Deux? Shall you allow me to call you?"

     "You act as if there's something wrong with him being a bit medieval," Gillian chuckles. She is only half-joking. No, she does not want to contend with the perils and pitfalls of the medieval era; she likes her sporting life, her jet planes, her smallpox vaccines, her modern ice cream. But she is not immune to the thin thread of romance that winds through history as a real thing, not just the glossed and embellished image Hollywood has provided. She is a historian. "But if you feel you have to protect me..."
     She likes it, at least a little. For the moment, she'll allow it. She slides her glass of melted ice away from herself, the caramel syrup sloshing at the bottom for two-toned liquid color. "I'm staying overnight at a hotel, actually," Gillian admits to you, voice quieter now. She's only just coming out of it as if from a spell, noticing the emptiness of the pub, how few are remaining. How long you've held her attention captivated. "Taking the train back tomorrow. It's ... a tempting offer, Balthazar Davies, but ... I think I'd best get my money's worth. But," and she smiles at you, cheeks again pink, lashes lowering in a slight flicker behind the clear glass panes, "I think I can spare you a few digits. You may call me, if you really want to."

     He is protective. The hand near the small of your back, guiding you to your seat at his table, essentially offering to walk you home and to defend you from lecherous uncles all evidence to that fact. "I'll give you a ride to your hotel," he insists quietly. No cabs.
     And there's no hurry. As far as he cares, the pub can close up around you both. They can shut off the lights if they want. "I like my modern comforts," he smiles slowly. "And the freedom of self-expression and determination. The middle ages seem a bit to authoritarian and arbitrary to me. The poetry, the art, the music, all marvelous. The politics and history fascinating. But, I'm happy with clean sheets and indoor plumbing." He laughs a little quietly at that, his laughter drifting easily to a smile. He takes out the phone/computer/mp3/camera device. "I really want to," he notes as he pulls up the phone book application. "Gillian West," he repeats it as he types it. "I will give you mine as well Okay, I am ready..."

     She smiles at you, illuminated in the pale blue glow of her own phone as she takes it out. "It's good you specified the clean sheets. It's always nice to know a boy knows about proper sanitation." Gillian looks down quickly, rattling off her number as she slides her chair back slowly. She almost doesn't want the night to end, but Cinderella has her pumpkin time. And she isn't quite sure she wants to see what you turn into, prince...
     Or rat...

     "Yes," he grins, glancing up from the multi-tasking, multi-media, world-in-the-palm-of-his-hand. "Clean sheets are a must. The name is Balthazar Davies. You spell it like it sounds. Number 020 4599 8899." It's a London number, most definitely.
     Numbers exchanged, drinks finished, now the bell is tolling, Cinderella. "My car's right outside," he notes, stowing away his phone. "It's no trouble and there's no point in arguing, Gillian West. I will take you to your home away from home whenever you're ready." No rush, his eyes say. But even as he says it, he knows you're gearing up to go. It is two-ayem, after all.
     "Just think, you only went to the Pom and Cock to study. Now, it's two in the morning, you've had drinks with an electrician and quizzed him on history. La vie est-il drole, no?"

     Her belongings are all tidily put away, with an air of everything in its place. She is already sliding her chair back - as nice as it's been, the night is over, and the morning is seriously beginning. "Well, it's certainly been electrifying," Gillian grins at you, rising to her feet on pink soles. "So I suppose it should keep you in business."
     She slides the strap of her bag up onto her shoulder, dropping her phone in last of all. Her cheeks still have lingering color - but she is not lingering, no. It's past her bedtime, well and truly. How will you manage? "Balthazar Davies, spelled the way it sounds," Gillian repeats thoughtfully, giving you an amused look as she turns to head to the counter to pay her tab. "What, no sneaky extra consonants that turn themselves invisible? You'll never be a man of mystery that way..."

     "Ah, I knew I should have changed it and added a silent E," comes the humored lilt of his voice. He stands with you, giving a glance to your pink ballet slippers as you move ahead of him to pay your tab. He tosses a couple of euro for the coffee, and another couple in a healthy tip. A habit born of working in bars and pubs, no doubt. Out come the keys.
     "Electrifying," Balthazar repeats with a tilt of a smile as he looks to you. With sparks and energy and all. "And were you energized by an evening full of not working or studying?"
     And as he did before, he offers you to go slightly ahead of him, a gesture of his hand coming near to the small of your back, just enough for the static to be present but not a full touch. Just a skimming as he walks with you from bar where euros fell in colored heaps, his upon yours upon his.
     The car that is parked outside is a black Range Rover, relatively recent but comfortably used. A press of his thumb at his keys and the Rover unlocks. Balthazar opens the passenger side for you and stands there, holding it open for you to enter.

     She goes pink again, for courtly manners so elegantly displayed, and allows your escort as if her due. Euros are dropped on top of euros, and Gillian comments absently, "I have to say, there's something sad about the adoption of the euro as local currency. I realize it's progress, but sometimes it seems to me that something is lost in the trade."
     Gillian peers up at the London skyline (what's visible of it), then lets you lead her to the car. Her eyebrows go up - Range Rovers, even used, aren't cheap - and she climbs in once the door's opened, reaching in to pull herself up onto the seat. "Nice car," she comments. "Somehow, I don't know why, I didn't think this would be what you drove."

     "It is perfect for hauling around amps and guitars. And, if I ever get the chance to play Tibet, I can make the climb." He makes sure you're seated and in before he closes the door.
     The interior is pretty clean considering, one, he is a musician, and, two, he is a man. The leather is in good shape and the only clutter is a nest of CDs in the console between where you sit and where he's sitting. When he turns on the car, he winces a soft "shite" as the music blares The Beatles. "Sorry, you'd think I'd be satisfied with going deaf on stage. So," he turns to you as he is buckled in. "Where to, Gillian West?"
     There is the hover of a smile. It is never far below the surface of his expression, as music is never far from the warmth of his voice. Or pink from the surface of your skin.

     She laughs at the noise, shaking her head at you and giving you a reluctant smile. "I can see what I'm buying you for Christmas, Balthazar Davies. Ear plugs." Gillian puts on her seatbelt as a matter of course - as if she simply would never think not to. Her bag is dropped to between her feet, and she looks resolutely out through the windscreen in front. "Claridge's, of course. Where else?"
     "Ah, Claridge's. Not far from grandfather's." He has relatives in Kensington? Well, he did say his father was "in government". God only knows what his grandfather's up to. "Very nice," he smiles. "I haven't stayed there personally, but the restaurant is good."
     It won't take long to get there from here. But you are serenaded for however long the ride. Without the mikes and guitars, the strings and the drums, just in the relative silence of the car ride, his voice has a sweetness to it, with just a touch of earthiness from all of the earlier vocals. It drifts off to humming, then to commentary: "Ear plugs," he suddenly picks up your earlier comment, "... and a copy of the History of the English People. I'm going to have to read, dear Gillian, if I'm to answer all of your trivia questions."
     Balthazar glances to you amid the driving -- no longing stares, just glimpses. Of the play of light and shadow. Of the streetlights coloring your hair and skin as you and he pass by. Images are photographed and saved for later. "I'll have a quiz prepared for you... hmmm... sometime around midweek." How's that for mysterious...

     Her ears do prick up at the tidbits you drop, collecting them, hoarding them as Knowledge and hence falling under her rightful purview. "Well, that still gives me a ten month and two week head start, roughly. Though it will just spur me to make the questions harder, you know."
     Gillian turns her head to smile at you, then looks out the window, watching signs pass by in silence for a moment. "You know, it took me almost up until I got here to realize that London was going to be like this," she comments suddenly. "It's one of the downsides of reading history. You forget that it's the past, it isn't the present after all. What kind of quiz?"

     "It's easy to freeze a place in time," he remarks seriously. "London of childhood always remains that London, even though it and I have changed. But when there is so much history, it is hard to see it for what it is. Sometimes I find myself picking out the Roman bits here and there. And then Now London, New London seems like a strange, strange place. I guess it always was a bit odd. That's why I prefer to read poetry, I guess."
     Balthazar looks to you as he turns the car, approaching Brook Street. He smiles, looking ahead again. "Now, what sort of quiz would it be if I told you? You don't really want to know. I think you'd fancy the surprise. But I will say that you'll know it when you see it on Wednesday."
     Mayfair's own Claridge's Hotel is a red-brick wonder dominating Brook Street. The flags and windows are illuminated. It's beyond lovely. The doorman awaits near the curb. "Wait there," Balthazar says as he pulls up an puts the Rover in park. The car is still running, but he is stepping out.
     To open your door and help you disembark, naturally. He opens your door and offers you his hand. If you had your heels on he reckons it would be easier for you to slide out -- less of a drop, certainly. So his hand is there to guide and to brace.
     And he holds it a moment longer, as he closes the door behind you. "Gillian West, thank you for a brilliant evening," Balthazar murmurs. He is tall, you cannot help but see him bend. And for a suspended moment that hung in the air for a tiny epoch, you might have wondered: is he going to kiss me?
     ...Upon your cheek, near your ear, his mouth brushes warmly. "I will call you soon," he whispers there.

     "Wednesday," Gillian repeats thoughtfully, giving you a mock-suspicious look. "All right. I guess I can wait that long." She looks out the window again - and finds that London has given way from infinity to Claridge's. She is almost disappointed.
     She smiles at you as you open her door. "You didn't have to do that, you know," she tells you, matter of fact rather than coy. But she allows it, looking up at you as your hand hovers, static making her blush; it has to be the static, it couldn't be proximity. As you close the door and look down. You can hear the quick catch of her breath, in anticipation or in wariness, as you bend. And where your lips touch, poppies blossom, red upon the velvet smoothness of her cheek...
     But she is American, and though she smiles, she holds onto something of poise, her bag swinging up onto her shoulder as she steps away. "We'll see," Gillian answers in a little less quiet voice, warmth in her voice all the same. "Good night, Balthazar Davies." Her hair rustles against her shoulders where it's escaping the combs, and she swings away from you, turning upon her own axis. "But you're welcome, all the same."

Posted by rowan at February 09, 2009 10:28 PM