A/N: This section was written by Miroslav

In which Gwen finds something unexpected in the attic when she is home for Thanksgiving.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

"You don't have to do this, you know," her father said from the doorway, watching Gwen struggle with the packing tape.

Gwen ignored him for a moment. The packing tape was being particularly obnoxious, crumpling and sticking to her fingers instead staying on the box she was trying to tape shut. She bit her lower lip, frowning in frustration, and reached for the scissors.

"Dad, we've already had this conversation," she said as she snipped away the unsalvageable piece of tape and tossed it into the half-full trashcan. "You want to rent out the guest bedroom, I want to help you get it ready, end of the story."

"I just worry that you'll-" her father began.

"Burn myself out?" Gwen interrupted, keeping her voice gentle. She smiled up at her father. "If getting through undergrad in three years and going straight into med school didn't burn me out, I think I'll survive cleaning out a few rooms."

Tom sighed, looking unhappy. "But it's Thanksgiving. You should be relaxing."

"Thursday was Thanksgiving, this is just the Sunday after," Gwen said with a shrug. She smiled again. "Besides, it's fun going through the closet. Remember when I was a Girl Scout? I just found a bag full of my old badges."

Her father raised an eyebrow, a reluctant smile easing the concerned lines on his face. "I thought those were supposed to go on your vest."

"They were." Gwen adopted a solemn look, though she was certain her eyes betrayed her amusement. "Seven-year-old me is very disappointed in us."

Tom chuckled. "Well, tell seven-year-old you I apologize." He waved a hand at the mess of scattered items and the few boxes Gwen had packed with odds and ends. "Did you need any help?"

"Could you take the boxes out into the hallway? I'll take them up to the attic myself," Gwen said.

This time he didn't protest—they both knew the worn old rungs of the attic ladder couldn't bear a man's weight. It was one of the reasons Gwen had wanted to clean out the guest room while she was here for the holiday. She was still doing her residency, which left little time for helping her father any other weekend.

"Fine, you clean to your heart's content. Just let me handle the guest bathroom." He held up a quelling hand before she could protest. "Consider it a compromise."

"Okay," Gwen said, laughing. "Deal." She hadn't been looking forward to cleaning the bathroom anyway. It was rarely used, and just thinking about the rings in the tub made her shudder. She paused in packing for a moment, watching as her father hefted one of the boxes into his arms. "Hey, have you heard from Elliott lately?"

He frowned, puzzled. "He sent me a postcard from, uh, Toronto, I think it was, two or three months back. Something about a new job involving 'communications.'" His voice went a little dry on the last word, and Gwen fought back a grin. They both knew that job would be lucky to last a month, if that. Tom shrugged. "Otherwise, nothing. Why? Did he seem off at his mother's when you visited?"

"He didn't come home for Thanksgiving," Gwen said. She nodded at Tom's surprised look. "Exactly! And when I was asked, Mrs. Smyth made the same old excuse about him being busy. He's never missed a holiday without telling me before. Well, not since our agreement."

"I don't know what to tell you, sweetheart," Tom said. "Elliott's-" He hesitated, and Gwen sighed.

"I know," she said a little wearily.

Even when she'd met Elliott on her first day of kindergarten ("we Smiths have to stick together," the memory of his voice whispered in her head), he'd been restless and twitchy. That restlessness had translated into him leaving their small town for college and never really looking back.

Still, he'd always told Gwen when he wouldn't be home for the holidays (which was more often than not). It was a compromise reached after one of their worst fights, the year after his stint with the Peace Corps, when Elliott hadn't bothered to let anyone know he'd be missing Christmas. Elliott had called Gwen a worrywart and busybody, and Gwen had informed him that letting his best friend and his mother know that he wasn't dead was just basic human decency.

"I hope he's all right," she said, frowning and worrying her lower lip with her teeth. After a second, her lip began to sting and she let out a quiet sigh. "I sent him an email Friday, but he hasn't responded."

"Well, I'm sure he's fine," Tom said after a beat of silence. She had no doubt that he would have given her a pat on her shoulder if his arms hadn't been full. He settled for an encouraging smile. "Call if you need anything."

"Sure thing," Gwen said. She pushed her worries about Elliott firmly from her mind. She'd send another email before bed, this one marked urgent. Maybe that would get his attention.

***EL***

The attic was dusty and smelled of mildew and mold. Gwen tried to breathe through her mouth as she hauled the first of a half-dozen boxes up the rungs. The muscles in her shoulders protested, but she ignored them. The boxes weren't that heavy.

She brought up the boxes, one by one, and shoved them into the empty corner of the attic. The rest of the space was filled with boxes marked Gwen's Toys, Gwen's Old Clothes, and Lynne's Things. Gwen drifted over to the last box, drawn to it in spite of the pain that always tightened her chest at the memory of her mother.

It wasn't difficult to peel away the tape even if it did make an awful crackling noise. The attic's lone light flickered above her as she peered into the box. There was her mother's favorite scarf, the gold and purple one that Tom had always said made her look like a movie star.

Gwen pulled out the scarf, pressed it to her cheek. Even twelve years later, she could swear that her mother's favorite perfume still clung to the fabric, a sweet, fragrant scent that had always reminded Gwen of spring.

She looked into the box and blinked. Pulling out the scarf had apparently revealed an unfamiliar jewelry box. It couldn't be her mother's wedding and engagement rings, Gwen knew; her father kept those on a necklace around his neck. Curious, she picked up the box, small enough to hold either a ring or a pair of earrings.

She opened it. There, nestled in the pale blue velvet, was an unfamiliar ring. "Oh," Gwen breathed, pulling it out and holding it up closer to the light. It was beautiful- silver and delicately crafted, with a few engravings of flowers and two small purple stones.

The lone flickering light bulb hurt her eyes suddenly, and she closed them. The attic was too warm; she swallowed, her throat tight, her mouth dry. Maybe she should head downstairs and get a drink.

"Gwen," someone said behind her, and she whirled to face the intruder, her hands raised defensively. That hadn't been her father's voice.

There was no one there.

Adrenaline tasted bitter on her tongue as she stared at the dust motes falling gently through the air. She took in a deep, shaky breath. The ring pressed painfully into her palm.

"Gwen," the voice said again, and she spun again to face him. Again, there was no one there, but the voice had sounded around her age, and male.

"Dad?" she called, or tried to. It came out as a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Dad!"

"Gwen," the voice whispered in her ear.

She whirled once more, her shoe catching on one of the many boxes scattered around. She stumbled forward, arms reaching out to brace her fall-

Arms enfolded her, and a familiar voice chuckled in her ear. "I know you're always glad to see me, but this is a little much," he said.

She smiled in spite of the blush warming her cheeks. "I tripped," she protested, half-laughing. "Don't flatter yourself too much."

He stepped back, pressing a hand to his chest as though she'd wounded him with her words. Now she could see his face, the handsome features, the amusement sparkling in his brown eyes, the way a teasing smile tugged at his lips. "You wound me, Gwen, you really do," he announced.

"Forgive me, my lord," she said contritely, dipping into a deep curtsey and smiling up at him. "Shall I do something to ease your suffering?"

Something shifted in his face then, the amusement leaving his face. He took her hand in his, pressed it to his chest so that she had to step closer to keep her balance. "Yes," he said quietly. This close, she could see the tightness in his jaw, how his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He met her eyes, flustered in a way she'd never seen him. "Gwen," he said, and hesitated. Then, still clasping her hand, he knelt in front of her. "Guinevere, I want-"

"Gwendolyn!"

Her father's voice rang through the attic, and Gwen blinked.

"Gwen, are you all right?" Her father sounded concerned, as though he'd been calling for a while.

"I," she said, the word rasping its way past her lips. She cleared her throat. She felt too-warm still, almost feverish, and when she pressed a hand to her forehead, sweat beaded her fingers. "I'm coming down!" she called, hearing the hoarse quality of her voice. "I think I got a little overheated, that's all. I'm feeling a bit dizzy."

"Sit down and rest for a second," Tom called. "I'll get you a glass of water, and then we'll get you down the rungs." She heard his footsteps retreating.

She was still clutching the ring, she realized. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers, unsurprised to find that the ring had left indentations of flowers in her palm.

Gwen took in a breath, and then slowly exhaled, her mind filled with a million questions.

First and foremost, however: What had just happened?