Meg is absorbed in the mayor's presentation when she suddenly feels a tap on her shoulder. Fraser, who'd been outside with her phone earlier, is leaning forward now, sliding a piece of paper onto the table in front of her. Meg looks down at the paper.
What on - ?
A series of stick figures, neatly spaced, with their arms out like they're -
Semaphore.
He wrote her a message in semaphore.
She looks back at him to find a sheepish expression on his face. Clearly he expected some kind of reprimand. But her lips twitch into a smile, and she sees him relax a fraction as she reads the message of little waving stick men.
Her smile grew as she reads. Alison Margaret Thatcher, born thirty minutes ago, strong and healthy. Your brother and his wife would like you to be her godmother.
She looks up again to find him beaming at her. Fraser. He knows that the delegates seated around her are nosy, manipulative politicians, and she'd prefer to keep her private life to herself.
She holds out her hand wordlessly, and he hands her his pen.
When she finishes writing and gives the paper back, her fingers brushing his, he looks down to find find eight more little stick figures on it, arms stretched out at odd angles.
Thank you.