- ANNE AND CLEO
In a quiet corner of Bloomsbury, shrouded in perpetual London drizzle, stood Crow & Co., a bookstore so old that its shelves sighed under the weight of every dusty tome, each whispering the secrets of forgotten realms. Not that Anne frequented such a place as a rule, but today she was on a mission: a curious lead for the British Museum. Word had it that a volume with peculiar symbols—perhaps even magical—had surfaced here. And naturally, she was the woman to fetch it.
Anne Pemberley, Senior Researcher of the Occult and Mysterious Artefacts Department (yes, they had a whole department for that now), was known as one of the sharpest minds at the museum. As she entered the bookshop, she adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses and tried not to think of the rain muddling her neat chignon. But her mind was filled with a far worse disturbance.
It had been years since she’d last seen Cleo. Cleo Granger—the Cleo, who breezed through Anne’s life like a hurricane in a leather jacket, upending everything sensible and well-ordered. Cleo, who charmed heads of state, punched a golem once (no one knew quite how she managed that), and always looked more at home in ancient temples than in any manner of civilization. Cleo, who was as accomplished as she was maddeningly cavalier about it.
So naturally, when Anne saw her lounging against the counter of Crow & Co. like she owned the place, her heart did a rather disobedient little leap.
"Hello, Annie," Cleo drawled, her voice full of that old familiar tease, as if they’d seen each other just yesterday and not fifteen years prior. She looked maddeningly unaffected by the years: hair in a mess of honey-colored curls, leather jacket hanging off her shoulders, and a glint in her eye that suggested she’d recently done something dangerous and regrettably thrilling.
“Miss Granger,” Anne said, pushing her glasses up as though that might give her the fortitude to keep from blushing. “I didn’t realize you were back in London. Last I heard, you were off antagonizing the Pharaohs of Cairo.”
“Still am. Brief holiday.” Cleo flashed her that devastating grin, the one that was equal parts fox and fiend. “But when I heard you’d be poking around here, well, how could I resist?”
Anne’s brain briefly went fuzzy, but she clamped down on it and forced herself to remember the reason she’d come. “I’m here for research, Cleo. There’s a book—an ancient compendium of incantations I’ve been tasked with retrieving.”
“Ah, the Codex Occultus?” Cleo raised an eyebrow. “Funny, I’ve just acquired it for… a friend. It’s locked in a secure vault under the premises.” Her gaze flickered down to Anne’s sensible skirt and practical flats. “But I’m sure a lady like you has all the charms to persuade me into showing it to you.”
Anne was halfway between scandalized and secretly flattered. “Cleo, this is the British Museum we’re talking about. National treasures, and all that.”
“Sure, but it’s so much more fun when we’re sneaky about it.”
Anne opened her mouth to protest when Cleo slid an arm through hers, leading her toward a hidden door behind the shelves. “Come along, love,” Cleo murmured. “I could use the company of a charming academic. Besides, I think we’ve both done enough work for one afternoon.”
The passage led them down a narrow staircase lined with books on every conceivable subject, most of them decidedly off the public record. Anne’s heart pounded as she felt Cleo’s familiar presence beside her, the faint smell of spice and leather, as if Cleo herself had been dredged out of an ancient tomb and dusted off just for Anne’s benefit.
They arrived in a small, dimly lit cellar. There, upon a pedestal of stone, lay the Codex Occultus. It was bound in weathered leather, and symbols in gold glimmered ominously across its surface.
“I suppose you’ll want to take it back to your museum vault,” Cleo said with a smirk. “Or perhaps you'd prefer a more hands-on approach?” She took a step closer, eyes sparkling with mischief, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Anne was caught, plain and simple. But years of being the sensible one had to count for something. She cleared her throat. “If I didn’t know better, Cleo, I’d say you orchestrated this entire meeting just to make me blush.”
Cleo leaned in, her grin softening into something warmer, something that Anne thought perhaps she remembered from long ago. “Well, perhaps I did. But you never blush, love. Not for anyone but me.”
And so it was that in the basement of Crow & Co., surrounded by ancient knowledge and the scent of old books, Anne let herself smile back, just a little.
After all, for an afternoon, what harm could it do?
2. THE MORNING AFTER
The next morning, Anne found herself drifting through a fog of memories, her mind preoccupied with the scent of old leather, a glint of honey-brown eyes, and that infuriatingly charming grin that seemed just as dazzling now as it had been years ago. She barely noticed when Julian swept into her office, a parade of colors that immediately brightened the stacks of beige and dust around her.
Julian Fitzroy, Research Fellow in Enchanted Textiles and Ancient Wardrobe Mysteries, was a vision of peacock plumage today: silk waistcoat in shimmering turquoise, tailored trousers in a deep emerald, and a daring paisley scarf of plum that flirted with the idea of a cravat.
“Well, don’t you look positively daydreamy,” he drawled, plopping into her guest chair with a flourish. “Spill immediately. I sense the disturbance of a woman in your aura. Possibly a rather stunning one.”
Anne felt her cheeks warm, but she masked it with a brisk shuffle of papers. “Honestly, Julian, I don’t know what you mean.”
He gave her a withering, over-the-glasses look. “Darling, please. I know you well enough to recognize the symptoms. Now, is it someone I know? Someone infamous, perhaps?”
Anne sighed, defeated. “If you must know, I… ran into Cleo Valente last night.”
Julian’s gasp was so dramatic, she half-expected him to clutch his chest and swoon. “The Cleo Valente? Mysterious and utterly disreputable archaeologist? What did she do—abseil through the window?”
“She was in a bookstore,” Anne replied, a bit too defensively. “Quite the mundane scenario, actually.”
“Oh, yes,” Julian murmured, leaning forward with a delighted glint in his eyes. “The same Cleo who gallivants across the globe, flouts every institution known to academia, and looks fabulous while doing it, I’m sure. Do go on. I’m all ears—and feathers.” He gave a small preen of his plum-colored scarf.
Anne sighed, trying to sound casual. “She was… more or less the same. Just as incorrigible. Wearing that blasted leather jacket, of course, as if she were auditioning for a part in some adventure film.”
Julian looked positively gleeful. “My dear Anne, you’re practically swooning. I thought I’d never see the day.”
Anne felt a flustered heat rising in her cheeks. “I am not swooning, Julian. It was a chance meeting, nothing more. Besides, she was only there because she’d somehow gotten her hands on the Codex Occultus—one of the rare texts I’ve been researching for months. She has a knack for waltzing in and stealing all my hard work.”
“Oh, darling, but you love that about her,” Julian teased, delighted by her flustered state. “She’s like a splendid storm—entirely unpredictable and entirely intoxicating.”
“Intoxicating, indeed,” Anne muttered, though the way her mind wandered to Cleo’s effortless confidence, her gleaming eyes, suggested she agreed with him.
“So, what happened?” Julian leaned in. “Did she whisk you away to some hidden corner of Bloomsbury? Light a candle, offer you a rare artifact, and look deeply into your eyes?”
“Actually…” Anne felt her cheeks warming again as she remembered Cleo’s smirk, that absurd arm-around-the-shoulder trick. “Something like that. She led me down a staircase to a secret cellar. We looked at the Codex. She practically dared me to steal it.”
Julian clasped his hands in glee, his rings sparkling. “If you’re telling me she made you blush, I may faint.”
Anne exhaled, rolling her eyes in the face of his amusement. “Perhaps she did. But really, Julian, it’s not as if she’s serious about anything. Certainly not… well, me.”
“Seriousness is terribly overrated.” Julian gave her a compassionate look, softened by a smile. “And neither of you would be interested if it were serious, anyway.”
Anne couldn’t argue with that. Somehow, she and Cleo had always shared a strange chemistry—a current that ran deeper than words and logic, as much as she tried to deny it. “Well,” she said finally, “if nothing else, it reminded me why I steer clear of her these days.”
Julian patted her hand, all sympathy. “Nonsense, darling. She’s the adventure you need, even if you pretend you’re only interested in dusty old scrolls. Now…” he raised his eyebrows, voice dipping conspiratorially, “tell me you at least arranged to see her again?”
Anne felt her heart skip a beat at the very suggestion. “No, absolutely not! I have an entire exhibit to finish cataloguing.”
“Oh, Anne,” Julian murmured, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “You can’t catalog everything. Especially not a woman like Cleo Valente.”
Anne attempted to look stern but felt her resolve crumbling. “One chance encounter does not mean—”
“Of course not,” Julian said lightly, patting his scarf into place as he rose. “But if I were you, I’d polish up my blush powder and brush up on my Latin charms. After all, a woman like that is bound to blow in again.”
3. WORKING TOGETHER AGAIN
Two weeks later, Anne was in her office, pouring over the preliminary details for the British Museum’s upcoming exhibit on “Forbidden Texts and Relics.” This exhibit would feature everything from rare grimoire fragments to infamous artifacts with dubious—and possibly dangerous—origins. Her task was daunting but thrilling. After all, it wasn’t every day that she got to bring together so many unique and peculiar objects in one place, under the protective wing of the museum.
She’d just made a note about the Codex Occultus, when she heard a familiar and ominous knock on her door. Julian slipped in, looking resplendent in a peacock-patterned waistcoat and with a mischievous look that Anne had learned to associate with trouble.
“Hello, darling,” he trilled, flopping dramatically into her guest chair. “I come bearing news.”
“Good news, I hope?” Anne replied, glancing up, though her instincts told her otherwise.
Julian’s grin widened. “Well, that depends on how you feel about being reunited with the illustrious Dr. Cleo Valente.”
Anne froze. “You… can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am!” he replied, nearly giddy. “Your dear director thought that if we’re going to attract the right audience for this exhibit, we need someone who can bring the artifacts’, shall we say, ‘practical side’ to life. And who better than Professor Valente, the bane of every institution, the thrill of every skeptic?”
Anne could only stare. The words “who better” were debatable, and yet her boss was right. No one had the flair for uncovering ancient mysteries quite like Cleo—nor did anyone else have her knack for making Anne’s life considerably more… complicated.
“Oh, but there’s more,” Julian added, practically purring with delight. “She’ll be arriving in precisely”—he checked an invisible watch on his wrist with all the flourish of a cabaret performer—“fifteen minutes.”
Anne’s heart did an unprofessional little leap. “Julian,” she hissed, “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he replied, looking far too pleased with himself.
Anne barely had time to compose herself—or her desk—before a second knock echoed through her office, louder this time. She didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. Sure enough, in breezed Dr. Cleo Valente, wearing a fitted black leather jacket, jeans, and a devil-may-care smile that belonged more in a jungle temple than in a staid British museum office.
“Anne,” Cleo greeted, her voice rich with a confidence that had only grown in the intervening years. She took in Anne’s neat, academic look with a knowing smile. “Fancy meeting you again so soon.”
“Professor Valente,” Anne replied, hoping the briskness of her tone might help steel her nerves. “I hear you’ll be joining the Forbidden Texts project.”
“Yes, apparently, I’m needed to handle the more ‘hands-on’ artifacts.” Cleo’s eyes sparkled as she took a step closer. “Seems they need someone who won’t swoon at the sight of a cursed relic or two.”
Anne managed not to roll her eyes. “The museum values your… experience,” she said, biting back any personal commentary. “But it is important that we adhere to protocol. No reckless testing, no spontaneous handling of ancient curses—”
“Don’t worry, Anne.” Cleo’s voice dropped to a teasing murmur as she held Anne’s gaze. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
The word “best” from Cleo’s lips felt distinctly misleading, but Anne pressed on. “Right. Well, we’ll need to coordinate closely. We can’t risk anything going awry with artifacts this temperamental.”
“Oh, I’m counting on that,” Cleo replied, with a glint that promised trouble. “Besides, I think it’s been far too long since we had a real adventure together.”
Anne shot Julian a sharp look. He was trying and failing to suppress a smirk as he gathered his papers and made a suspiciously hasty retreat, leaving her alone with Cleo. Alone and entirely, uncomfortably aware of how close Cleo was standing, how the air between them seemed to crackle with a familiar, undeniable chemistry.
“Just so we’re clear,” Anne said finally, trying to sound professional, “this is work, Cleo. And I don’t intend to let anything… personal interfere.”
“Of course,” Cleo replied, though her smirk only deepened. “You can count on me to be extremely professional, Dr. Pemberley.”
Anne’s pulse quickened despite herself, but she forced herself to stay steady. “Good,” she said. “Because we have a lot of work ahead of us. And—please try not to steal any of my artifacts this time.”
Cleo’s laughter was warm and unexpectedly familiar. “I make no promises, but I’ll try my best.” Then, as she held out her hand to shake on it, her gaze softened, just a little. “In all seriousness, Anne—it’s good to see you again.”
Anne felt her resolve waver, just a fraction, as she shook Cleo’s hand. “Good to see you too,” she said, more softly than she’d intended.
And with that, the two women, once again in each other’s orbits, prepared to dive into the depths of the British Museum’s secrets—knowing full well that forbidden texts weren’t the only things likely to be unearthed.
4. FLASHBACK | HOW THEY MET
Anne remembered the first time she saw Cleo Valente as vividly as though it were yesterday. She’d been a young PhD candidate, serious to the point of severity, sitting primly in the second row of a dimly lit lecture hall. It was her habit to sit at the front, prepared with a notebook and a pencil case arranged just so, eagerly awaiting a lecture on "Artifact Ethics and Practical Applications in the Field."
The guest lecturer—Dr. Cleo Valente—was already a legend in their department, though she was neither as old nor as dry as Anne had expected. Rumor had it that Cleo’s CV was almost as thick as her published works, which in itself was nothing short of miraculous. And though Anne had been prepared for someone impressive, she hadn’t been prepared for her.
Cleo had strolled in fifteen minutes late, her honey-brown curls tousled, leather jacket shrugging off one shoulder, wearing a casual, fitted black shirt that didn’t even pretend to nod toward the university’s dress code. She was like a character out of some dramatic adventure novel, and her very presence filled the room with a sense of barely-contained energy, as though she could, at any moment, vanish into the ether on her way to uncover a hidden tomb or ancient curse.
“Apologies, everyone,” she’d said, utterly unbothered by her tardiness. “I had a bit of a run-in with a vengeful artifact in Cairo last week, and I’m still jet-lagged from the fallout.”
A murmur of excitement and confusion ran through the audience, students exchanging wide-eyed glances and unsure smiles, while Anne sat frozen, her gaze locked on the figure at the front of the room.
Then Cleo had launched into her lecture, entirely eschewing the projector and notes. She walked the aisles as she spoke, telling them stories—outrageous, exhilarating stories—of “fieldwork ethics” that included clever deception, daring feats, and one regrettable incident involving an ancient seal and a very poorly timed sandstorm.
Anne couldn’t take her eyes off her.
Every so often, Cleo would pause and glance around the room with a glint in her eye, as though daring them to question her methods. And finally, near the end of her lecture, Anne found herself unable to keep quiet. She raised her hand, her heart pounding, and was somehow unsurprised when Cleo noticed her immediately.
“Yes?” Cleo’s gaze landed on her with an intensity that was disarming.
“Dr. Valente,” Anne began, doing her best to sound level-headed, “how do you reconcile your, er… more unorthodox practices with the ethical standards of artifact preservation?”
For a moment, Cleo seemed taken aback—but then her eyes sparkled with a delighted amusement. “Good question, Miss…?”
“Pemberley. Anne Pemberley.”
“Anne Pemberley,” Cleo repeated, as though tasting the name. “A fine question. You see, Miss Pemberley, ethics are paramount in this field. But so is action. Sometimes, you don’t have the luxury of following protocol. Sometimes, there are risks, calculated risks that you take because what’s at stake is bigger than a footnote in an ethics manual.”
Anne’s cheeks flushed as Cleo smiled, an unexpected, challenging smile. And, though she didn’t know it then, that smile would be her undoing.
By the end of the lecture, Anne felt as though her world had tilted slightly on its axis. As Cleo finished, dismissing the class with a casual wave, Anne found herself hanging back, suddenly determined to introduce herself—properly this time.
She waited until most of the students had filed out, and then, gathering every ounce of composure she had, she approached the front of the room.
“Dr. Valente,” she began, her heart fluttering as Cleo turned around. “I just wanted to say, I found your lecture… enlightening.”
Cleo’s eyes lit with recognition, that same mischievous glint still dancing in her gaze. “Oh, Miss Pemberley, I’m sure you’ll prove to be quite the model student—though I dare say you might need a little loosening up. Stick with me; I’ll teach you more than any textbook ever could.”
Anne had no idea then just how true those words would be.
Back in her office, the memory brought an unexpected smile to her lips. Cleo Valente had swept into her life like a storm, and while Anne had always tried to be grounded and sensible, she’d never quite been able to resist the pull of that wild energy—and the promise of adventure that seemed to follow Cleo wherever she went.
5. GETTING INTO THE PROJECT
It was the fifth night in a row that Anne found herself in the museum’s restricted archives with Cleo, sifting through ancient texts and cataloging relics under flickering gas lamps and the occasional flicker of Cleo’s flashlight.
The exhibit’s launch was fast approaching, and they were still working to finalize the curatorial notes and safety protocols for the more… temperamental pieces. This particular evening, Cleo was leaning over a long table with a set of weathered scrolls, muttering about which incantations might still carry a trace of their original potency. Anne sat across from her, engrossed in cataloging an intricate amulet with inscriptions worn thin by centuries of handling.
“Careful with that one, Anne,” Cleo said, barely glancing up as she studied the scrolls. “It was rumored to have a bit of a possessive streak. Scholars in the 1800s reported hearing it whispering about 'secrets of the stars' at night.”
Anne rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “I think I’ll be safe as long as I don’t whisper any secrets back.”
Cleo finally looked up, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You really have changed, you know,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. There was a warmth in her gaze that caught Anne off guard.
“Changed?” Anne echoed, momentarily pausing in her work. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to ignore the odd flutter in her stomach under Cleo’s scrutiny.
Cleo nodded. “I mean it. I remember the Anne who nearly fainted when we ‘accidentally’ crossed into that restricted tomb in Egypt.” She smirked at the memory, her eyes gleaming with nostalgia. “You were so cautious then. Always calculating every risk, always making sure we were following protocol.”
Anne laughed softly, a little embarrassed. “Well, someone had to keep you in check. And I did manage to save us from setting off that trap, if I recall.”
Cleo chuckled, leaning back against the table and crossing her arms. “True. But you’re not so cautious now, are you? You’ve got a spark. And you’re not afraid to take a chance when it counts.”
Anne felt her cheeks warm, but she didn’t look away. “I suppose I’ve… learned a few things over the years,” she said, her tone softer than she’d intended. “From certain influences.”
“Good influences, I hope?” Cleo’s smirk softened into a smile, and for a moment, the lively mischief in her eyes faded, replaced by something deeper, warmer.
“Yes,” Anne said, surprising herself with her honesty. “As much as I hate to admit it, working with you all those years ago… changed how I look at things. How I approach my work. I learned there are things in this field that can’t be found in books.”
They fell into a comfortable silence, the sound of the city outside muted by the heavy museum walls around them. Cleo’s gaze softened, and she reached out, her hand brushing the edge of the amulet Anne was working on.
“You know,” she murmured, “if I had to go back and choose a partner for that dig again, I’d still choose you. Only this time, I’d know you could handle more than a bit of danger.”
Anne’s heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she forgot about the amulet, the exhibit, the museum itself. It was just the two of them, standing in the soft glow of lamplight, the world of artifacts and ancient history fading into the background.
“Well,” Anne said finally, her voice a little unsteady, “you’re in luck. We’ve got plenty of danger right here.” She gestured to the cursed artifacts surrounding them, her attempt at humor only half-successful as her gaze lingered on Cleo’s.
Cleo laughed, the sound rich and genuine, and Anne felt her pulse quicken as Cleo’s hand moved closer, resting just beside hers on the table. “Then I’d say we’re in for one hell of a project, Dr. Pemberley.”
Anne smiled, unable to look away. “Yes,” she agreed softly. “I think we are.”
6. LATER THAT EVENING
Later that evening, Anne sat across from Julian at a dimly lit bar in Covent Garden, nursing a glass of wine while he sipped a bright green cocktail that looked vaguely enchanted. It had been his idea to come here, somewhere they could unwind after another grueling day, though Anne suspected he’d had an ulterior motive once he’d learned that she and Cleo were now working side by side.
“So,” Julian said, swirling his drink with a little cocktail straw as he fixed Anne with a knowing smile. “How’s life with Dr. Valente? Enlightening? Infuriating?”
Anne sighed, tilting her glass as she watched the wine swirl in the candlelight. “Both,” she admitted, unable to keep a small smile from escaping. “It’s... complicated.”
“Of course it is.” Julian leaned forward, his eyes glinting with delight. “Working with the infamous Cleo Valente again. Tell me everything.”
Anne hesitated, but then the words seemed to tumble out of their own accord. “She’s as reckless and infuriating as ever,” she said, though there was warmth in her voice. “I mean, the woman barely looks at the safety protocols before handling the artifacts. She just dives in like they’re toys, like the risks don’t apply to her.”
“Oh, Anne, darling, you sound positively scandalized.” Julian gave her a teasing nudge. “But you wouldn’t mind if she were handling you that way, would you?”
“Julian!” Anne shot him a scandalized look, though her cheeks warmed at the thought.
He laughed, taking a sip of his cocktail. “I’m just saying, the two of you have history, and I’m thrilled to hear she hasn’t entirely lost her effect on you.”
Anne tried to scoff, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Yes, well, that ‘history’ of ours is exactly what worries me. I can’t let it get in the way of our work. And yet…” She took another sip of wine, feeling her guard slip as the words spilled out. “I forgot how… exciting it is to be around her. She challenges me, Julian. Forces me to look at things differently, to take risks I’d usually talk myself out of.”
“Sounds like she’s more than just an old flame,” Julian murmured, giving her a knowing smile. “She’s practically your muse.”
Anne groaned, though she couldn’t deny the truth of it. “That’s the problem. I can’t afford to let myself be… swept up by her again. She’s just as unpredictable as ever, and there’s a part of me that… well, let’s just say I’m not keen on letting her back in.”
Julian’s gaze softened, and he reached across the table, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Anne, you’re older now. More capable. She’s not the only one who’s grown in the years since Egypt.”
Anne managed a small, grateful smile. “You sound just like her. Cleo said something similar today, actually. That I’ve… changed.”
“Well, I’m glad she can see what I’ve known all along.” Julian smirked, looking unreasonably pleased with himself. “Still, I can see why you’d be cautious. She’s a storm, darling—one you can’t always prepare for.”
Anne laughed softly, nodding. “Exactly. But part of me… part of me is drawn to that, despite everything.” She met his gaze, and he squeezed her hand again.
“Oh, my dear Anne,” Julian murmured with a sympathetic smile. “I think you’re in deeper than you want to admit.”
Anne felt her defenses crumbling under his gaze. “Maybe,” she said quietly, her eyes drifting toward the candle’s flame. “But what do I do with that?”
Julian leaned back with a sigh, his eyes twinkling with both sympathy and mischief. “Enjoy it. Just this once, allow yourself to get a little… reckless.”
Anne smiled, toying with her glass. “We’ll see. But no matter how reckless I feel, I know Cleo will always be one step ahead of me.”
Julian raised his glass in a mock toast. “To the thrill of the chase,” he declared, eyes bright with delight. And as Anne clinked her glass with his, she realized that, for better or worse, she might just be ready to let Cleo sweep her off her feet once more.
7. JULIAN's DADDY
Julian took another sip of his unnaturally green cocktail and sighed theatrically, leaning back as though preparing to perform an entire one-man show. "Well, if we're talking about complications with people who storm into our lives and refuse to be neatly categorized, let me regale you with the latest from my entanglement with Lord Pendleton."
Anne chuckled, familiar with the twists and turns of Julian's “entanglement.” "Oh, this should be good. Has he finally agreed to take up tango lessons? Or did you two actually manage to spend a weekend without sparking a scandal?”
Julian gasped, clutching his chest. "Please, darling, don’t insult me. Where would I be without a weekly scandal to keep him entertained? He thrives on it!" He leaned in, eyes glinting with dramatic flair. "But no. This time, it’s… a matter of status."
"Status?" Anne echoed, intrigued.
He nodded solemnly. "Yes, well, you know how it is. Pendleton loves a project, and apparently, I’m his grand pièce de résistance." He threw out one hand, dramatically dismissing the notion. "His little protégé, the self-made man he’s pulled up from obscurity and blessed with his affection, wisdom, and quite a lot of shopping trips."
Anne raised an eyebrow. "And you're… bothered by that?"
"Normally, no! I’m thrilled!" Julian replied, his tone both earnest and sarcastic. "Except that recently, Pendleton’s decided to make me into a kind of… society sage. He’s been introducing me to all his cronies—fossils in Savile Row suits with impressive titles and even more impressive wine cellars. And now, he’s taken to telling them that I’m his intellectual equal.” Julian gave a little shudder.
Anne stifled a laugh. "So, what’s wrong with that?”
"Everything!" Julian exclaimed, dramatically lowering his voice as if conspirators were listening from every corner. “For the longest time, he’s been the mysterious benefactor—larger than life, holding the cards, keeping me in a delightful state of intrigue. Now, he’s gone and… well, leveled us." He waved his hands in despair. "I mean, he’s given me credit—publicly! He respects my opinions on art, music, and Egyptian funerary rites. It’s unnerving!”
Anne chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, Julian. You're upset because he's treating you as an equal?"
"That’s precisely it," he replied, stabbing a finger at her as if she’d solved some existential riddle. "Equal sounds thrilling in theory. But in practice, it’s… exhausting. Suddenly, I’m expected to attend important events and discuss ideas, darling, ideas! And all while maintaining his fantasy that I’m just as clever and worldly as he is."
Anne smirked, eyes glinting with humor. "But you are just as clever and worldly as he is."
Julian pursed his lips, eyes narrowing at her as though she’d gone completely mad. “It’s entirely different, my dear. He’s been knighted, he has a mansion, he has a suspiciously extensive knowledge of Georgian antiques. He has weight, Anne, a gravitas I prefer to observe from a safe distance, not hold up as though I were cast in bronze myself. Besides”—he sighed—“I preferred it when he viewed me as a dazzling piece of art, not… a fellow intellectual.”
Anne gave him a soft smile. "So… he’s treated you with admiration, respect, and, dare I say, affection, and you’d like to go back to being the charming young mystery he showers with attention?"
"Precisely!” Julian leaned back, pouting. “He’s already brilliant. I don’t see why he needs me to be brilliant as well. My strengths lie elsewhere—in witty repartee, dazzling outfits, and the fine art of embellishing his dull friends’ conversations.” He sighed, lifting his glass. "Being an equal is harder than it sounds."
Anne couldn’t help but laugh. "Well, Julian, it sounds like he sees you as more than just a project. He sees you as someone he genuinely respects."
Julian rolled his eyes but a small, sheepish smile crept onto his face. "Respect is overrated, darling,” he muttered. “But I suppose… there’s a certain charm to being on his level. Though he’d better not expect me to wax poetic about economic policy again.”
Anne raised her glass to him. “To the challenges of respect, and our grand adventures with difficult people.”
They clinked glasses, sharing a knowing smile. Julian sighed, looking down at his drink with a wry smile. “Fine, Anne. I suppose respect has its place—as long as it comes with a side of mystery.”