He is not yet Present. He is still in the Future Tense, which is to say, he will have been here, had he made it early, but as he is still in the Future Tense, he will be here shortly. Nobody's pluperfect.

     Gillian's accent is still as precise as ever. She's calm, but the tension crackles for a moment, irritation flaring in the grey ice eyes. "Anyway, I'm not here to yell and scream at you. I'm here to talk about the future."

     Tilting his head, Davydd looks to Fiona. "Sounds familiar doesn't it," he grins. "I'm getting misty with the memories."

     "Have a safe trip, Gillian West. The woods are wild and thick with thieves." It is a snippet of a poem, a part of a riddle, a realization spoken with bittersweet softness, a sadness for a brother, and sing-song truth.

     "Well, whatever we're going to say, we better think fast," Pres mutters, slouching down again. "Here she comes." Maddie turns, eyes and lips rounding as she spots their sister.

     She stares at the open box with disbelief and almost with dismay. This makes it all real, it makes it serious. She cannot pretend otherwise; she cannot deny it or disregard it. And, despite herself, she has to admit - she is intrigued...

     You're so good to know that there's always a Story.

     There is connective tissue between you, the meter of music like a heartbeat you share. He moves with you, supporting, dashing ahead to circle back to you again. The voices of the violins sing in counterpart. Yours, the steady melody. His, the wandering, circling flourish. The raven that circles your path...

     I don't want to be wrong again...

     She brushes her fingers through her hair, then picks up her drink. "It'd be impossible for him to run off with it. He'd have to find it. I just ..." She looks forlorn. "I seem to have misplaced my confidence. I don't know where it went, Loki. I need help."

     "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?"

     Gillian sighs. "I'm not very good with other people, daddy. Short exposure times, sure, but ... well, there's a reason people like you and me, we end up in academia, right? I can never sustain it. I just - I can't.

     "I don't want to be the Man Who Knew Too Much," Balthazar smiles warmly. "Not that I would ever be mistaken for that." He chuckles briefly, lifting the cup of coffee for a sip. He twists in his chair and waves down the waitress. Another refill requested.

     Maddie shoots Balthazar a look that wavers somewhere between you didn't tell me! and you're a WHAT?. She blushes as the applause and murmur both move around the room with their rhubarbing rumble, and she hastily - very hastily - takes a drink. A large one.

     Gillian stops to take a sip of wine, and her fidgeting comes to a halt. She lifts her chin casually, giving you a steady scrutiny that anyone familiar with the West girls would recognize and probably want to run from. "I want you to marry me."

     If I could whisper in your ear and have you hear me, I would say but this: Believe, Gillian.

     One hand comes off the door, held out to you for an American four-square handshake. Intelligent grey eyes meet yours over the rims of her glasses challengingly and thoughtfully. What do you say, Professor Davies? Do you want to play with me?

     When he exhales, it's like the wind has blown through and taken his breath away. He says nothing for a moment. He sits there.

     "...As for provenance and publishing," he exhales a touch at that, in consideration, "...ethics don't really enter into it. After all, if you find something that hasn't already been located, then no one's really missing it..."

     She rises, moving further forward, peering into the gloom. She gasps sharply. "Oh. My god. Is that what I think it is? Loki, tell me if that looks like marble to you!"

     He knows your street so well. He has walked it twenty times or more by now, leaving you gifts in your mailbox and the occasional drawing on the sidewalk. When he approaches it, Balthazar slows the Rover. His fingers lightly brush the palm of your hand as turn signals flash and he pulls over to the sidewalk.

     "I'm not anticipating this show selling out fast," Loki says, and out comes the phone again for another quick note. "It doesn't conflict with any scheduled shows for the band, either. Greek gods interacting with Celtic characters almost sounds interesting now. Not enough that I'd get between the two of you and some Shakespearean bonding."

     "Well, research - I'm your girl. Glad you're fine. Sorry Pres isn't." The corners of her mouth turn down, and her shoulders visibly drop. "Tell me about it?"

     "Naturally." Gillian smiles. "So you'll help me? I'd like for us to make a few experimental forays before I invite anyone else. I don't know Balthazar well enough. He might try to do something silly like stop me because it's dangerous."

     In the envelope is a simple note. The revolution begins at eight. Sharply.

     Another day, another dollar - or another ten or twelve books thoroughly researched and discarded as not having what she's looking for, anyway.

     "Hey, stranger! Glad to see another Yankee yet? My Georgian grandmother would roll in her grave, if she were dead. How've you been?"

     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.

     Balthazar and Reggie share a look as the woman at the nearby table -- she's not British, Australian perhaps? -- proceeds to unpack her bag at the table. Cell phone, notebook. Who does work in a pub...?