By Heidi Ahlmen (siirma6surfeu.fi)
Part IThe ChangeLara Croft paused in front of a west-side window on her way to the library. It was late September and Autumn was right on schedule, which meant extra work for her butler Winston. He had to coordinate the chaos of season gardeners preparing the premises for Winter. Thus the garden was unusually crowded, and occasional creeking sounds came from the labyrinth, where dead and rotting branches were being cut down.
Lara herself was glad that the manor was still big enough to enable her to keep out of everyone's way and disappear into the halls. She was in the midst of a professional dryspell – she hadn't been offered a single commission for a whole quarter of a year. Her official employer, the British Museum, did not have a penny in their budget for new acquisitions after the major renovating work that had been done in the Great Hall. Usually, if no outside work oppotunities were brought to her attention Lara managed to dig out a clue or trail of some sorts, which often lead to a trip someplace. But this time – nothing. She'd tried continuing her writings, but when there's nothing new to write about a writer's block seems quite inevitable.
There was the annual financier's dinner due the following day, of course, but that brought no joy to Lara. Usually she'd taken up any odd job to avoid the the boredom.
So she stalked the halls of the house, curled up in armchairs in order to catch up on the latest magazines, and trained in the gym.
Recently not even training had gave her the satisfaction it used to. She was still as fit as ever in general, but a few aches and pains gathered on the road raised their ugly head more and more.
She'd paused in front of the mirror a few days prior and been literally schocked. Her torso resembled a map of a country in civil war – faded old scars, reddish newer ones, traces of stitched wounds, violet bruising on her shoulder blade where a dislocated shoulder had wreaked havoc. Healed burn marks and laceration from a snake bite adorned her thigh.
Her face and arms had been spared for the most, but the sight that greeted her in the mirror; the souvenirs from a decade of tomb raiding, made her wonder if this was what her body existed for – a weapon and means of dragging her brain around.
In Lara's opinion it certainly did not look like something anyone would willingly wish to touch. When and if I meet a man, I'll have to remember to keep the lights out, she had thought dryly, and went to find a towel.
She left the window and walked into the library, pausing on the stairs to pick up a few books she'd discarded there. She returned them to their rightful places, and circled around the room.
Face it, girl, you're bored out of your skull.
The strangest thing was that she'd been bored before, but that had only made her anxious, energetic. This time it only left her dull, feeling sort of faded. She had to get out of the house.
Lara wracked her brain for things to do, not wanting to promenade all the way to her study to check her calender. Suddenly it occurred to her that she hadn't really considered what to wear for the dinner and if she did wish to go shopping Saturday on Oxford Street would be annoyingly busy. Maybe she ought to make use of her idle Friday by taking the bike out and spending a few hours browsing for a dress.
Beats sulking around, if nothing more.
Just as she was about to grab her helmet and jog downstairs to inform Winston where she was headed the phone rang. Cursing as she almost tripped on her bag, she answered.
"Hello dear," cheered the familiar voice of her Aunt Gillian, a favourite relative from her mother's side. She was a pleasant, soft but determined woman in her mid-sixties. One of the handful of people who had refused to keep in line with Lara's parents' decision of disowning her.
Lara smiled. "Gillian. Glad to hear from you. How are things?"
"Lovely. They finally won the fight over the bridge."
Gillian Havers lived in a small town right in the middle of the Cornwall peninsula where the nature was untamed but lush. A retired gardener, she'd been a strong force in opposing the village counsel's decision to bulldoze a medieval stone bridge in favour of a hideous new concrete construction. She'd filled Lara in on the dispute, which she'd followed with appropriate amusement. Lara was up for saving any historical site, and had even donated a few hundred pounds for the conservation work.
"Brilliant! Means I'm getting my pennies worth. I know I promised to visit and I will, but there's been a lot happening as you probably know."
A vast understatement. Gillian had been one of the people who'd thought they'd seen a dead woman walking when Lara'd returned from Egypt as she had naturally been informed of her supposed demise.
"I'm afraid this is not what you'd think of as a social call," Gillian changed the subject, "I need some help. Or more accurately, the village Floral Society does."
"I didn't know you were a member?" Lara offered. It did not sound very intriguing, but she was game in order to end this dry spell. Even if it meant planting petunias. Or maybe she would not go that far.
"I'm not, but most of the societé here are, old hags who've got enough spare time to bicker over bushes, but most of them sit in the church council as well, as it's thanks to them that I've kept my job in the churchyard."
Not much of a churchgoer, Gillian had been balancing on a tightrope with the decidedly Anglican majority of senior villagers, and she'd been forced to fight for her position as head gardener of the local church to earn some extra money as her pension was not very big. Lara'd offered to aid her financially, but had not really expected Gillian to accept. Her assumption had been correct.
"I see. What sort of help would they require?"
"They've found a mention of a rare rose variety which they'd love to get their hands on. They do know you're a relative of mine, and your help would be much appreciated."
Gillian had made it sound like another mascot job. "I'm not much of a botanist, I'm afraid."
Gillian laughed. "I know. They've found the mention from a historical text, that's why you could probably make something of it. I don't know much more, tomorrow I'll be wiser."
"I could come over tomorrow," Lara decided to offer. She could test the tuning of the bike better on quiet country roads than in London afternoon traffic. "I have to be in London at eight p.m. but there should be plenty of time."
"But Lara – it's a three-hour drive from there."
"Not really. One forty-five.
"But it should take at least two and a half even if you use the motorways and traffic is quieter than usual –"
"Believe me," Lara smiled, "It's a one-forty-five." They ended the call, and Lara put her helmet back in the closet. Surely she could use one of her old frocks instead of getting a new dress again?
Satisfied with her decision, she changed into a pair of jeans and a cardigan, and left for the attic.
Linne's book must be somewhere in that crate on the left...