The

After that night, everything quickly fell into a lively, comfortable pace; their once stand-offish encounters relaxed and the forced contentment faded. He made the habit of waking up at night listening, his tactically worded questions all skillfully evaded at breakfast and dinner. Hans seemed ever more insistent that she eat red meats and get plenty of nutrition, which she couldn't complain about when crafted by such a skillful cook.

It had been a week since the blood-stained event had taken place, and strangely, she looked all the better since then. Her eyes seemed to shine more and her smile had never been so light and frequent. On the odd days that he didn't vanish for his unknown business to attend to, they sat together in the study having pleasant, perhaps shallow, conversation.

At breakfast, he made a casual comment.

"We have a guest coming over for lunch." She blinked once. Twice.

"A guest? May I ask who it is?" If she could see behind his mask, she would have seen him smiling.

"Mr. Zahi, he's a friend of mine." When she didn't answer, he exhaled lightly. "What, you didn't think I had friends?"

"No," She quickly reassured. "I just forgot that there was more of humanity beyond you, Hans, Nimbe and myself," A playful smile graced her lips, the kind meant to distract from the fact that she actually was surprised, though not in an ill-mannered way. Her brow bent slightly as she put her silverware down, chewing slowly.

"Do I... act normal?" He tilted his head.

"What do you mean?"

"The way I act now- it there anything lacking that would," She bent her mouth like she the words tasted sour. "Embarrass you?"

He looked at her for a moment, perplexed. Here was a person restrained and at times mechanic, asking for perceived flaws. A realization struck him that she was a type of perfectionist; the type that existed so effortlessly that it had slipped past his notice.

"No, of course not. I must warn you though, Mr. Zahi is quite talkative. Knowing I'm one limited with words, he'll probably bore you with the recent drama and events of London. He's always one to be in on the 'couture' of the times, the..."

She zoned out and fought to hold back a chuckle, unsuccessful at hiding her smile.

"What is so comical that it distracts you from my perfect description of Mr.Zahi?" He said feigning dejection, ending his in-depth spiel.

"It's strange for you to call out his affinity for fashion and culture when you sit in an extravagant house with picturesque acres. Though," She smirked. "What would I know of the newest trends or the like?"

"It may come as a surprise to you that my abode is not a thing of baseless trends." He snorted, offended.

"Oh? What is it then?" It was a well paced jab, his back straightening as he immediately defended the immortal beauty of his home.

"I prefer the term 'classical beauty'. Trends and fantasies can't mimic the pure glory and superiority of the old, simplified designs." The exaggerated words danced against his tongue.

"I guess you are right then," She caved, a sly smirk on her face as she took an innocent sip of tea.

"You guess I am right? When am I not?" At that a wicked smile grew on her face as she looked at him, her deep laugh rolling off her tongue.

It was strange that it was the first time he had heard her laugh- not a chuckle, not those minuscule mannerisms like the twitch of the face or crease of an eye. He had pictured it to be a soft, bell-like laugh, but he found the sultry, silky laugh suited her better. It held more body- more space than those soft laughs. It was the type of laugh that he pictured the moon would have, dark and smooth.

"Are you sure about that?" She challenged, a playful sparkle in her eyes.

"When you say it like that, I'm suddenly not so sure." He retreated, and though he knew she couldn't see the content smile on his face, he hoped she could tell it was there.

Shortly after noon Nimbe answered the door announcing the much anticipated arrival of Mr. Zahi, she walked down the stairway, walking in on his dramatic entrance.

"Ah- Mr. Claire, it's been too long." Mr. Zahi exclaimed, a short, older man with styled salt and pepper hair. Before Mr. Zahi could begin to ramble on, he skillfully interjected.

"Yes, it has. I have someone to introduce to you..." He gestured to her, realizing they hadn't thought of making introductions.

"Miss Emerson," She answered flawlessly. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you Mr. Zahi."

"Oh, to finally meet me? You make it sound like our Mr. Claire talks about me constantly. I won't pretend that the idea doesn't flatter me," His kind green eyes reminding her of her lost friend. He quickly took her hand and kissed it kindly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Miss Emerson. To be completely honest," He whispered, casting a glance towards Sir, or Mr. Claire as she had overheard. "I was worried Mr. Claire would never make another acquaintance with anyone other than myself- you see, he has this horrible habit of never leaving his house like a boring old man." She laughed again, that deep, smooth sound like music to his ears.

"The pleasure is all mine Mr. Zahi," She leaned forward and hushed her voice. "I'm afraid perhaps the only reason I am his acquaintance is because I happen to be a hermit myself, but past that, I think you'd be surprised about the length he talks about you." She said, looking at him. Something in her both swelled and shrunk knowing his name. She had almost forgotten that he had one, but felt glad she knew it. Having a name made him seem less perfect and more human. With his mask on, she found it easy to forget that he was a man of flesh and blood like anyone else.

"I fear you and Miss Emerson will be quite the deadly duo at detriment to myself," Mr. Claire said warily. "At least let me be assaulted at the dining table."

A comforting light seemed to flood the house with Mr. Zahi's presence, the disturbance of the quiet cadence of their lives like a breath of fresh air. She found herself all the more relaxed and open than she had ever felt, and tenderly attempted to memorize the feeling for a place in her heart. The dark shadows of the past seemed like nothing more than they were- shadows. And here, in the light rooms of Bingsby, there was no room for them to flourish.

Once they were all settled at the dining table, Mr. Zahi immediately jumped into the current news of the city and all the latest gossip, his words quick and exaggerated.

"I have exciting news from London, as I am sure you are excited to hear. It must be so boring living such a massive distance from the city. What news even extends this far?" She couldn't help but smile, looking to Mr. Claire for his tired, yet casual, response.

"You'd be surprised." It was a two-sided reply, which she caught easily. Indeed, Mr. Zahi would be very surprised that no news came here from the city at all.

"Always the opaque type, aren't you Mr. Claire, but I won't let that stop me..."

Mr. Zahi dwadled on about trends, parties and galas over much of the appetizers until a shift in the conversation caught her attention, the once endless focus of art and literature returning to a place of her depth.

"We finally put up the three black granite sculptures from Cairo, originating from the 10th dynasty I believe. Quite beautiful, I hope you both will come down to visit them. One of them is Senusret III- never seen one as finely excavated." He took a bite of his meal, the moment of muteness almost foreign since he was here.

"Senusret III? Do you mean the 12th dynasty?"

Mr. Zahi swallowed slowly, his eyes squinting slightly.

"Yes Miss Emerson, you are whole heartedly correct- pray mind you, I didn't take you for the type to know the history of Egypt." Wiping his face with a napkin, he looked across the table, for the first time that meal completely speechless.

"I think you'd be surprised at what I know of the 12th dynasty of the middle kingdom, not to mention the rest of the middle kingdom's history. I'm of the understanding that Khakaure Senusret III was the most powerful pharaoh of the dynasty. The fifth, if I'm correct." With a lanquid sip of her water, Mr. Zahi cast a quick glance to Mr. Claire.

"Completely correct Miss Emerson. Completely. What inspired your interest in Egyptology?" She set down her glass and smiled slowly, her eyes hazing over with a fond memory.

"As a child, I loved their depictions of the divine- of gods and goddesses with the heads of wild dogs, alligators, falcons, cats, cranes- all those beastly things we'd now never let pass beyond the temporal world. My mind was captivated." She hummed, her head tilting slightly as she picked up her fork. "Who wouldn't want to live in a world with such a vastly different view of beauty and power?"

Her brow pricked at that word once more, her eyes snapping back into focus as she took a bite of her food.

"Have you recently returned from a bout in Egypt?" It was more of a distraction for herself, but she recognized the slight tan to his skin, and if she let herself fall more into the other side of herself, she could smell it on him- the sand, the dry, earthy smell of the papyrus plant, the savory scent of delicious ful medames.

"Why yes, I have," He answered, conflicted. Eyeing her curiously, he continued on. "It was a successful bout- there were but too many heiroglyphics to be transcribed." Mr. Claire looked at her silently, watching her smile brightly.

"I'm sure it was nothing but a breeze for someone such as yourself, the British Museum is very lucky to have you." At her compliment, the room immediately tensed and stiffened as no one spoke. The only sound was her silverware edging against her plate as she continued eating, a slight blush to her cheeks.

"I didn't mention I work at the British Museum." Mr. Zahi remarked, his once bright gaze now shadowed and warm demeanor chilling.

"Perhaps I'm pyschic then." She joked, attempting to move from her mistake as quickly as possible. Despite not being able to see through Mr. Claire's mask, she could feel his gaze on her with the intensity of sun beams. Her back stiffened as frantic scenarios rushed through her head, her mind attempting to rationalize and calm her fears while her mind was already looking at the window for an easy escape.

"Now dear I must know how you knew, I can't stand the allure of mystery." She calmed herself as the room relaxed slightly, his light tone bouncing back as he leaned forward. "I have quiet the fascination with the occult as of late. Perhaps if you are skilled I'll have to have you host a séance." A tight chuckle slipped through her teeth as she reigned herself in, returning to the familiar mechanical structure of her motions as she took a seemingly unbothered bite of her food.

"Well, I'll pretend it was one of two things- deduction or a lucky guess." His eyes brightened at the entertainment, enamored.

"Deduction? Do tell." He practically had poured himself into the conversation. The silence of Mr. Claire set her on edge more than anything, her eyes fighting not to look at him. Something told her if she did, he would see through her completely.

"You came hear wearing your woven coat, the textile a more raw, intricate mold than the rushed product of the factories." She began, giving Mr. Zahi a glance over, a mysterious smile blooming across her lips. "Perhaps it was a purchase during your expedition you recently returned from, your hands tanned from working in the blazing sun of Africa."

Mr. Zahi listened on with direct attention, ever the eager type to hear about himself.

"Your golden rings speak of someone proud of their place in society, which I would guess is elevated more so by your wife- the most beautiful ring being your wedding band. Pardon my bluntness, but the way you speak of the arrival of the new artifacts makes me think they are less than recent- perhaps faint murmurs, faint whispers. A man of your skill and knowledge from London could only be stationed at the British Museum, anywhere else would be an insult to your prowess and skill."

"Or," She sighed. "It could just be a lucky guess."

Mr. Zahi, for the first time since walking through the door, seemed unable to form a single word.

"My," He finally hummed, "Perhaps you and Mr. Claire are the deadly duo I should be worried about. You both have that... unsettling ability to cut into people."

"Tell me, have your deductions worked well for Mr. Claire? I would die to see past the perfect scene he paints here." She slyly looked up from her meal, casting him a low look- intently trying to mask herself as much as he already did with that tight black cloth.

"I wish I could say I did, Mr. Zahi." She confessed. "Mr. Claire is just as much of a mystery to me as he is to you."

"Cah! Hidden subjects- the lot of you. But past that Miss Emerson; I think you especially would like to hear of the most recent addition to the museum. The most esteemed archaeologist of our times recently sent his last artifacts to the museum. They are still under review- efficiency and punctuality are ever the most distant words from the British Museum as Shakespeare and Plato- but everyone expects it to be something magnificent. It's from Ireland, from the now submerged monolithic structure that was skillfully balanced between two cliffs!" At his words her heart dropped and her entire body felt as though it had been beraided by frigid violent waves. Sounds felt dulled and distant as time seemed to slow down, the light of the house being consumed by dark shadows that swallowed every bit of her vision.

"I'm surprised someone even fit inside! It must have been quite the feat!"

The glass in her hand shattered, her cheeks flushed as Hans rushed to her side. Mr. Zahi and Mr. Claire extended their worries, but before they could finish she rose hastily.

She brought a shaky hand to her face, the world seeming to spin.

"I'm so sorry," She murmured. "I don't know what has worked into me." Her strained words and empty eyes looked all too familiar to Mr. Claire.

"I'm going to lay down-" As she turned to walk out, Hans caught her as she wavered. He helped her to her room and Nimbe tended to her hand, surprised to find not a single scratch.

Downstairs, the gentlemen looked at each other for a moment.

"Will Miss Emerson be alright? She looked quite ill," Mr. Zahi inquired, looking out the dining room towards the stairway. Mr. Claire followed his line of sight, wondering the same thing himself.

"Nimbe will look after her with the utmost care," Mr. Claire said flatly. "I think she will recover with a bit of rest."

Mr. Zahi finished his wine silently, not convinced.

"I wonder what it was," He continued. "Perhaps it was-"

"Perhaps it's best not to over-think these sorts of things." Mr. Claire cut in, his teeth clenching slightly. For a moment, he didn't understand why the subject had bothered him so much, but when the image of her white face flashed across him mind the reason dawned on him.

"Continue Mr. Zahi," His voice softened. "I'm sure Miss Emerson will want to hear everything you said after she rests up. Due to the long ride back to London, it seems I'll have to take notes for her."

At that, Mr. Zahi seemed to pour even more excitement into his stories, hoping it would serve to keep Miss Emerson feeling included.

When the evening approached and Mr. Zahi prepared for his leave, he shook hands with Mr. Claire.

"Extend my wishes to Miss Emerson on her speedy recovery," He smiled. "I do hope to see her again. Quite the intellectual type. I fear she may know more than me on the middle kingdom! Perhaps she'll have to educate me."

Mr. Claire nodded kindly.

"Of course, I'm sure it will be kindly received. And I think she'd like that very much. Promise you'll come back to see me once in awhile too," He joked, earning a teasing swat from Mr. Zahi.

"Cah- perhaps you should come visit me. I'm getting old you know."

"Perhaps I'll take you up on that." He hummed, looking towards the stairway.

After exchanging their farewells, Mr. Zahi left leaving the house to return to its calm, quiet self- the excitement enjoyed, but not overstaying its welcome. The faint murmur of the house seemed all the more homely and comforting, like a quiet fall afternoon after a lively summer day.

Dinner passed without her returning downstairs, Nimbe reporting to him that she just woke up. He invited her to have dinner in the study, though he knew it was more for his curiosity than for her. Nimbe set to brewing tea, and she slowly emerged in the room with her night robe tied tightly and her cheeks still flushed slightly.

"Are you feeling better?" It was a simple question, but he could tell it wasn't one that she could flawlessly answer. She nodded mutely, a deep sigh rushing past her lips.

"I didn't know your name was Mr. Claire," She commented, attempted to change the subject. "It reminds me of the poet." A tired smile spread across her face. "I don't think a name could better fit a person."

"Miss Emerson?" He asked playfully.

"Quite quick on my feet aren't I?" She laughed, gratefully accepting a plate from Nimbe. He nodded, though it wasn't what he wanted.

"It's a bit unfair, if I'm honest." He sighed dramatically. "You know mine and I don't know yours."

She looked down to her food and chewed slowly, her hair fanning across her face.

"I never want to hear my name ever again." Her lips trembled slightly, her hand tucking her hair behind her ear. "My name- the name they gave me- meant demon, bringer of the night. I'm not sure it fits me as well as yours does." A strained chuckle fell from her mouth, her silver eyes looking gold in the reflection of the fireplace.

"Why don't you choose a new one then?"

Rolling the idea around her head, her brow bent as she thought for a moment.

"Viera then," She decided. "It means 'true'."

He nodded silently, letting the name fall from him mouth.

"Then Viera it is." The feeling at knowing her name felt both swelling and shrinking. He had forgotten that he never knew her name- perhaps time was passing too quickly for him to notice, but he knew that he was guilty of forgetting she didn't even have one. For all her soul and personality, a part of him still saw her as that destitute shell of a person on that ship, and he felt disgusted with himself for it.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" He replied, returning from his thoughts.

"Your name. Or shall I always call you 'Mr. Claire'?"

"Perhaps I never want to hear my name again either," He sighed, his body slouching against the couch. "Why don't you pick one out for me?"

"Are you sure?" She asked, looking into the fire.

"More than anything." Her gaze focused upon him- that steady, intrusive kind. Despite every cell within him that wanted to be seen, he couldn't shake the notion that without his mask and gloves, he would be nothing. His past would be stripped from him- his entire life story would somehow be unraveled in her meticulous eyes. What would be left of him after that? His house? He looked to the red walls of the study, the portrait in the corner of the room. The dust in the darkest corner of the house would be swept away, he realized. The drip of water in the deepest crevice would be threadbare, and what about her?

He submit himself to her gaze once more, this time observing her. Ink hair like the dead words of poets, caramel skin that seemed like a sweet but deadly trap. Could anyone ever resemble a poisonous flower more perfectly? His heart ached for a moment, wondering if there was ever a more enticing ruse. Until this moment, he never realized how dependent he had been on his secrets, how they had consumed such a large part of his soul that without them, he would only be a destitute corpse. So what of her then? Would she still want to live with something so shallow and caved in? Did she even realize that if she wanted, at any moment, she could walk through those doors and he would do nothing to stop her?

"John then," Was her answer. "Like the poet."

She took his gloved hand in hers, the leather tensing around his cold skin.

"Hello John Claire." Her eyes looked dark as she sat forward, the curvature of her smile like a crescent moon in the dim light. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

He shook her hand tenderly, his mind splitting itself down the middle.

"Hello to you too, Viera Emerson. And I assure you," his mind sticking to the caramel like a feeble, weak fly.

"The pleasure is all mine."