Page 13 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

“I got involved with someone at work.”

That shocks me. “At the museum?”

He nods. “Before you started there. We were caught, and I had to have a disciplinary meeting.”

“With Whina?”

“Yes. And she warned me that if it ever happened again, I’d be fired.”

“So you were allowed to keep your job?” When he nods, I continue, “What happened to the woman? Was she fired?”

“No. She agreed to move on.” He doesn’t offer any more details. He speaks calmly, his face showing no emotion.

I feel an uncharacteristic surge of jealousy and resentment. Who was this woman who allowed him to slip through her fingers, while at the same time spoiling him for me?

I can’t believe I’ve found out that he liked me, but that I can’t have him, all in the space of a minute.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No, I’m glad you did.” It’s the truth, even though the strength of the regret I feel that we can’t see it through surprises me. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone, and I won’t make it awkward at work.”

“I thought…” He hesitates for a moment. “I thought I should tell you because of our trip to Bethlehem.”

Oh shit, of course, we have to go to the ball together. Now I understand why he revealed his feelings. If he hadn’t, the attraction between us would have continued to simmer, and I would have carried on teasing him. But now I know how he feels about a work relationship I’ll have to dial it down and remain strictly professional. I can’t afford to let it get out of hand and threaten both our jobs. Even if it would have been the best thing that ever happened to me.

Fuck it.

Chapter Four

Hallie

Fraser and I don’t talk about anything personal again while we finish our breakfast. Instead, we turn the conversation to our task of retrieving the letters, and exchange what information we have.

I came across the existence of the letters while taking a paper on conservation as part of my degree. I reveal that there are eleven of them, each containing several pages, kept in their original envelopes. Richard wrote six of them, and Pania wrote five. Apparently they are now kept out of direct sunlight in a locked cabinet, but before that, they were displayed in the lobby of the house. I explain to Fraser how the ozone layer is thinner here in New Zealand, and our cleaner air means we also have high levels of ultraviolet radiation—our peak UV levels can be forty percent higher than what it would be at similar latitudes in North America, for example. The letters are a good example of how our strong sunlight can cause colors to fade, and how it can also damage objects made of delicate materials like paper or cloth. No doubt this is why Heritage New Zealand wants a conservationist to assess them, to make sure they’re worth the grant they’re willing to offer.

We’ve finished eating, and we’re now sipping our second coffees, as the sun rises higher in the sky, casting yellow bars like sticks of butter across our table through the blinds. Fraser’s eyes gleam as I speak, and I know I’ve impressed him with my knowledge of the letters. He loves it when people are enthusiastic about archaeology. But he doesn’t comment on it and instead relates what Sebastian Williams told him about Richard and Pania’s relationship.

“He said his family was determined to keep the two of them apart. He told me a story about how they were under strict instructions never to meet. And then one day they bumped into each other at a ball held in Wellington for the visit of Prince Albert, consort to Queen Victoria. They snuck out of the house together and made out in the rose garden.” He smiles.

“It seems forbidden romance is a recurring theme for you,” I tease.

His lips twist. “Yeah, maybe.”

I play with my spoon. “It says something about their love for one another that they were willing to go against their families.”

“True.” He looks away as he sips his coffee, his gaze distant.

Is he thinking about the woman he worked with, maybe comparing their situation to Richard and Pania’s? I’m guessing Fraser’s feelings for her can’t have been that strong if he didn’t fight for the relationship. He obviously had to make the decision between the woman and his job, and he chose his job. Or was it more complicated than that? Intrigued, I wonder whether Elora knows anything about it.

Our coffees finished, we head to the till, and Fraser pushes away the credit card I politely offer and pays for our breakfast. We head out into the warm midday sunshine and pause on the pavement.

“Thank you for breakfast,” I say.

“You’re welcome.” He studies me, and his lips gradually curve up.

“What?”

“You’ve got chocolate powder on your nose,” he says. “From the coffee.” I had a cappuccino for my second cup.

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