Early 1974
The late afternoon sun was blazing on a gorgeous late summer day, as Marigold allowed herself to relax on a bench in one of her favorite places in the world.
The first time Marigold had flown down to visit her brother, she'd stopped over in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She'd taken a day or two to wander the city, and discovered the little park. It was nothing particularly grand. For her, the real appeal was the daily influx of young people practicing tango in the park.
She'd learned to dance back in school. Aside from languages, it was the only 'lady-like' hobby she's really taken to. Her 'condition' made the practice perilous these days, to say the least. Marigold had learned, very quickly, to treat the world like it was made of spun glass. One wrong move on the floor would result in broken bones, screaming, and potential exposure.
Still. Argentine tango was a sight to behold. On the continent, tango held the air of a charged battle between two parties. Luisa had once leaned over to her while they watched the instructors demonstrate, and murmured, "it looks like they're fighting over who gets to be on top after class." She'd nearly given herself a nosebleed trying to keep a straight face at the time.
Comparing that to what she saw here was like comparing a glacier to a river. There was a precision to it, yes. She could tell just by watching that the technique likely took years to truly master. There was an ebb and flow of energy between the dancers, a balance that shifted back and forth without seeking a victor.
The dance was also a fantastic display of what could be done with torsion - with the pent-up energy built up in the twist of the hips, in the delicate footwork. She was no scientist, but biomechanics was one of the few things she and her brother had managed to actually parlay into a real shared topic of conversation they could connect on. When she'd been forced to give up any sort of sport that involved interaction with another, frail body, she'd made a hobby of studying it on her own accord. Strange problems, requiring creative solutions.
A perfect end to a wonderful trip. She'd spent Christmas with the family on Rockfort Island - that lonely little holding while the proper lab was being completed. Finally getting to see the twins was more of a marvel than she had anticipated. Alexander had timidly put forward the idea of setting up a training course on Rockfort that she might be able to properly challenge herself on, and she'd jumped on the idea like a hungry animal. She'd have to work harder to maintain the illusion of falling out, but Marigold had never been averse to taking on a challenge.
The illusions wouldn't hold forever. At twenty-four years of age, she could parlay her healthy appearance with a strong makeup routine and 'good genes'. An illusion of an illusion. Most of her old friends were doing the same. Everyone knew that money could prolong the appearance of youth. She would still have to take care to toe the line of believability over the next few years.
When she heard footsteps approach, she grimaced, then moved to turn and face the newcomers. "Tell my minders that I haven't run off," she said in frosty Spanish. "Might I not enjoy the day, I wonder?" When she made it all the way around in her seat to face them, she blinked. "Oh," she said. "I wasn't expecting this."
Dr. George Bailey gave a bashful smile. "Miss Ashford. You're looking…well." He'd been accompanied by guards, hired by the company. He sounded both baffled and shy to see her there. "There's a route being set up for sample transport. I'm in the city occasionally- we just set up a satellite office last year. They told me you were in town when I arrived."
Marigold nodded, slowly. She'd worn oversized sunglasses out on her little sojourn today, so Bailey - Marcus' former assistant, now managing the site in Africa where all of her troubles began- might not have noticed her sizing up the two guards.
He had noticed her stillness, and he began to fidget nervously while he continued. "They - the field office - they're having some trouble with the local bureaucracy in getting this side of the route secured. I was hoping…" He trailed off, then continued. "I was wondering if I could enlist your assistance in getting the process…expedited?"
Marigold pursed her lips, thoughtful. "You might want to get legal for that," she offered. Bailey had been sweet and courteous to her in their brief acquaintance on the Africa expedition, under the strict eye of her family. Close to her age as well - he really couldn't be more than thirty now.
There had been… rumors, however, of what had gone into claiming and building up the land around the site under his direction. Not at her level, but Alexander had heard a thing or two, being privy to that particular pipeline.
Bailey grimaced and moved to sit down next to her. "Legal's all over it. No one on the ground here is any good at politics in this part of the world, and it shows." He looked over at Marigold, imploring. "Legal also begged me to come down here in person to ask. They know you can work miracles with this sort of thing."
Marigold had been having such a lovely day, too. She sighed. Well, it might still be salvaged. "So this isn't a social call, then?"
Bailey actually blushed, shooting a glance at her legs. "Not…exactly? Although it would help tremendously if you had a dress packed."
Marigold had not, in fact, packed a dress befitting a black tie gala, but a woman at the satellite office looked her over and grinned madly when they arrived, promising to be back in an hour. Oh, this should be interesting, Marigold thought as the woman rushed by, and Bailey called after her in Spanish. "Be tasteful*, Anna, I don't need to hear back from head office about this!*"
The woman shouted back gleefully, "You didn't tell me the miracle worker was made of legs*! You'll be lucky if Garcia will be able to find all three of his brain cells when you trot her into the room.*"
"I try not to use lobotomy in negotiations unless it's going really badly," Marigold shot back. Anna positively cawed laughter- possibly at Bailey's obvious mortified realization that she'd been following the exchange- and disappeared out the door.
Marigold looked down with a little smile while Bailey cleared his throat, ushering her to the tiny conference room of their leased office space. "Something tells me that you need more than arm-candy at this event. What do I need to know about this Garcia?"
Bailey groaned. "He's a roadblock. We need private access to a port, and he smelled blood in the water. If I could get around him to his superior, there's a lot of political clout to bringing in investment, jobs. But Garcia…"
"Your bribe isn't big enough to cut through the middleman for what the deal's worth, and he knows it," Marigold said bluntly. "So you need someone to bypass him and make the connection to your politician without offending the entire line of command."
Bailey blinked at her. "You are good at this."
She smiled back, almost apologetic. "It helps when the targets don't believe that for themselves."
George Bailey couldn't have dreamed that the evening would go by so seamlessly.
Umbrella had bought in for the fundraiser gala for two plates: a director, and a plus one. One of these was to be Anna's, who seemed more than happy to pass the ticket off to Miss Ashford.
Anna had knocked it out of the park with the dress - a thankfully modest soft black silk number that nonetheless clung to Marigold's hips in an incredibly distracting manner. The event had been black tie, heads had turned when he'd escorted the statuesque beauty into the main ballroom who seemed to have everyone's number figured out at a glance. Garcia had snickered into his drink, but Garcia was the sort of man who would have hired escorts as 'arm candy' for this sort of thing.
And then Marigold Ashford had gotten down to work.
He'd only been able to give her a few hours of prep time. Anna had tried to drill her on the details of the event, but Marigold seemed to absorb everything with very little effort. Quietly, she'd guided them toward their politician's table. Garcia had seen the direction they'd move in and intercepted for a dance. Marigold had told him quietly to go ahead, and leave her to it - this would be dealt with.
Bailey hadn't caught most of that exchange. Garcia was known for his charms, but those few moments out on the floor were the only time she showed any tension. The famed Ashford temper still lived on in someone, it seemed; Edward had been a soft-spoken man, but he'd had his moments. Garcia's expression turned slowly from playful flirting to confusion, to something almost…indecent.
The dance ended. Marigold stepped away towards a waiter, hailing him for a drink. George lost sight of them for several minutes. He'd been pulled into conversation with the politician just then, who'd heard that the growing company was looking to expand into the area. A lucrative venture for everyone, if the terms were right.
And then Marigold appeared at his elbow again, beaming and introducing herself to the group. He'd caught a glimpse of Garcia at the edge of the crowd later, looking oddly lost. As if Marigold had performed some elaborate magic trick that he was still attempting to solve.
But Garcia stayed back, and eventually just…left.
After that, the evening was…easy. Marigold had expressed curiosity about the region's wine vintages, and the politician had jumped at the opportunity to hold an impromptu wine tasting for their table. Watching her steer the conversation to Umbrella's interest in a secure port in a way that piqued the older man's interest, then hand the reins over to himself…several weeks of backlog had melted away with a few hours of charm.
Marigold excused herself to a small balcony alcove after a while. Bailey watched her step away. She still gets ill from before, he realized. Malaria was notorious for causing long-term muscular weakness. She'd been shockingly pale when he'd first seen her that afternoon. The young woman who'd stepped onto the Kijuju site years ago had been a touch ginger like her brother, but healthy and energetic. These days she bordered on anemic, almost as if she's been bleached. She clearly had bouts of energy, but they came at a cost. The way her hair had turned nearly white since he's seen her last spoke volumes over the degree of stress her body had been through since.
The trip to secure the site had been incredibly productive, save for that incident. Young Alexander Ashford had clearly blamed Doctor Marcus for…something. No accusations had been laid. But Bailey had worked with Doctor Marcus for a long time. He'd known that politics had been behind Marcus' expulsion from academia more than actual misconduct.
And he also knew what Marcus acted like when he was guilty of something. Oswell Spencer had as well.
No one ever spoke of it. When Edward Ashford had died mere months later, the incident was all but forgotten. Bailey took on his posting to secure and cultivate the Sonnetroppe flower at the site.
Everyone's hands, everyone who had been present on that trip anyhow, were soaked in blood by now. That was the cost of progress.
Not for the first time today, he wondered just how much about the organization Edward Ashford's eldest knew.
He finished his conversation with the politician - just enough to agree to meet in the following week to hammer out details - before stepping out to the balcony to find Miss Ashford leaning on the railing, watching the city. The sun was setting, bathing the marble architecture in a rosy glow. In this light, Marigold seemed fully healthy again, as she had been in 1968. He went to lean on the rail alongside her. "What on earth did you do to that man?" he asked. Garcia had never backed down so readily, in his experience."
Marigold gave a rueful little smile. "Anna was correct about him having three brain cells left. Your Garcia was a bit surprised to discover I have a temper." She glanced over at Bailey before returning her gaze to the view. "I just needed a minute to get some air. I get tired, sometimes." She glanced back over her shoulder. "They're dancing in there. It's hard, sometimes. Not knowing if I'm going to be able to engage with the world. I used to be able to spend the whole night out on a floor like that."
Bailey nodded. "Take all the time you need."
They stood there quietly for several minutes. Then Marigold sighed, and said, "Ask, if you're going to ask, then."
Bailey glanced at her sharply, and Marigold rolled her eyes. "You've been fidgeting. Just ask. No one bothers. You're clearly dying to."
"Fine," Bailey said, taken aback. "Did you seriously forget to take the anti-malarial pills? It always seemed like a thin story." He paused. "I'm sorry, that…lacked tact."
She looked at him, gaze steady this time. The question seemed to faintly amuse her. "It's not hard to remember to take a daily pill, George. Women take them all the time. Those ones simply didn't bloody work." She gave a crooked little smile. "The truth is sometimes impolitic. Haven't you learned that by now?"
Bailey smiled back in spite of himself. "I suppose it can be." He looked back out at the city. The sun was sinking below the horizon, slowly leaching the last warm color back out from the world. "There had been concerns. Regarding cross-contamination. The senior researchers were all adamant that was impossible."
Marigold laughed a little at that. "Ah - impossible. At a clinical research site. I'm sure." At Bailey's sharp glance, she waved it off. "No, I understand where they were coming from, but that's a terrible word for scientists to throw around, and they should have known better than to use it." She quieted. "From what I understand, cross-contamination would have meant certain death back then anyhow."
"I'm aware," Bailey said, just a bit too quickly. The sun slipped away, and Marigold reverted back to something made of alabaster and dark silk. She caught his staring, and he felt his cheeks heat up.
"It's for the best," she said, openly amused now. "I've pulled my life together since then. I'm actually pulling my weight for the company, I think. Alexander's managing the whole 'legacy' business. Everyone I know in this company ends up married to their work anyhow."
Bailey nodded. "I think I can relate." Bailey remembered that Marcus how had been furious for some reason about the presence of Edward Ashford's offspring running around the site like it was an exotic summer camp. Marcus had felt that the girl would be assigned to him as a minder - a grave insult to his already bruised pride. In retrospect, it wouldn't have been a poor plan, but the girl's life expectancy would have been…low, under the circumstances. Then the girl had fallen ill, and the circle had closed ranks on the matter.
Bailey sighed again. The truth, as Miss Ashford told it, was innocent enough, albeit with poor optics. Why spoil a lovely, untainted evening with a beautiful woman? Bailey got so few moments like that, and the equanimity between them was deeply refreshing.
She pushed back from the railing, touching his arm lightly. "I appreciate the honesty. More than you know." She winced a little. "I may need to excuse myself soon, though. Would you walk me back?"
Doctor George Bailey was a perfect gentleman as he walked her back to her hotel. He seemed to consider asking to come in for a nightcap, then shook his head. Marigold grinned at the clear calculation on his face, and the blush that followed. "You're too careful for your own good, sometimes, George Bailey." She bit her lip with a teasing, roguish little grin.
Bailey hung his head in mock dejection. "Well, you know what they say about looking out for the quiet ones. Your brother was a scary man for all of a few hours after your accident. Best not to risk it." He looked at her - really looked - and reddened again. "Tempting as it would be," he finished, with a hint of regret.
Marigold's grin softened. "I suppose this is goodnight, then," she said and stepped quickly into his space. Before Bailey could react, she'd placed a soft kiss on his mouth, lingering a moment with a hand on his chest. Then she stepped away from the stunned scientist. "I had a lovely night, but I have an early morning tomorrow. I'll keep in touch." With another smile, this one almost sad, she swept through the hotel doors and left Bailey out there on the sidewalk.
Riding up the elevator, she briefly wondered if that had been wise. Bailey was a man under careful watch. But it had been a golden opportunity, and no one had witnessed it. And…those who held the political reins of Bailey's project were firmly within her grip.
Marigold had developed a talent for building influence after all.
She thought of Brasov.
If Lord Spencer was truly modeling 'the great work' after that madwoman in the mountains, then she'd have to continue building her influence, both within Umbrella and with the stakeholders surrounding it. And with George Bailey…ten years from now, it just might be a good idea to have a controlling hand on the tap of the virus, in case Spencer truly was going afield in search of monsters.
Lest the monsters come back home with him.
