"We'll go running again tomorrow - seven? Okay," Gillian tells her cellphone as she heads down the walk towards one of the inevitable smaller library buildings that dot the university campus. "Six-thirty, then. I'll hit the pool after, then head to my first lecture of the day. Talk to you when I get home tonight, or if I miss you, I'll see you in the morning."
The phone is clicked shut and dropped into her purse; she's very Audrey today, strawberry blonde hair glossy and piled up on top of her head with a navy blue band to hold it there, navy blue skirt and blazer paired with medium-grey leggings and blue ankle boots to match. Her glasses perch precariously on the tip of her nose as she fumbles to get her purse's strap separated from that of her laptop case, and that of her satchel from both, causing her to pause at the library's outer doors.
Running, swimming, lecture, second lecture, library - I should have enough time to maybe grab a salad before I start revising my notes. I should go over that list of lawyers daddy recommended - well, I guess I can take ten minutes to do that now...
Gillian pulls open the door with a quiet sigh. It's all gotten so much more complicated than she'd meant for it to do, and there's so much on her mind she's trying not to think about. Resolutely, she squares her shoulders and mentally braces herself to step into where she is likely not only to find useful books, but also likely to run into you. She is already rehearsing in her mind what she might say if, in fact, she should spot you (preferably before you spot her)...
Oh would that it were. Would that you might...
Bran ap Davydd (also known as Bran Davies) is seated downstairs, in an aged chair surrounded by books on the Brigantes, the Silures, and a variety of Latin texts. He is sipping a drink, which has to be against some rule, but no one seems to take notice of him doing it or, if they do, bother to stop him. Spare the rod and spoil the child.
He is dressed in what must be the professorial uniform of Oxford: a light knit sweater (it is June), which is a kind of cinnamon brown, and a charcoal grey suit. The shoes are a darker brown (they could pass for black), and since it's June there's no scarf to warm the neck or the face.
He doesn't look up, but is concentrating on the book on his lap, his fingers moving against the page, scrying the information his eyes absorb. What shall be divined in it?
Oh would that it were. Would that you might.
There is a slight smile, just a peek, a glimmer, at the corners of his mouth.
She spots you almost immediately and mixed emotions show in her eyes and the way her face tightens at the corners of them, at the edges of her mouth; the way she bites her lip and looks around the library for a moment before squaring her shoulders again and marching over to you.
"You shouldn't be drinking in here," Gillian hisses at you, straps dangling and twisting on her shoulder. She brings one of the bags (the laptop case) forward, hugging it to her to suspend some of the weight and get it off her shoulder. "...And that sweater doesn't match your suit," she adds irrelevantly.
She can't make it sound like her mother. Never mind it's the first she's seen you since before she left for America. She gives you a look which isn't a glower but does come close to a frown. "Good afternoon, professor," Gillian West tacks on politely. "I hope you've been keeping well."
"I know," Bran croons quietly, not whispering -- which is also against the rules. "Today, I am practicing heresy. Tomorrow, I return to practicing the piano. And grey and brown match," he smiles, still not looking up from his book. But his smile is wide. "If anything it's the shoes that throw it off."
And then his dark green eyes are on you, the book closed with a snap as he gives you his undivided attention. He is amused, it glimmers in his eyes as he half-rises to greet you. But it's platonic. He wouldn't want any of the neighboring overachievers crying Foul ball!
Bran looks you up and looks you down as you glower and not-quite-frown. "I've missed seeing you at my lectures, Gillian." He leans forward, lowering his voice to a bit of a hush: "...as well as for dinner." He doesn't wink but he thinks about it.
"I am doing a little light reading on encampments and villages on the city's north and west side. Care to pull up a chair and share a sip or two of tea? Join me in a little rebellion, maybe?"
She reddens, the blush climbing into her cheeks; strawberry-blonde fairness means she can't hide it very well, and she lifts her chin. "I wasn't here. I mean, I was in America. Sorry, I haven't invented a teleportational device, but I'll get right on that, shall I?" She tosses her head; you get under her skin. She hates that about you.
She adjusts her straps some more, since it means she has something to focus on to occupy her hands if not her thoughts. "I don't know what you mean about rebellion, but - I suppose I can stop for tea. Just not for very long," Gillian murmurs, keeping her voice down primly and glancing for a moment at you over the rims of her glasses. It is a brief look, furtive and frustrated and sad, and she looks away again. "Let's hurry though; I'm running behind."
"Have a seat," he murmurs, and beneath the table he reaches for his satchel. From it, he removes a collapsable cup, unfolds it and then, from a stainless steel thermos, pours still hot coffee in the cup. "Cream and sugar, or is that going too far?" Bran grins as he lifts his own cup for a sip. He seems unconcerned in his treachery.
"Yes, you told me, I think. Your sister, yes? Everything's alright I hope. You seem a bit... stressed," is the word he settles on. "Still worried about our project?" The project has no name or description. Nothing is hinted at or revealed. "Rebellion," Bran smiles to you. "Of library rules. I would smoke, but I have more respect for books than that." The smile is deep, fathoms deep in his eyes, and he takes a moment to enjoy your reddening skin.
She eyes you and your coffee, and then she sits. Promptly. Heavily. A trifle sullenly, as if she resents you and your coffee. The bags are carefully untangled and set down one at a time, and she folds her hands in your lap, watching you openly now.
It isn't fair that I look at you and I notice your eyelashes. It isn't fair that I can't hate you. I know that life isn't fair, but I'd hoped for something different. Well, never mind...
"My sister's fine. She was graduating from her prep school. She has a new boyfriend; apparently, he's a Duke. My ex-boyfriend, as it happens," Gillian tells you steadily but not blithely. She reaches for the coffee. "You shouldn't smoke. It's a filthy, disgusting, vile habit, and I loathe smoking and smokers."
Oh, good. You gave me something I can hate about you. Thank you for that, at least. "There are some ... challenges with our project," Gillian allows. "I'll take it black, thank you." She sips the coffee and sets it down, making a face to herself. She doesn't actually like black coffee, as you can see. She is just too damn stubborn for her own good.
To your defense, he has remarkably long eyelashes, a dark auburn, like a fox's.
"Black? I fear it's a medium oolong. Best I can do on short notice without a kettle. And worry not," he flashes a smile to you, "I don't smoke. Though, professors who don't smoke pipes are at a professional disadvantage. I also don't have patches on the elbows of my jackets."
He takes a sip of the tea and sits back in the aged leather chair. "Well, you had to know it would be challenging, Gillian. And, really, if it weren't would it be half so exciting? You know, your ex-boyfriend the Duke isn't the only one with resources. Am I not here to help you? We are partners. Of a fashion."
Bran looks you up and looks you down again, this time a bit more ...closely. There's a familiarity there. "Hmm... I detect some ... it's not jealousy, precisely, but perhaps you're not as happy for her as you would otherwise?"
"I am happy for her." Gillian shrugs, holding the tea up in both hands, shoulders a little bit defensive. She directs her look to her tea. "Mind you, I'm nowhere near as happy for her as my mother is."
Really, Gillian, couldn't you manage to make nice to any man? What's wrong with you, do you want to die an old maid?
Her mothers words ply in her head as she gives you a covert look. Her rebelliousness and her resentment are at war with her urge to please her mother; she looks down again quickly, with a tremor to her eyelashes. "I'm not jealous in the slightest. I like him, he's a nice guy; but we don't have anything in common, and - and it wouldn't have worked, it's why I broke up with him. I didn't want him to be hurt."
I didn't want me to be hurt, either. But I can't ever manage better than fifty percent anyway.
"I don't think you can help with the next step," Gillian tells you a bit crossly, turning to look out the window. "Not unless you have a way of convincing Parliament to give me free rights to a chunk of land. And as much as I'd like to see you try, trust me, you'd have about as much luck impressing my m- well, you wouldn't have much luck there." She sips the tea and sets it down again, picking up her purse and taking out her phone, checking its calls.
"How do you know I can't," he wonders quietly. He grins at the brim of the cup, eyebrows lifted both innocently (and most decidedly not). "Impress your mother, that is. Or Parliament. You... do know that there is more than one way to approach this. For example," Bran sits forward, his voice lowering to a notch just above a whisper, "...it is not all of parliament you need to convince, but the Land Minister... or, better yet, the underminister. Perhaps in your... reading... you discover that the underminister has a bit of a gambling problem... or a love affair with a prominent MP's wife. The possibilities are endless, Gillian. I know you are not so easily thwarted as to believe it's hopeless."
Bran's dark eyes settle on you. There is something of understanding there. He lifts his collapsable cup for a sip of tea. "Personally, I'm rather glad of it. We might not have met otherwise. And you shouldn't be troubled by this ex-boyfriend, duke or no. Or your mother, duke or no. It is your life, your choices to make, to enjoy, to learn from."
She goes pink again, and she doesn't look at you, though you know (know) she is aware of you. Entirely too much for her own comfort. "I ... suppose," Gillian allows, "but exploiting someone's weaknesses like that ... it isn't entirely right, is it."
She drops her phone back into her purse and now she looks at you directly, over the rims of her glasses. "I'm not troubled by Balthazar. I hope he and Maddie manage to make it, though I doubt it, just because of the age difference. I really do hope they do. I told you, I like him; he's as close to a friend as I've got in this country. I want him to be happy, and I'd love for Maddie to be happy, though I think she'd be happy one way or another anyway. It's not in her nature to let life or anything or anyone get in her way for long."
Some would say the same about Gillian West. She doesn't answer you about her mother; she just looks at you, and then away. "If you can think of a solution which doesn't mean rooting about in gossip magazines, let me know. I'd better get to work on that synopsis for my advisor."
Posted by rowan at May 16, 2009 06:01 PM
