Sunday's Child(4)
It was difficult to free his hand from hers. He’d very much like to stay, but Nicholas was right. Their time among this world was fleeting, limited to a single season and a single night. Claire was luckier than most in that she saw Nicholas in all his Christmas glory. She was more unique than most in that she saw Andor in his true form.
He bowed before her, a courtly gesture usually reserved for Dagrun. “I’m sorry, Claire. We have to leave.”
His stomach knotted when her gray eyes glazed with tears, but she held them back with a loud sniff. “Okay,” she said in a wobbly voice. Her smile returned full force when she turned to Nicholas. “Thank you, Santa.”
“My pleasure, Claire.” Nicholas’s voice deepened, gained a rhythm that vibrated deep into Andor’s bones and made him a touch drowsy. “Now, I want you to go back to bed. The presents will still be here, and there’s a special one for your mother, too.”
Andor’s brows rose, as did the saint’s, when Claire managed to fight off the sleep spell long enough to address Andor once more.
“Come see me next year. I won’t forget you. You won’t forget me?”
The knot in his belly tightened. She would forget, or cease to believe. Time and age would see to it, even for a Sunday’s Child. The human adult changed belief systems, relegating the wonders of childhood sorcery to memories. Such knowledge never bothered him before. It did now.
“No, Claire. I won’t forget you.”
She nodded slowly, her eyelids drifting to half-mast over her eyes as the spell took effect. “Okay.” She yawned twice and tottered out of the room. Her sleepy voice drifted back to them from the hall. “Goodnight.”
The silence in the small living room held nothing of magic in it. Nicholas sighed, and there was an odd sympathy in his dark gaze. “You’re lucky. We rarely come across one like her these days.”
Andor closed his eyes. “I know, and I’m not sure if I should celebrate or grieve.”
3
“I’ve escaped the stacks for today, and I’m going home.” Claire peered around the carpet wall separating her cube from Dee’s. “Do you need anything from me before I go?”
Dee Howard glanced up from her monitor for a moment and paused in scribbling notes in a ratty notebook. She blinked at Claire as if trying to remember who she was. “I’m sorry. What?”
Claire sighed. As one of the archivists employed by the Carmichael Research Institute and Museum, she worked closely with the curatorial staff on multiple projects. For the past three months, she’d been hip-deep with Dee in preparation for the illuminated manuscript exhibit Dee was coordinating. There were times she thought she’d have to bring up a blanket and pillow and sleep in the repositories room just to get half the work done for this project. She was suspicious Dee was already doing just that.
“I’m leaving for the night. You should too. It’s after 6:00, and you’ve been here since at least 5:30 this morning.”
A puzzled frown knitted Dee’s brow. “How do you know that?”
“Time stamp on the first e-mail I got from you today.” Claire shrugged on her coat. “Gotta go. I need to relieve Elise so she can get home.”
Dee’s phone rang. She answered and held up a finger to Claire in a silent request to wait. Claire used the opportunity to fish her purse out of one of her desk drawers. By the time she’d dug her keys out of a side pocket, Dee had finished the call and left her cube.
“I’ll walk with you,” she offered. “That was Andor. The first crate from the Matenadaran just arrived at the loading dock.” Her voice virtually quivered with excitement.
Claire made to tease Dee that she’d probably find her hugging the crate, waiting for the preparator crew to open it, but the odd, unfamiliar name sidetracked her. “Who’s Andor?”
The staff at the Carmichael was relatively small compared to other larger museums like the Houston Museum of Fine Arts or Natural Science. Claire had worked at the Carmichael for four years; she knew most everyone, at least by name. She didn’t recognize the name Andor.
Dee halted her with a hand on her elbow. She gaped at Claire. “You haven’t met Andor the preparator?”
Claire burst out laughing. Dee’s description, delivered in tones of disbelief and amazement, conjured images of a murderous cyborg with one glowing red eye and a mission to wipe out all of mankind; that, or his name flashing in great big, flashing billboard lights. “Not that I remember, and I think I would have, based on your reaction.”
Dee whistled. “Oh yeah, you would remember meeting him. Prime eye candy. Too bad he’s only temp. On loan from the Menil to help out while Paul is on medical leave.”
Their senior preparator had hurt his back during setup of a sculpture exhibit. For most of the year, the crew made do through any shortages of manpower, but during Christmas, the Carmichael was insanely busy, and the loss of even one person had an obvious ripple effect. Claire was surprised the Menil, far busier than the Carmichael, had been willing to loan out one of its preparators even temporarily.
The two women passed through hallways of closed office doors and file rooms until they reached the loading docks. Two large trucks were parked in the bays, one with its trailer doors open and a parade of people carting out containers on dollies and pallet jacks.