Gerry was pretty sure that the iPhone was the first sign of a declining civilization. Why, exactly, was he supposed to want to pay hundreds of pounds to carry around a fragile glass tracking device that would brick itself if you breathed a little too damply on it, just so he could check his email every thirty seconds. It sounded nightmarish. Worse, everyone expected you to have one, which wa s making it increasingly difficult to find an internet cafe on those few occasions he did want to check his email.

(Gerry was aware that this opinion made him sound about ninety years old, but since he didn't exactly have anyone to share it with, it hardly mattered. He could feel old inside his head and no one would notice or care.)

He'd finally managed to track down an open cafe in a side alley not too far from Gare du Nord and settled in to filter through the junk. Aside form the actual spam, there were always expired eBay listing notifications, scrupulously polite requests asking after the ordinary Pinhole Books collection, and the odd inquiry from someone who thought they wanted to buy one of their more...unique acquisitions.

When Gerry was feeling particularly spiteful, he'd respond to the latter telling them exactly what he'd done with the priceless tome they had traced back to his possession, but it didn't really prove anything and just now the entertainment value didn't seem worth the effort. So he would have deleted the message unread, had the from address not suddenly struck a familiar chord. [email protected] Yeah, they'd outbid him on a couple of Leitners, he was almost sure. They had deep enough pockets that, combined with the date in the username, he'd been pretty sure they were attached to the Magnus Institute. Then again, a hotmail address didn't exactly scream the kind of academic respectability the Magnus folks were always desperate to project.

But what the hell, he figured; he didn't have to do anything about the message just because he read it.

It was short and to the point, without a signature, but it was at least written in full sentences. Proper capitals and punctuation and everything.

Gerard Keay,

I would like to discuss securing your assistance with an ongoing research project. Your reputation in this area is, as I am sure you are aware, outstanding. In exchange, I believe I can assist in ridding you of unwanted supervision.

And there was a link to a map pinpointing a perfectly ordinary, nondescript side street in Chelsea. Not the Magnus Institute, certainly, and not even especially close to it, but Chelsea, plus the username, plus the Leitners--

Unconsciously, Gerry rubbed at the eye tattooed on his collarbone at the base of his throat. His mum had never thought much of them, but there were worse people than the Eye out there, and a lead was a lead. Strictly speaking it was a better lead than the one he'd followed to Paris. And at least he was pretty confident that grbookworm1818 wasn't completely full of shit.

He grabbed an abandoned ballpoint and scribbled a few abbreviated directions on the inside of his forearm, between two more eyes. There was no date or time mentioned in the email, but the message was already a week old. Besides, if the sender really was who they were trying so hard to seem to be, they'd see him coming anyway.

There is a heavy fog hanging over London, and Elias is very much out of sorts. Worse, it annoys him, which only throws him more off-balance. A young couple on the tube blames it rather loudly on climate change--an unusual cold followed by the sudden thaw--clearly attempting to provoke buisness-suited commuters, but while he refuses to be provoked, Elias can't agree. He remembers the pea-soupers, after all; and today of all days he does not want to think about the Extinction.

To compensate, he throws himself headfirst into his schedule. It's a meeting day, which would normally be quite enjoyable, even nourishing, but today it's just this side of overwhelming. He skims his agenda to be certain he doesn't have to brace himself for a meeting with one of the Institute's benefactors, then trusts Rosie to handle the rest. She's perceptive enough, and both a little too afraid of him and a little too fond of him, to let anything slip in unexpected.

If he's a little short with Hannah from Research, a little less genial with Richard from Artefact Storage, well, Rosie is also probably the only one who knows him well enough to notice. He normally makes an effort to come off as approachable and understanding, at least to his more promising employees; one off day can't do too much damage to those relationships. So long, he thinks with a grimace he can't suppress, as the fog doesn't linger into the next morning.

The routine of bureaucracy is as soothing as ever, though, and by the afternoon he's feeling very nearly normal enough to find his Head Archivist's predictable scowl rather charmingly familiar. Jon glares daggers at him, and Elias settles a little more into himself under the attention.

"I can't believe you still want to do departmental reports at a time like this. I was attacked by a living mannequin yesterday, Elias." Jon practically throws himself into the chair in front of his desk, then clearly regrets it--he's not twenty anymore, and he's acquiring quite the catalog of lingering injuries. "Do you want a status update on the filing system or the Unknowing?"

"The filing system, if you please." He quite enjoys the startled look he gets in response; somehow Jon has yet to figure out that the more he complains about Elias being insufferable, the more insufferable Elias is prepared to be. "In the event that the world doesn't end, I'm afraid we do still have grant obligations to meet."

He's pleasantly surprised at how productive their meeting manages to be; although Jon hasn't given a second thought to the filing system in weeks, apparently Martin has been plugging away diligently at the vague suggestion of a schema they'd developed--goodness, nearly two years ago now. And Martin Blackwood has many flaws, but he does take excellent notes.

They wrap up precisely at the end of the forty-five minute scheduled block, but Jon lingers for a moment, drumming his fingers on the back of the chair thoughtfully. Elias begins to brace himself for another argument about the Stranger, but instead, Jon steps forward and around the desk, into Elias's personal space. He regards Elias solemnly for a moment, as supernaturally opaque and emotionally transparent as ever, then rests his fingers delicately on Elias's jaw and kisses him.

It's terribly chaste, but still a delightful surprise, given Jon's usual insistence on drawing a sharp line between their relationship inside of the Institute and outside of it. Elias lets that surprise be his restraint, reaching out to grasp Jon's arm rather than pulling him in by the hips as he'd really prefer.

"To what do I owe this unexpected honor?" he asks, smugness covering any more sincere emotional reaction he might be having; that certainly can wait for outside of the Institute.

Jon doesn't retreat immediately as he'd almost expected him to do, lingering close, letting his hand drift down to smooth Elias's tie. "You've been--off," he says, sounding sheepish and defensive enough that he ought to be refusing eye contact, but of course he doesn't.

Elias takes that wandering hand and kisses its knuckles; he's definitely off, as Jon puts it, if this is enough to take him aback in the middle of a work day, but he's not at all inclined to object. Besides, the gesture is enough to throw Jon off-kilter in turn, particularly as that's when Rosie buzzes through to let him know his three o'clock is waiting.

He's lost a little of the equilibrium he'd regained throughout the day, but he finds he minds it much less. And when he does leave the Institute, well after dark this early in the spring, it's into a cold, clear night.