The gentleman
visits museums often, out of habit. Though he has frequented the Metropolitan
Museum in the past year, none of the staff recognize him. They do not even seem
to notice him once he has paid for his ticket and entered, and the employees
that wander through the exhibits walk past him as though he is not there.
He moves through
the museums like a ghost, standing still before artifacts for hours as he
stares.
It is by chance
that the gentleman discovers the urchin in the museum.
He is on the
lower level, in the concourse, when a black shape rushes past him. He catches
the movement from the corner of his eye.
He does not need
to turn to see where the shadow has gone.
When he is done
looking at the carved balustrade, he turns and goes down another flight of
stairs, marked Staff Only, to the
door of the basement.
In the darkness
to which is swings open, a pair of eyes blink at him, like the luminescent eyes
of a cat.
“You can come
up. I do not work in this facility. I have no desire to turn you out of it,
either,” he says, into the darkness.
The eyes blink
twice more before the shape approaches, climbing up the stairs with minimal
creaking. When the man has taken several steps back, the urchin stands in the
doorway.
She regards him
wearily, but with curiousity. She does not fidget much, but her eyes narrow at
him in suspicion.
The girl is
covered in the grime and dust that comes from hiding among disused signs and
packed artifacts in the museum basement.
“Do you live
here?” the man asks.
The girl nods
but says nothing.
“Would you like
something to eat?” he asks.
The girl nods
eagerly, her small face brightening.
The gentleman
leads her, without touching her, through the mazelike halls of the museum and
into the bright street. The crowds do not glance at the girl and when she
notices, her eyes widen and she stares outright at the crowds parting around
the man in front of her.
The gentleman
brings her to a hotel and deposits her in separate rooms from his own. When she
emerges, cleaned and dressed, some time later, he takes her to the lounge
downstairs for a cup of tea.
The girl is
dressed in lace and ribbons, with clean boots and brushed hair. She looks
proper and prim and entirely out of place in the mountaintop hovel. She fidgets
with her sleeve cuff as though she is not entirely used to wearing such
clothes.
When the
waitress arrives with a plate of scones and dishes with multiple types of jams
and clotted cream, staring at the girl and hardly glancing at the man opposite,
the girl’s eyes widen considerably.
“You may eat
it,” the man says to her, gesturing with a gloved hand.
She looks from
the man to the scones and back before reaching for the first.
When she is
slathering jam on her third scone, the man begins making inquiries.
“What happened
to your parents?” the man asks.
The girl shrugs
and goes back to nibbling at her scones.
“Do you have a
name?”
The girl narrows
her eyes and neither nods nor shakes her head.
“Do you know all
of the exhibits in the museum?”
She nods and
snatches another scone from the tiered tray.
“Including that
about the evolution of species, and that about funerary rites and rituals?”
She nods again,
and eyes a fourth scone.
The man stares
at her as she slathers scones with butter and scarfs them down. She carefully
puts down her last bite of pastry and swallows.
She stares back.
“What is the
Latin name for the king Cobra?” he asks, suddenly.
The girl does
not respond, but she points a crumb-covered finger at the pen on the table next
to them. The man plucks it from the table and places it in front of her. She
takes it and writes quickly on a napkin. She sets the pen down and slides it
toward him, hen continues eating. It reads: Cobra
regius.
The man nods, the
girl loses interest and picks up a sixth scone. While she eats, staring at the
opulent lounge around them and the other patrons who sip tea and eat off dainty
shining trays, he regards her with interest.
The gentleman
says nothing, but he slides the napkin into the pocket of his suit.
In the coming
months, the girl does not speak a word.
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