The files landed on the pile of even more files with a thud and some dust dispersed into the air. Somewhere between endless rows and stacks of books, lying in a strayed ray of sun with his head on a volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica and despite his mother’s frequent ranting and rummaging, Aidan was sleeping peacefully on the sofa.
Unlike other kids, a bit of loud arguments on the side didn’t bother him a lot- in his 15 month of life he has come to known that it just meant everything was just as it had to be. For someone that little, accepting a hysterical mother was not that much of a big deal. After all, she never seemed to be upset with Aidan himself, even if he sometimes snored a little.

Fiona felt dizzy for the zillionst time this week. She sunk a little bit deeper into the chair and tried to ignore it, opening a random envelope she pulled out of today’s (and maybe yesterday’s) mail.
It was quiet these days, most people got ready for the holidays and had no interest in the book hunting business. At the museum, though, everyone prepared for the worst. Just last week they had created a new guide tour schedule, with one tour every hour, and had organised countless of workshops and events for children of all ages (that is, 0- 140 years).
The opening of the 2nd War department was rescheduled and wouldn't be opened until Christmas, but even that didn't make things easier. 

Scanning the letter without reading it, Fiona's thought drifted off. She realized she hasn't replied to that annoyingly long letter her mother had send three weeks ago and that they were running out of nappies and wipes. Just like herself, Jason had seemed a little off lately, working late hours and distancing himself a little. Maybe that was married life at some point, two people wandering off by themselves, both knowing that at the end of the day, they'll come back home and have dinner together. She hated it a little, this dinner-family-thing.
It wasn't like she was unhappy or something, it was just odd.

Beneath the windows, Aidan turned in his sleep, moving closely to the edge of the sofa. With a flick of her wand, Fiona transported a chair next to the edge to prevent him from falling with the next move. The historian then turned her attention back to the letter in her hand.
A lot of blah, mostly. She sorted it into the special filing basket for extremely important things that could change the world if they ever got the chance (the bin) and moved onto the other letters.

He was juggling more than just the take-away. Frank was used to the fire breathing woman taking her irritation out on him. It was kind of odd when she was pleasant, come to think of it. Pleasant in the usual person type of pleasant, at least. Frank thought she had a certain finesse to herself; a pleasant level that one had to get to know. Or maybe it was just Frank’s way of trying to look at the upside to things. See the good in people. Yeah… that was it.

With one hand holding drinks, the other carrying a few books against his side, he had the food bags between his teeth, frowning as he almost tripped as he walked up the stairs. Once he got to the door, he realized he had no free hand to open the door. A loud breath escaped him as he realized his folly. What to set down, though? Shifting his hand against the books, he finally started to kneel down. He couldn’t put the books down; they were too important to set on the front stoop. Instead he started to juggle the drinks, attempting to manipulate his hands so that he could set one down and then the other.

What happened next should have been caught on camera so that it could be framed and watched again and again. It’s always Frank’s luck, but the important thing to realize is that the books were saved. The drinks… they were not so lucky. Nor were his pants. The upside to it all was that he was kneeling when it happened, so the hot coffee only burned a small portion of his skin through the thicker material of his trousers. His mouth opened in a gasp of shock, the take-away falling as if in slow motion to the stoop only a meter or so away.

A few minutes later and Frank was trying to catch his breath as he walked into the maze that was the office, holding the take-away in one hand and the books, unscathed, in the other. Setting the books down near Fiona, he let the food rest on his chair. Seeing her go through the mail was interesting… Keeping in mind that Aidan was sleeping, Frank tapped the book on top gently. “As requested… The Ins and Outs of Knockturn Alley.” Though he wasn’t sure why it was necessary, he’d learned fairly quickly to not ask too many ‘silly’ questions.

Moving to the food, he started to take it out, offering her her portion. He just hoped she didn’t realize her coffee was missing until he had time to brew some in the kitchen. If he could even make it to the kitchen… Glancing longingly at the door, hidden mostly away, he let out a sigh he hadn’t meant to make so noisy. Blinking, he frowned and looked back at the mail she was looking at. “Your mum wrote you four times this morning. Would you like me to send a response?”

There was something going on at the front door, but as she was expecting her trainee Frank, who always brought some kind of mischance with him, the historian didn’t even bother looking up. Why Jason had chosen him – or anyone, really- was a mystery to her, but at least that disaster on two feet had a secret source of never ending friendliness and motivation. Frank did just about anything she tried to make him do, which was as amusing as practical.
And there he was, just as always, punctual and with food.
That almost made her love him a little- food was, after all, such an essential thing in Fiona’s life.

 “As requested… The Ins and Outs of Knockturn Alley.”

“Oh very good, thank you” she murmured, immediately letting off the mail to spend some quality time with the book. The book had been more of a random request, but if she was lucky, she could get something good out of it. Frank let out a heavy sigh like an overgrown baby and she automatically raised her eyebrows “Is your life that difficult, Frank, that you have to sigh constantly?” She scanned him carefully, wondering why she even bothered.
After all, they had work to do and ignoring it usually worked just fine.

“Your mum wrote you four times this morning. Would you like me to send a response?”

To put it carefully, Fiona and her mother have never been the best of friends. Amelia liked white sofas, symmetric hedge patterns and tradition. When she was four, Fiona declared she wanted to be a boy and wouldn’t wear dresses. Ever. With 8, she found some garden tools and cut her mother’s garden into a non-existence. With 12, Fiona accidentally walked through the very white, very clean house with muddy boots and set the sofa on fire. And those are only very few examples of incident that clearly marked their relationship. Not to mention the fact that Amelia is actually afraid of little children. It wasn’t too bad with her own children, but it always was an issue.

Fiona rolled with her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Four times? What was she, a stalking lunatic?  Didn’t she have any hobbies or a job or something? Or maybe children that like her?

 “Sure, Frank. Write something like ‘Hello beast of a mother, Your daughter has no desire to talk to you and neither have I, but I as the coffee-maker, I have little choice. So please, do refrain from ever writing again- I have my own mother. A nice one. Yours faithfully, Frank Pratt’” she dictated and took some of the food Frank brought.

“Now tell me,” she started, already chewing a little, “Is that my coffee on your trousers or did you wet yourself?”

“Oh very good, thank you.”

Nodding, knowing she hadn’t looked to him to see his acknowledgement, he didn’t bother with words. If anything, it would only distract her from the book which would no doubt lead to some irritation. Considering he didn’t have coffee… it was best to play it safe for now. Glancing to the mail, all ready imagining the pile dwindling once she moved on to something else and he was able to look through it, Frank glanced around for an empty area to work in.

“Is your life that difficult, Frank, that you have to sigh constantly?”

His cheeks turned a tinge of red. He had obviously been louder than he’d intended. Licking his lips, he merely shook his head. “No, Fiona. I merely noticed that… Jason hadn’t been by to straighten up lately.” If he had, maybe Frank wouldn’t be fearing for his life to make it to the kitchen. It was the nicest way he could think to say that it was a hazardous in there without actually mentioning the state of things. Glancing around the impossible stacks of books, he noticed the little guy on the sofa.

A small smile came to his lips. It was always easier to work with Aidan around. Fiona might not have noticed, but she seemed to lift up a bit with the little guy, whether he was causing mischief to be reprimanded for or sleeping on one of her favorite books (which included every one in the room, he was sure).

“Sure, Frank-”

For a brief moment he thought she was serious. Silly man. Shaking his head, he rested his hands on his hips and glanced away from Aidan to her. “I’ll write her back then. Something like that.” He should have just done it; Frank had responded to a previous letter the day before, so he hadn’t been surprised by the letter attack all ready. He would just gloss a response without much meat to it. Frank was of the opinion that it was better than no response at all. “I don’t know if I’m qualified, though, as just the coffee-maker.”

“Now tell me… Is that my coffee on your trousers or did you wet yourself?”

His eyes widened as he looked down at the mess. Grumbling under his breath, resisting the urge to curse, he felt the blush come back. “That would be… your coffee.” Though perhaps admitting to wetting himself would cause less of a reaction. Closing his eyes, he rubbed them with slight disbelief. He should've tried to clean them a little. Turning his gaze once more towards the kitchen, he self consciously tugged at his trousers. “I can make fresh. It would be better flavored anyway.” Yes, try to dig yourself out of a hole. Use a trowel.

“No, Fiona. I merely noticed that… Jason hadn’t been by to straighten up lately.”

The historian automatically straightened up and folded her arms "Excuse me?" she said, her voice getting that slightly annoyed undertone. "Are you trying to say something, Frank?" It was enough that Jason regularly felt like sneaking in her office to "straighten things up". It was ridiculous, getting one's office tidied by one's own husband because he doesn't like it the way it was. The fight that had followed this last incident had been juicy, to say the least, and while she hoped she had made her position clear, she couldn't be one hundred percent sure. Maybe it was time to put up a jinx or two ...

"If you don't like it here,you're free. Or clean up, if you want to. Do whatever. But as long as I am the boss here and everything works the way it should, you better keep your mouth shut."  She spoke quietly, but mixture of descreet threatening and subliminal aggression that hid under her whipsering made her point clear enough.
"Because the way I see it, Frank, this mess pays your rent."
 It was not the fact that she was messy and that climbing over rows of endless books she got from who knows where was a nuisance. She knew she could difficult when it came to simple things like using shelves and filing systems.
But no one should ever try to undermine the authority of a Lloyd woman. They could get very, very vicious.  "No one forces you to be here. "
Fiona took another bite off her sandwich, chewing her anger away. This dizziness really annoyed her, it was impossible. Impossible enough to wipe her anger away quickly, the next bite bringing back the expression of eased tension she's been waiting for for days.


“I’ll write her back then. Something like that. I don’t know if I’m qualified, though, as just the coffee-maker.”

The bookhunter shrugged and waved aside. "I'm sure you'll do just fine, as always.
But really, this enthusiam you have for writing my mother scares me. Does she pay you for stalking me?"

“That would be… your coffee.I can make fresh. It would be better flavored anyway.”

"I already made coffee, Frank" She paused a little to give the message some time to sink in. it was nothing she ever did, even coffee was a take-away product only for her.  "There are cookies, too. And sausages. I felt like sausages and cookies this morning, you know?"

Again she shrugged and pulled a pile of stuff towards her. "If you would get us some and then get a chair..we need to get through these," she padded the pile, "and then i'd just like to discuss what we have to finish before the weekend, because they expect us in the museum either..today or tomorrow."

“Excuse me?”

Ah. Frank should have taken the smarter road and said what was really on his mind; how he didn’t know if he’d make it to the kitchen. Mentioning someone cleaning up her strategically placed stacks of nonsense was more than likely to end up with a quill stuck in his thigh. Closing his eyes and taking in a sharp breath, he made a face. Good way to start the day.

“If you don’t like it here, you’re free. Or clean up, if you want to. Do whatever. But as long as I am the boss here-”

Blah blah blah. She wasn’t very imaginative in what she complained about. If she were talking out into the air and he were behind her, he might mockingly mimic her in a gorilla type fashion. Not that he necessarily did this on a consistent basis or anything. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he merely nodded and kept his mouth shut like a good little secretary. A hand went up as if to tell her to calm down, noticing that while the volume was down, the tone was very aggressive.

“Because the way I see it, Frank, this mess pays your rent.”

Raising an eyebrow slightly, he glanced around the ‘mess’ and kept his opinion on that to himself. If it wasn’t a mess, they might have more business flowing in. Don’t let a client step in to this office. In fact, they might have to fly in, on certain days. It was a good thing earthquakes weren’t likely to hit London or it would be like wizard domino’s in here. At least she didn’t mention that if she unceremoniously sent him butt first out onto the pavement he might be back with his parents.

Perhaps it was that time of the month. She just kept going on and on. He kept his observation to himself, however, lest he be wrong. Or worse… be right. That would infinitely be worse. On top of the fact that he would have to admit that he knew her well enough to figure out when her hormones were making her more bitchy… it would be opening a can of whatever she packed for those few days she seemed to be extra spicy.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, as always. But really, this enthusiasm you have for writing my mother scares me. Does she pay you for stalking me?”

“If she did, I’d have been a wealthier man by now.” He all ready had an idea of what he was going to respond with. It would be a touch of Fiona, considering her attitude this morning. “She’s also pleasant enough to correspond with.” Albeit a touch too formal sometimes… she was easy to keep an owl conversation with. It was also a sometimes pleasant distraction to Fiona. Not that he needed that too often, of course.

“I already made coffee, Frank.”

He’d all ready been eyeing the kitchen, considering the best route when her words sunk in. Blinking and giving her a look of disbelief, he let out a soft laugh. Was she having a go at him just because he’d spilled her coffee on his trousers? His mouth opened, though he hadn’t quite figured out what he was going to say to that.

“There are cookies, too. And sausages. I felt like sausages and cookies this morning, you know?”

His mouth stayed open a moment later before he finally closed it. Another blink came, followed closely behind with another. Surely she hadn’t baked… or cooked. Was she even familiar with what a stove was?

“If you would get us some and then get a chair..we need to get through these-”

Get them some of… the cookies, sausages, and coffee she’d procured before Frank arrived? Was it wise for their health? Maybe he should accidentally spill the other coffee and then just make something he knew was edible. However, he merely glanced to the pile she touched and nodded.

“-and then I’d just like to discuss what we have to finish before the weekend, because they expect us in the museum either..today or tomorrow.”

Frowning slightly at that, Frank merely nodded again, moving to where he assumed the coffee and food were set up. Once he made it into the kitchen, taking a route out of the main office, Frank came back a few minutes later with the tray of possible edibles balancing on them, the coffee in his other hand. Once he’d cleared an area for her snacks to rest, he poured her a mug full before filling his own. Sitting down in the chair that his food rested on, he opened it and took a bite of his breakfast.

“So you made coffee… are the… sausages your doing as well?” He had to know, now. If they were, he’d have to press for answers. Surely she had to realize this was odd behavior for her. Surely he wouldn’t be a good, helpful employee without pointing these things out to her.

“If she did, I’d have been a wealthier man by now. She’s also pleasant enough to correspond with.”

"If you wake one morning and you find my mother hovering over your bed with a frantic expression on her face, do not ever say I did not warn you," she commented. Maybe she should take Frank to her mother's house, lovingly called the white hell.

Everything  in the reception rooms was white, except for one old grandfather clock with a constant nagging ticking that drove you insane when you sat on that uncomfortable sofa for too long.
Amelia Lloyd hated visitors, especially uninvited ones and did everything to make them feel as horried as possible without ever being impolite or inappropriate. No one ever stayed longer than absolutely necessary.

She grabbed the coffee and half-emptied it with one sip, scanning yet another letter concerning the Second War Department. "You're a peach, thanks."

“So you made coffee… are the… sausages your doing as well?”

Fiona looked up, her eyebrows raised to a whole new level of disbelief. "Do you take drugs, Frank? Of course not, I bought them like this," she had to roll with her eyes, it was such a ridiculous thought.
"Besides, how do you even make sausages? I have no idea. I have never even turned on my oven."

She pulled out some parchments from one of the piles, scanning them and then handing them  to Frank. "So we'll have an intern over to help with the department, won't we?"

The opening of the new department was scarily close and there was too much to be done. Another pair of hands in the office would hopefully help tackle the impossible piles of work that lay ahead.
Maybe she should really clean up and sort everything so the new intern would know where everything is.

Fiona had been so excited and proud when the museum had offered her the job as project manager for the new Second War Department. The rooms that where build for it where beautiful and not as dusty as everything else there. So many people had shown their support and the vastness of possibilities because of the recency of the events immense. Everyone had a little something to add, to tell, to share.

Usually when one worked at a project it was hard work to find witnesses of the happenings- witnesses here meaning people who remembered, letters, books, pictures, old china,etc. But as everything was just 10 years away, every one still alive was a part of this bit of history.

It was thrilling, writing about history while it still seemed to happen.