Page 62 of Luthias

“Is that claymore on the wall from the fifteenth century?” Emery asked before she could stop herself, and then cleared her throat. “I’m just curious. It’s a beautiful piece.”

Looking surprised, the director glanced over her shoulder. “Ah, yes, I believe it is. Do you have some experience with dating medieval weapons?”

“Yes. I’m planning to write my dissertation on the types and effectiveness of bladed weapons during the Middle Ages. Not all of them, of course, just what the Scottish used.” Knowing she was on the verge of babbling, she made what she hoped was a nonchalant gesture. “I’m always looking for new research materials.”

“Then you’re in luck,” the director said. “Pelton has one of the finest collections of Scottish medieval weapons in the U.S.”

Which is the real reason why I applied for this job, Emery thought as she smiled and nodded.

From there the personnel director sent her with one of the administrative assistants to the underground archive and restoration level, where employees handled the actual work of the museum out of the public eye. Her escort informed Emery that the Arms and Armor Department occupied a half-dozen offices and a full conservation and restoration laboratory. They helped manage the museum’s massive collection of medieval weapons and artifacts, and one of the largest archives of documentation, research, provenance and data in the country.

“We like to keep it casual down here, so call me Buc,” Emery’s new supervisor said after her escort delivered her to his office, and he gave her a quick and rather damp handshake. Tall, heavyset and red-faced, he had the kind of expression that looked dismayed even when he smiled. “You’re working on your doctorate, right? That’s terrific. Are you ready to go to work tonight? Of course, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. I’ll show you to your desk, and have the other intern get you started on the data entry. What’s that kid’s name? Oh, yeah, George.”

As she followed him from one office to another, Emery felt a little bewildered by how fast Bill Buchanan spoke, and the way he answered his own questions before she could. Maybe like her he was naturally high-strung, but he seemed even more nervous than she was. She also preferred working with calm, quiet people, as they helped keep her own endless exuberance in check.

In the next office a tired-looking young man badly in need of a haircut sat pecking at a keyboard with his two index fingers. He barely glanced at her as Buc made introductions and then left with her escort.

“It’s Gordon, not George,” the other intern said as soon as they were alone. “That guy can never remember anyone’s name, so just learn to answer to anything.” He finally looked at her and his brows disappeared into his tangled bangs. “Why are you wearing a suit?”

Emery eyed his Account Suspended t-shirt, tattered jeans and soiled sneakers. “The new employee packet said thong bikinis are strictly optional.”

“Heh. You’re funny.” He yawned the last word. “How fast can you type?”

“Without mistakes?” Emery glanced at the huge stack of documents next to his computer, which was partly buried under a mound of crumpled chip bags, torn candy wrappers, sticky-looking soda cans, and dirty napkin balls. “Ninety words a minute.”

“That’s eighty words a minute faster than me.” Gordon got up and gestured for her to sit down in his place. “I’m going to take my dinner break. Just pick up where I left off and type what’s on the paper you take from the inbox, and then print out a copy of each page you finish and put it in the outbox.”

She watched him stroll out of the office, and then eyed the screen and the documents. Spending the summer working as a typist wasn’t why she’d applied for this job, but she needed to make a good start––and when she wanted to, she could type a hundred and twenty words a minute with no errors.

The data Emery input turned out to be measurements and shipping information on museum acquisitions for the last four years, which soon bored her. She was actually working at the Pelton, which would have wowed her dad, who had brought her to the museum every time there was a new exhibit. Why was she typing?

“Your mother’s ancestors came from Scotland,” Elliot Parker had told her as they’d visited a special collection of Pict artifacts. “She almost didn’t marry me when she found out my grandfather was British. I have to make sure you learn about the history on both sides of your family, or she’ll come back and haunt me.” He said the last part with a wistful tone, as if he wished her mother’s ghost would visit.

Neither of her parents had any living family, so it was just the three of them for a short time. Olivia Parker had loved the sea, and never missed a chance to go to the beach in the summer. Emery still remembered the day when she went to the beach with her parents, and her mother had taken her into the water for a swimming lesson. A vicious riptide had suddenly caught them and dragged them both under the waves. A nearby swimmer had managed to grab six-year-old Emery and drag her out of the current, but Olivia was swept away from shore and drowned.

The horrible memories had made Emery terrified of swimming and the water, and her devastated father had never forced her to try again. He’d also never recovered from losing his wife, and instead devoted himself to their daughter. Later in life Elliot had developed heart problems, but had concealed his declining health from Emery. Shortly after seeing her get her first college degree her dad had died in his sleep.

Losing her father had left Emery alone in the world, which sucked, but now she didn’t worry anymore about Olivia Parker being alone in the afterlife. If it were possible, she knew her dad would have found her mom again.

Three hours later Gordon wandered back in from his dinner break and came to stand over Emery, who was writing on a notepad a list of the different swords the museum had in their weapons collection that she wanted to examine.

“Why are you writing?” he asked as he came to hover over her and peer at the screen. “You should be doing the data transfer.”

“I finished everything two hours ago.” Emery vaguely gestured at the tidy stack of printouts in the outbox. “Where does the museum keep the fourteenth-century Scottish weapons?”

“On display in the Highlander Exhibit, mostly.” The other intern thumbed through the printouts. “You typed all of them, really?”

“Really.” She put her notebook back in her messenger bag and got up. “How do I get to that exhibit?”

“You go upstairs and follow the signs.” Gordon sighed as he picked up the printouts. “Putting this in the database was supposed to take days, you know. What am I going to do for the rest of the week?”

“Maybe you should clean off your desk.” As Emery went to the door she glanced at the mess. “It looks like a vending machine threw up on it.”

“Hey, I have low blood sugar,” he called after her.

On her way upstairs she passed her supervisor’s office, and smiled at Buc, who was on the phone and gave her a thumbs-up. She stopped a few steps away when she saw a sticky note on the carpet someone had dropped, and bent to pick it up.

“I’ve got something special that just came in,” she heard her supervisor say in a very low voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The end is shaped like flames. No, not the blade, the handle or hilt or whatever. It’s from the fourteenth century. Of course it’s verified. Would I call you if it wasn’t?”