Scarlett was no stranger to the pub on the corner. Lunch rush was in full swing, filling the pub with the malty scent of ale and fried food. The whole place was abuzz with the lively burble of conversation and laughter. It brought Scarlett back to days filled with organic chemistry textbooks and lab hours, and nights spent toasting to how they were going to change the world. As a student she and her friends had come here for burgers, cheap beer, and trivia. She hadn't been inside since her return to campus as faculty, but it looked just the same. On this day, however, Scarlett had a more pressing reason for her visit than reliving her uni days, and that reason was sitting at the bar with his hand wrapped around a pint of Guinness, dressed in an untucked black button-up and faded jeans. Scarlett stopped in her tracks. The American.
"You've got to be joking."
He looked over at her and grinned. "I hear you're looking for a translator."
"What are you doing here?" she hissed. "Are you following me? I don't take kindly to -"
"Relax, Dr. Marlowe," he said. "You texted me. Last night. Remember?"
"There must be some mistake," she said, sliding onto the bar stool beside him, hesitantly, as though he might lash out at any moment.
"No mistake," he said, taking a sip of his beer. Foam clung to his upper lip, and Scarlett tried not to watch as he licked it off.
"I - I suppose we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, then," she said.
"You're only saying that because the only man in London who can read Aramaic is the one you threw under the bus to campus security." He smiled into his beer. "My, how the mighty have fallen."
Scarlett bit her lip. He was right, damn him. "As I recall, you were the one who called security in the first place." The bartender came by. "Just tea, thank you."
They sat in silence until Scarlett's tea arrived. Then she said, (and rather contritely, she thought), "Does this mean you won't help me?"
George's voice was quiet and without venom. "I'm here, aren't I?"
Scarlett dared to smile. "Will you tell me your name?"
He smiled back, and she realized that all this time, everything that had passed between them, had been a lark to him. "It's George," he said.
It suited him, she decided. "Well, George, since you are no longer my student, I would like it if you'd call me Scarlett."
"Alright, Scarlett," he said, and she felt a shiver rattle up her spine. Her name sounded so different on his tongue - he drawled the first syllable and fully enunciated the 'r' with his American accent. "So where's this passage you need translated?"
"Right," Scarlett said, pulling out her father's journal. "My father transcribed this passage of Aramaic from a site in Syria. We knew a translator but he - he died. I was fortunate to be put in contact with you. It is a dead language, after all. Based on context, this passage should tell us where to look for a particular artifact pertinent to my father's research."
"Sure, I'll take a look at it. No guarantees," said George. He winked. "It is a dead language, after all."
God, she felt like she was back in primary school when he did things like that. "Are you mocking me, my good sir?" she said, exaggerating her proper English accent.
"Not at all, Dr. Marlowe." He slipped a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses out of his breast pocket and ran a finger over the neat handwriting. "They're directions, looks like - to a key, or a legend to a map of some kind. Of course, if it's in Aramaic that means it was probably written hundreds, if not thousands of years ago, so the geography's different now . . . This is just fascinating, look -" George pointed. "See these serifs? If they were present on the original inscription, this was written sometime in the late second century AD . . ."
Scarlett couldn't help but smile at the way George's face lit up, absorbed in the letters that might as well be gibberish to her. Her stomach fluttered as George nattered on about the subtle differences between Ancient and Middle Aramaic - he had a thirst for knowledge to match her own, and it was curiously sexy. She suddenly realized he had stopped talking and was now frowning at the words on the page.
"Hmmm . . . it's hard to pick out the exact location, but you'll find it in either eastern Turkey or western Iran. Wait," he said, as Scarlett had reached out to take the book back, and his hand shot out to close over her wrist. "There's something else, see how it's a separate passage from the one above it?" George's brow furrowed. He leaned closer. "It's in English, though, not Aramaic. 'Books have led some to learning and others to madness.' I fear I am the latter."
A chill went down Scarlett's spine. Petrarca's Canzoniere and other poems had been a staple of her father's literature collection - he'd had quite the fascination with work of the Italian Renaissance. Scarlett could recite various passages by heart, a result of having it so often read to her at bedtime as a little girl. She had much preferred Petrarca to Alighieri, though; her father's retelling of Inferno had given eight-year-old Scarlett nightmares for the better part of a year.
George pointed to the words in her father's journal. "Why would he write that? Does that mean anything to you?"
Scarlett said nothing, and George sighed. "What's your father looking for? What are you looking for, Scarlett?"
"I'm -" Scarlett hesitated. George was clearly brilliant and well-educated. Others in academia were disdainful of her father's work; would he be the same? "I'm researching the life of Nicholas Flamel and the location of the philosopher's stone," she said, squaring her chin. To hell with what he thought of her - all she needed were his translation skills.
George stared at her for one long moment before he chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. "You're crazy."
Scarlett grimaced and nodded. "I've heard worse." She cleared her throat. "What do I owe you? For translating, of course."
George shrugged and drained his glass. "Cover my beer and we'll call it even," he said, standing up. "A pleasure doing business with you." The bell on the door rattled as he sauntered out.
"You've reached Dr. Walter Marlowe. I'm unavailable at the moment but leave your name, mobile number and a brief message and I will return your call presently."
Scarlett sighed and hung up. She'd already left two messages for her father in the past twenty-four hours; it was no use leaving another. Sometimes he could be the epitome of the absent-minded professor and wouldn't answer his phone for a week, absorbed in some mystery of the past until Scarlett would finally drop by his office to find him staring at an ancient map pinned to the wall, rooted in place until she touched his shoulder and startled him out of his reverie.
Today, however, she had to see a man about an expedition.
And there he was, on his usual bench. Scarlett smiled to herself. It was comforting that no matter what else changed, George seemed as constant as the astronomy huts, or the Wilkins building. She realized she had come to expect his presence on the periphery of her life. Scarlett wasn't sure whether it comforted or unsettled her. He looked up as she approached, glasses perched on his nose.
Scarlett opened her mouth to greet him - or she would have, if another pedestrian hadn't rushed by, knocking the coffee from her hands and sending her sprawling into his lap. She shrieked and looped her hands awkwardly around George's neck to keep them both from falling.
"Sorry," the culprit called over his shoulder as he continued on his way.
"Asshole," George muttered. Then, to Scarlett, "You okay?"
She was suddenly conscious of his hands resting on her hips, steadying her. A flush crept up her neck.
"Fine," she said, untangling herself from him and standing up. "Are you?"
George shrugged and leaned over to pick up the paperback he'd been reading. Scarlett noticed the cover was bent and stained with the remains of her coffee.
"Oh God, I'm terribly sorry," she said. "I can get you a new copy."
"No, no, it's okay," he said, shaking the book out. "You were saying something?"
Scarlett bit her lip and George's eyes went wide and he jumped off the bench, backing a few steps away from her. "Oh, my God," George breathed. "You're actually going to go there and dig up this - this - key or whatever the hell it is?" When she nodded, he rubbed his hands over his face before resting them on his head. "Oh my God," he said again, turning away. He realized that if he were to do this, he was throwing in his lot with a crazy person. But Scarlett was gorgeous and intelligent and the farthest thing from crazy George could think of. Or maybe she was just intriguing enough that he didn't care. Finally he turned back.
"What do you need?" he asked. The question was low and deliberate, and there was an intensity in his eyes that made her giddy.
"Well," she said slowly, "since the passage itself was in Aramaic, there's a good chance the key will need translating too. You know anyone who's up for the job?"
George shrugged nonchalantly, but he was smiling. "I might."
Even as he said it, a muffled ringing issued from his pocket. "Hang on -" He fished the phone from his pocket and groaned at the caller ID before bringing it to his ear. "What the hell do you want?"
Scarlett shifted her weight awkwardly, looking around the quad and trying not to eavesdrop.
". . . Look, we can talk about this when I get home, okay? I have to go." George flipped the phone shut and slung his bag over his shoulder as he stood up to face her. He jerked a thumb vaguely behind him. "Roommate problems," he said with a sheepish grin, "what can you do, right? I'll, uh, see you later?"
George seemed more rattled than he wanted to let on, so Scarlett just said, "Oh . . . alright," and watched him jog across the quad. A rustle of pages captured her attention as she turned to go - George had forgotten his paperback on the bench in his haste. Scarlett picked it up.
A Tale of Two Cities, she mused, fingering the dog-eared corners, still warm and damp with her coffee. It was an older edition from an American publisher (if the "New York - Chicago - San Francisco" emblazoned on the cover beneath Dickens' name was any indication), and it had clearly been well-loved over the course of its literary life. The spine had cracked in multiple places, and the glue was beginning to separate from the binding. Scarlett's head snapped up, scanning the quad, but George had already left campus. She made up her mind to return it to him herself. Scarlett hugged the book to her chest and continued up to her office.
She left her coat over the arm of the squashy chair as she sat her desk to grade first-year papers. Scarlett was remarkably focused - by the time she looked at her wristwatch, the sun was just starting to set and her grading was finished. She sat back and stretched. The paperback by her coat and handbag caught her eye. Scarlett stared at it for a long moment before she deliberately turned back to preparing her lectures for the week.
That only lasted about ten minutes before she stood up. She needed to stretch, she thought reasonably. Tomorrow's lecture was already planned; she could finish the rest tomorrow. It was time to go home.
The book on the armchair caught her eye again, and Scarlett went over to flip through it idly. She'd read it before, in school. She'd liked it then. It seemed an odd choice as George's favorite book - which it clearly was, judging by the state of it. She wondered if there was more to him than she thought. She fished her phone out of her purse to send George a text: I've got your copy of A Tale of Two Cities. You can pick it up from my office if you wish.
Scarlett brought the book back to her desk and switched on her desk lamp. She had a few minutes to kill before she headed home for the night. She would just read a little bit before leaving it for George in the pocket on her office door. Before she knew it, she'd read four chapters and it was past ten o'clock.
There was a soft knock at the door. Scarlett looked up, her hair falling over her face. "Come in," she said. At this late hour, she expected a panicky student, desperate to argue their latest failing grade. Instead it was George. She stood up quickly, letting the book fall shut on the desk.
"George!" she said. "I didn't expect you to come over tonight."
He shrugged. "What can I say? That book means a lot to me."
"Or maybe," Scarlett said, "you just wanted an excuse to see me again." He'd put her on before; two could play that game.
George's eyes met hers, and she took a step back at the intensity of his gaze. Her desk pressed against the backs of her thighs. She braced her hands on the edge of the smooth wooden surface and tried to control her racing heart. George could certainly be attractive when he wasn't being infuriating. "Maybe I did."
Scarlett's breath caught, and she wracked her brain for a way to break the awkward silence. "Who is your favorite character, then? The beautiful Lucie Manette? Or perhaps the sinister Madame Defarge?"
George shook his head. "Sydney Carton."
Scarlett laughed. "Really?"
"You don't like him?"
She shook her head. "He's a pathetic drunk!"
"But he gave his life for the woman he loves," George protested. "He gave everything he had for Lucie. Maybe he even loved her more than Charles Darnay did. How can you not admire a man like that?"
"Sydney himself thought his life was worthless," Scarlett scoffed. "Giving it up was nothing to him."
George's eyebrow twitched. "Who's yours, then? The dashing Charles Darnay?" And there he went, being infuriating again.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," she said. "Darnay was stable and predictable. He was there for Lucie when Sydney wasn't."
George slowly walked towards her until he was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. Scarlett felt her pulse quicken. And she'd tried so hard to calm her fickle heart.
"You don't think Lucie was selfish?"
"Selfish?" Scarlett managed.
"She was all too willing to exploit Sydney's love for her and let him sacrifice himself as long as her precious Darnay would stay alive."
"Sydney Carton sacrificed himself willingly."
George's lips were by her ear, like he was telling her a secret. "That doesn't make it right, though, does it?"
"George -" she said, embarrassed at how much she wanted him to touch her. She braced her hand on the edge of her desk as she leaned away.
George drew back and smirked as he plucked the well-loved paperback off her desk. Clearly he knew exactly what sort of effect he was having on her, and it amused him to no end. "Have a good night, Dr. Marlowe."