Sunday's Child(7)

Despite time and her maturity, Andor recognized Claire instantly when they met two days earlier on the loading docks. Her Sight had faded just as Nicholas predicted, and she didn’t see past the glamour that humanized his features and disguised the distinctive shape of his ears. He’d worn this particular spell so often and for so long while among humans that it rested as comfortably on him as an old shirt. Still, it wasn’t enough to lessen his vague disappointment that while Claire might admire him, she didn’t truly see him. He disagreed with Nicholas that her Sight had not been a gift.

“Uh oh.” Dee frowned at the box in front of her.

The much taller Claire leaned over her shoulder. “Missing the bill of lading?”

“No, it’s there. But just the Armenian version. Either the English translation got lost or someone forgot to put it on.”

Claire shrugged. “E-mail the curator and ask for another copy. They’re what, eight hours ahead of us? By the time you get in tomorrow, they’ll have replied.”

Andor approached their table. “I can read Armenian.”

Three sets of gazes settled on him and stayed. Claire and the conservator each raised an eyebrow. Dee tilted her head to one side. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?”

If she only knew. Andor smiled, not at all offended by their doubts. Houston was a huge metropolis with a diverse population that encompassed numerous linguistic families. English, Spanish, and Vietnamese were the most commonly spoken. Armenian was considerably more rare.

“I’m fluent in several languages.” A thousand years of exile in Midgard had provided ample time to learn the many tongues of the humans.

Claire slid the list to him, her mouth tilted in a faint smile. “What does it say?”

He translated the bill, pausing only when Dee held up her hand. “We’re convinced,” she said. “Read it again, and we’ll report and catalog as you go.”

An hour later, Andor left the lab for one of the exhibit halls where another team of preparators worked to set up an exhibit of 19th century art glass. The sound of footsteps paced on a long stride drifted to his ears. His heartbeat sped up. Claire.

“Mr. Hjalmarson, wait.”

He stopped and turned. She offered him a wider, friendlier smile than the one she gave in the lab. It transformed her features in subtle ways. The hollows below her cheekbones filled out, and her eyes sparkled, reminiscent of the young girl who saw an elf for the first time, standing in her mother’s living room. The refined angles of her face softened and warmed. Andor thought her lovelier than any ljósálfr woman.

“Just Andor is fine,” he said. “The only people who address me by my last name are my accountant and the police.”

Her eyebrows shot up and the smile wavered a little. “Do you often deal with the cops?”

He grinned. “Not in the way you’re thinking.” Her skin pinked at his teasing. “Two speeding tickets is the extent of my life of crime.” At least by the definition of 21st century laws. He chose not to mention that caveat.

She chuckled. “Oh, well then, I’m a more hardened criminal than you. Two speeding tickets and an expired tag.”

Curious as to why she sought him out, Andor didn’t continue their banter. “What can I do for you, Ms. Summerlad?”

Her blush returned a little rosier this time. “Please call me Claire. I hope I didn’t insult you with my doubt about your claim to read Armenian. It just seemed too convenient to be true. Our temp preparator helping us at just that moment and also fluent in a language not at all common in this city? No one gets that lucky, you know?”

Andor shrugged. “No offense taken. And maybe it was more fate than luck.”

Claire laced her fingers together and clasped them in front of her. “Paul will be back and you at the Menil before Dee gets started on the main work of her exhibition. However, I’ve already begun work on research and provenance for some of the illuminated manuscripts we received from the Fitzwilliam and the Morgan. I’ve located texts that describe the manuscripts in more detail. Unfortunately, some of the descriptions aren’t translated.” She took a breath and continued. “I can hire out a translator, but having someone in-house who can do it would be a lot easier.”

“You want me to translate for you?”

She nodded. “I do.” Her hands came up in a gesture that warded off argument. “I know you’re as busy as the rest of us with the Gallé exhibit and the upcoming benefit dinner, but if you can carve out any time to do a little translation, I’d be grateful. Weekends even if that’s all you have. We’ll expense it through my department, and I’ll deal with accounting later.”

Time with Claire, grown to adulthood and no longer aware of magic. This was definitely fate more than luck. Andor had a wary respect for the Norns and sensed Ver?andi’s weave in this scenario. If the j?tunn giantess were here now, he’d thank her.

“Have lunch with me today,” he said.

She backed up a step, and her arms crossed. Her eyes narrowed. “You’ll help me with translations if I have lunch with you?” A touch of frost glazed her voice.

Since his exile, Andor had lived amongst humans, immersed in their ways and behaviors. Nicholas only required his presence a few days out of each year, and he’d embraced the saint’s suggestion that he learn more of Midgard and its people, disguised as a human himself. Nicholas didn’t voice what they both knew: a bored elf was a troublesome one.