The outside air was sweltering, and the sun was brighter than it had any business being this early in the day. When Zelda stepped through the heavy glass doors at the entrance to the museum, the cool darkness was a welcome relief. A docent behind a desk greeted her and held out a map, but Zelda waved it away. She only wanted to find a place to sit down out of the heat.

The museum had just opened, and the large rotunda that served as the central hub of its wings was still empty. Dim rays of light shone down through the clouded clerestory windows, creating small rainbows as they refracted off the water of the fountain at the center of the room. Several benches surrounded the fixture, and to Zelda's eyes they looked heavenly. The sound of her bootheels was amplified by the acoustics of the domed ceiling as she walked across the room, and the thud of her leather satchel echoed across the space as she sat down and dropped it beside her.

Zelda's office, which specialized in public policy analysis, had been contracted to provide an expert in the field of migrant labor at a special hearing of a council committee, and Zelda had been designated as that expert. She'd been headhunted by the firm even before she finished her graduate degree, and in the two years since she accepted their offer she had proven herself to be competent and professional. She handled a number of high-profile assignments, but this was the first time she had been called on to do official government work at this level. It hadn't gone well.

She prepared binders of data and a succinct and bullet-pointed précis, and she delivered her report with clarity and authority – or, at least, she thought she had. The hearing room was small and stuffy, and the nine parliament members who were her audience were seated on a raised platform, looking down at her with blank faces. She had to speak from her stomach in order to project her voice, and she worried that she had come off as shrill. When she finished her prepared statement, an older man with tufted white hair and sharply pointed ears – a man whose face she couldn't connect with a name – told her that there would be no questions. She remained in place, the object of nine silent gazes, until she realized that she had been dismissed. It took all of her willpower to keep her back straight as she collected her materials, wished the committee a good day, and left.

Zelda assumed the hearing would last longer, so she had nothing else scheduled for the next several hours. Surely no one expected her to return to the office immediately. Despite only having been in the Parliament building for an hour, she was exhausted, and she couldn't bear the thought of getting back on the subway, which would be just as claustrophobic and oppressive as the hearing room. The National Museum of Hyrule was only a few blocks away, and Zelda found herself heading for it almost as if her feet had a mind of their own.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

Zelda was jerked away from her thoughts by the voice of the docent who greeted her at the entrance. The woman stood several paces away, her hands folded in front of her.

"Is there a problem?" Zelda responded, immediately on guard.

"Of course not, dear," the woman said, smiling. "I apologize for bothering you, but one of our curators is giving a tour, and I thought you might be interested. The topic is 'Hyrule and the Immigrant Experience,' and the curator is quite knowledgeable, despite... Well. Let's just say he's a character. You seem like it might do you good to get your mind off things, begging your pardon."

"No, it's fine," Zelda said, noting the kindness in the woman's eyes. She sincerely doubted that the sort of museum curator who had enough leisure to give public tours had anything to teach her, but it was true that she could use a short break. She would listen politely to what this man had to say, and she could even make a game of not interrupting or correcting him. If he really was that eccentric, maybe she could joke about him with her colleagues later.

"Where does the tour start?" she asked.

"Right at the entrance to the Southwest Wing," the docent answered, indicating the direction. "In fact, the curator is late, but he should be here any minute."

"Thank you for letting me know," Zelda said as she got to her feet and picked up her satchel.

The woman dipped her head in acknowledgment and headed back to her desk. Zelda sighed as she walked toward a small standing sign that had been put out to indicate the beginning of the tour. No one else was there. She couldn't imagine who would be here right as the museum opened, especially on a weekday. It was rare that she had time to kill, and she didn't know what to do with herself. She took her phone out of the front pocket of her bag and began scrolling through her mail. Already she had more work than she could possibly finish during normal business hours, but she couldn't bring herself to go back to the office. She envied the curator who had the luxury of showing up late to his own unattended tour.

There was a cough in front of her, and Zelda looked up from her screen to see a man standing beside the sign. The first thing that struck her was his sheer size. He was a full head and shoulders taller than her, and his collared shirt was unbuttoned at his neck, which seemed too thick to accommodate a tie. His ears were short, and his eyes were a light amber. Along with his height, these features indicated that, despite being male, he probably had Gerudo heritage.

"Are you here for the tour?" he asked. He spoke in a pleasing baritone, and his voice had a melodic quality she hadn't expected from such a large man.

"I, um, yes," she responded as she put away her phone, suddenly struck by the awkwardness of the situation.

"It seems that you're the only one," he said, looking down at her with an unreadable expression.

"It's... fairly early in the morning, isn't it," she offered, hoping to dispel her agitation.

The man nodded. "I'm obligated to give a certain number of tours every month. I schedule them early so that no one shows up."

"I'm sorry?"

"That was a joke," the man said, completely deadpan.

"You know, I just came in here to get out of the heat, and..."

"No, no," the man sliced his hand through the air, cutting her off. "It's been some time since I've actually given a tour. Fate must have brought you here, so we may as well oblige."

Zelda let out a quiet laugh at the strangeness of the man's suggestion. He appeared to be her own age, but he spoke like someone much older.

"Fate is a strong word," she said.

"That was also a joke," he responded, a corner of his mouth turning up in a hint of a smile. "But we have the place to ourselves, and a tour might prove amusing to us both. The museum is rather nice when it's not filled with tourists and children. I hope I can persuade you to join me."

Zelda found herself charmed by the easy flow of the curator's words, and she felt ashamed at her earlier notion of his presumed ignorance. This could be interesting after all, she thought.

"It would be my pleasure," she said. "Although I should tell you, I've recently done a bit of work on immigration in Hyrule. It's an odd coincidence that that's the subject of your tour. I mean..." She paused to consider her words, wondering why she was bothering to explain herself to him. "I don't mean to sound presumptuous, but I hope you won't treat me as a complete novice."

"Of course." He shrugged. "It will be nice to talk with someone who already has a solid background. Since it looks as if it will just be the two of us, I hope you won't hesitate to share your expertise. Shall we begin?"

"By all means."

"Allow me to introduce myself, then. I'm a curator here, a specialist in Gerudo culture and artifacts. My name is Ganondorf."

The syllables of the name rolled off his tongue, and Zelda had a vague inkling that she had heard it somewhere before.

"That's quite an old-fashioned name."

"My mothers were quite old-fashioned people."

Mothers? So he is Gerudo, Zelda thought.

There was a moment of silence before she realized that he expected her to introduce herself as well.

"I'm Zelda," she said simply. She had found that mention of both her mother and father's family names tended to provoke a certain response in people, and she had no desire to discuss politics, especially not with the sour taste of the disappointment of the committee hearing still lingering in her mouth.

"That's quite an old-fashioned name," Ganondorf responded, his lips once again curving into a slight grin.

"Touché. I suppose I should say that my father is quite an old-fashioned man."

"We are well met, then." His smile broadened, and Zelda smiled in return. Although she didn't know what to make of the curator, a warmth had bloomed in her chest, and she felt at ease, almost as if she had been greeted by an old friend after a long absence.

"Is there anything in particular you'd like to see?" he asked her, gesturing down the corridor of the museum wing.

A quick chain of thoughts flitted through Zelda's mind. As she did the research for her report, she had noticed a number of odd points in the data. Hyrule had always employed legions of competent bureaucrats, even when it was still a monarchy. Since the country's borders were clearly defined by geography and carefully patrolled, and since immigration was so meticulously monitored, she assumed that it would have been easy to trace the ebb and flow of people entering the country. There would always be smugglers and refugees and people who fell through or exploited the cracks in the system, of course, but the archival records seemed to have been deliberately obfuscated. Numbers didn't add up, and dates didn't match. Some names were repeated with a ridiculous frequency, while others were redacted or excised. Oddly enough, these errata didn't seem to be random, but it was difficult to identify patterns in the jumbled mass of letters and numbers, which were written in illegible cursive and archaic abbreviations. Still, the records pertaining to the Gerudo were by far the most perplexing.

But what would this curator possibly make of such an observation? Zelda decided that it was best not to ask.

"Just the regular tour will be fine, thanks," she said.

"Very well." Ganondorf clapped the palms of his hands together lightly. "If you'll follow me."

He proceeded to guide her through the wing, stopping in front of displays of richly adorned Zora tunics, tarnished Goron jewelry, risqué Anouki postcards, and even an old train carriage emblazoned with swirling Lokomo designs rendered in paint that had chipped but not faded. Zelda was surprised to find that Ganondorf was a skilled storyteller. She listened, fascinated, as he employed colorful and precise language to sketch out the characters and personalities that lived and breathed between the written lines of history. She suspected he was offering her anecdotes that he would never relate to a larger group, and she found herself beginning to speak with him as one specialist to another. He took her comments and observations in stride, never breaking the rhythm of his pace through the exhibits.

There were no windows inside this wing of the museum, and Zelda lost track of the passage of time. Somewhere in the back of her mind it occurred to her that the tour had extended well beyond its allotted schedule, but this did not bother her in the slightest. She was genuinely enjoying herself, and she could tell that Ganondorf was as well. He stood close to her and spoke softly, and he didn't seem to mind when she leaned toward him to catch his words.

They eventually came to a small room in a secluded corner where a carved wooden shield was mounted on a display pedestal. None of the overhead track lights were shining directly on it, but Zelda could still discern a fine layer of dust on its outer rim.

"This is an interesting piece," Ganondorf said. "The Deku once used these shields in games involving projectile deflection. The pursuit of such pastimes became difficult as Castle City expanded and grew more crowed, but it was still traditional to present a shield to newborn child, preferably one that was carved to depict an event occurring in year of the child's birth. Since most of these shields were used for their intended purpose, very few of them have come down to us with their carvings intact. This work is therefore valuable both for the felicity of its preservation and for the high quality of the artistry it demonstrates. If you look closely – "

Ganondorf stepped forward to touch the shield, tracing the ridges of the woodwork with his index finger.

"Are you supposed to do that?" Zelda asked him, only half joking. Following the path of his finger with her eyes, she realized that she was tempted to touch the carving herself.

"Such things are meant to be appreciated," he answered. "And besides, it's not as if there's anyone else here. He grinned and glanced over his shoulder before looking back at her. "Go ahead. The grain of the wood is as smooth as velvet."

He was standing very close to her, and Zelda could smell the light smoky odor of incense on his suit jacket. As she hesitated over whether to follow Ganondorf's example, she considered taking out her phone to check the time. It was probably already well past her lunch break, and she should probably be getting back to her office, but at the moment she didn't care. She tentatively touched the shield.

"The carving depicts the earthquake of 1908," Ganondorf said as she ran her fingers over the twists and whorls of the stylized smoke rising above the roofs of Castle City.

"You must mean the earthquake of 1897," she corrected him without thinking.

"Not at all," he responded. He stepped closer to her, and Zelda's breath caught in her throat as he reached out and lightly placed his hand over hers. This felt like the most natural thing in the world, and she leaned into him, letting him know that he had not made her uncomfortable. He sighed almost imperceptibly as she pressed her shoulder against his chest, and she felt a small jolt of delight race through her. Before she could reflect on what it meant, Ganondorf continued speaking.

"You can see here that there are catfish grotesques ornamenting the eaves of the roofs," he said, his voice calm and measured. He guided her hand with his own so that the tips of her fingers brushed against the designs he indicated. "These only became common after the 1897 earthquake. In addition, you'll note the short hairstyles of many of the women milling in the streets. The fashion mimics a popular illustration featured on the cover of The Red Lion Gazette in 1906, which was widely reproduced on cards and posters throughout the following year. And see how wide the street is, even though the scene occurs in a residential quarter. These neighborhoods were rebuilt after the first quake in the late 1890s. You almost never see depictions of broad avenues like this before then."

Children's voices tumbled in from the hallway outside, and suddenly Zelda noticed that she could hear the murmur of conversation from the adjoining room. Ganondorf lifted his hand from hers and stepped away from her.

She turned to face him. "Those are all astute observations, but there's still something weird going on with the date," she said. She was unsure of whether she should mention her research. Usually, if she offered evidence that contradicted someone's understanding of the world, she wouldn't be taken seriously, as if both she and her work were inconsequential. So far Ganondorf had respected her opinions, however, and she felt she could trust him. "You see," she pressed on, "the last record of a Deku birth in Hyrule was immediately after the earthquake in 1897. There was something about the incident that caused almost all of them to leave, perhaps the fear of fire. By 1906, there wouldn't have been any Deku children in Castle City. I have summaries and a few facsimiles of the records with me now." She patted her satchel.

Ganondorf gave her an appraising look. "It's very... interesting," he muttered, "that you would have noticed that. Most people walk right by this display and never – "

He was cut off by the shriek of a small child. Both he and Zelda were startled by the invasion of the sound into the intimate space they had created. After a moment passed, they laughed. Their eyes met. As if it were the obvious conclusion to their conversation, Ganondorf bent down and kissed her.

Zelda smiled against his lips, and the moment seemed to stretch out in a swell of elation until a burst of rough voices clattered across the walls from around the corner of the adjoining room. Ganondorf quickly raised his head and straightened his back. Zelda could feel her face burning as she blushed. Chance encounters and stolen kisses only happened in stories, but nothing could be more real than the man standing next to her.

There was a vibration in her satchel. Embarrassed, she slipped her phone out of the front pocket. She had gotten a text from her boss, which read simply, "Where are you." Zelda winced as she checked the clock display on her home screen. Three and a half hours had somehow passed since she entered the museum.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized to Ganondorf, tucking the phone back into her bag. "I didn't realize how much time had passed. I have to get back to work."

"Of course." He nodded, a faint flush of color spreading across his face. "Let me see you out."

They didn't speak as they walked through the main hallway of the Southwest Wing, but at several points Ganondorf brushed the back of his hand against hers. Zelda felt as if she were floating. She couldn't help but smile at the quiet secret they shared.

"We never talked about that shield," Zelda remarked when they were once again standing in the rotunda. It seemed that Ganondorf was about to say something, but then a violent fit of buzzing burst out from her satchel. It was probably her office. If she didn't pick up or call back immediately, there would be trouble. As she retrieved her phone, Zelda fished out one of her cards and offered it to Ganondorf. He wrapped his hand around hers as he took it, and she savored the cool touch of his skin before breaking away and rushing back out into the bright summer sunlight.