The flight to DC was fairly uneventful, if long. (Of course, no flight is long compared to transcontinental; but long is a matter of opinion.) Gillian spent it reading, snoozing, and brooding by turns, relieved to finally check into the hotel on the other end.
     After a nap, and a shower, she is feeling almost human again; and just in time. It's time for dinner. She makes a call on her mobile first. "Daddy? Do you want to hit the restaurant in the lobby or get room service? I can go either way, but I figure room service might make it easier to talk about stuff..."

     There was a pause -- you know him, he's reading. "Oh...oh yes, certainly. Room service it is. I'd prefer it. I think the restaurant requires ties. Shall I meet you there or you come here?"
     He's only a few rooms down...

     "I'll come to you," Gillian decides. "See you in a few minutes, dad."
     She rings off, as they say in jolly olde, and examines her reflection in the mirror, glasses and all. She scowls, sticking her tongue out at herself before turning. She smoothes down her pantsuit self-consciously, then picks up her attache case and heads for the door.
     It is not an eternity later that she's knocking on the door to her father's room, waiting to be let in and then slipping inside. "I'm starving. Airline food shouldn't be served to prisoners of war. How are you, daddy? Reading anything interesting?"

     "Hello, darling," always a warm smile for you. Preston West II turns to close the door after a kiss on your forehead hello and as you breeze in. "I was reading the latest Oceanographia. The typical trashy novel," he lulls out. "Menu's on the desk. Order whatever you like. You are looking lovely, but then when haven't you? But Oxford seems to be agreeing with you. We're thrilled you know," he speaks for your mother but doesn't raise the specter of her name.
     "Care for a wine at all?" Your father is in the typical Dockers and a button down shirt. He's in his sock feet, however, as he was relaxing.

     She laughs, accepting the kiss and pressing one on your cheek before making a beeline for the menu. She sits down, turning the pages. "I'd love one, but I shouldn't. Empty calories, you know. Oxford is ... certainly doing something to me! I've almost forgotten what coffee tastes like."
     She skims the menu thoroughly, then sighs. "I'd better stick with just a salad," Gillian decides mournfully. "But I'll splurge and have the crab on top. That should do for me, I think." She offers the menu over to you. "I wanted to talk to you about my work, actually. I have - well, I have some pictures to show you. But you've got to promise not to tell anybody, daddy."

     "Calories," your father repeats. "Something you could use. You are perfection, my darling. You do not need to watch every carb like a hawk. You girls. Have a proper dinner." That's as scolding as he gets, a wry smile to go with. He takes the menu, and then the phone: "Yes... Room 708. The large dinner salad, with crab, yes please. And the prime rib. Thank you..."
     Preston West II sets the phone back in its charger and returns to the seating area. It's comprised of a lovely little sofa and two winged back chairs with ottomans. "Oh, of course. I am the model of discretion. What is the project?" he wonders. He sits forward in keen interest. You have his complete attention.

     You scold, but you order for her exactly what she asked for, and not a whit more; it makes it hard to take the scolding seriously. She smiles at you and takes a folder from her attache case.
     "Look at these," Gillian tells you. "Just look, and think about it. And tell me the first thing that pops into your mind."
     And she hands you the folder. It is full of crackly photographs and enlargements.

     Sitting forward, he takes his daughter's evidence -- that's what it appears to be, but of what? And then Preston West II sits back. He looks at each picture, studies it in silence. He looks up at you only at the final one. "This is extraordinary. What... and where is it?"

     "Under London." Gillian fidgets slightly, looking at you with a sidelong gaze. You know the look; it's when one of your children has been doing something not ... quite-quite, as you might say. "I - found it."

     "You found it," Preston West echoes, a slight twitch in his expression. He doesn't want to grin to encourage you. Trying to look blissfully bland, he glances to you. "This is in the underground? Do you know if the stray puppy, in this case, ruins of antiquity, belong to anyone else?"

     "Nobody knows about it." Gillian says it with absolute certainty. "Until I found it, nobody had been down there since at least before the Blitz, daddy. So the only people who do know about it are me, a friend of mine, you - and I've told that Welsh professor I mentioned."
     "But," she holds up a hand hurriedly, "I didn't tell him where. And I didn't let him see the photos. I showed him on my computer so he hasn't got anything to take away with him except in his head. I dug into the books. I can't find any mention of these anywhere remotely contemporary - so I think they've been lost for at least five or six hundred years."
     She looks at you, biting her lip. It is a difficult situation in which to know quite what to do. But if anyone will understand her position - and her predicament - it will be you.

     Preston West II is quiet for a time. "It's extraordinary, darling," he says finally, quietly. He exhales and then he smiles. "And you are smart to be protective. I understand you wish to keep this quiet. And it seems that while you are not sure whether you truly do trust this Professor Davies, you want to trust him. This is big, sweetheart. And you are capable but you will need assistance."
     He pauses for a moment. "Have you considered inquiring after a lawyer? Your grandfather's associate may know of one. The Duke, your friend," he smiles a little at that. "As he is in government at least in some small way, might be able to... very quietly and very covertly put you in touch with someone who could assist you. Someone, specifically, who... specializes in these sorts of things. Possession is nine-tenths the law, as they say. You need to secure this site as soon as possible. The devil is always in the paperwork."
     In bureaucracy, not the details as many misquote.

     "I want to trust him," Gillian answers quietly. She wraps her arms around herself protectively. "I just - I don't know. A lawyer might be a good idea," she admits. "I don't know if the Duke is my friend, really. I like him. I hope we're friends. I don't know if we are or not."
     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. Anyway, a lawyer is a good idea. I guess I should email Balthazar, huh."

     "I wouldn't email," your father cautions. "I would discreetly inquire. But you should talk to your professor ... friend. You want to trust him. He's in academia. Your advisor trusts him. And you have already made an overture."
     He smiles a little as you hug yourself. "My dear, Gillian, don't protect yourself out of an opportunity. You cannot control... everything. You can do, my dear, whatever you set your mind to. But... yes," he smiles a little more dearly now, "... other people ... make things unpredictable. But... isn't that how the best discoveries, the best theories are made? In chaos? If you are too guarded, you will miss what's right in front of you..."

     "I ... suppose. I'll try, daddy." Gillian sighs, letting her arms fall. "That's all I can do, right? I just - I wish I had some kind of edge. I'd feel better if I had some kind of hidden ace..."

     Your father smiles again, this time in love and pride. He reaches forward to pat your shoulder. "You do, Gillian. You have you."

Posted by rowan at May 01, 2009 09:44 PM