The first time Scarlett saw George, her eyes slid over him like he wasn't even there. She thought he was a student - not one of hers, and there was very little about him that was distinctive at first glance. Later Scarlett would find that the very things about George she originally dismissed as ordinary would be the things she remembered most after leaving him behind in Turkey. Like the dark scruff that shadowed his upper lip, the way the corners of his mouth seemed permanently turned-up, or the peculiar hazel color of his wide-set eyes. But at first glance, Scarlett did not notice these features, and promptly forgot the man they belonged to.

He was a fixture in the quad on mild days - practically in her own backyard; despite her position as archaeology faculty, she was the most junior in the department and as such had been assigned to a tiny, cramped office in the Pearson Building. It was little more than a closet, really, but at least the view was worth it.

Oftentimes, when her fingers cramped and her neck grew stiff from too many hours hunched over her desk, grading papers or reviewing her father's latest research, Scarlett would stretch her legs and wander through campus. It had been home during her undergraduate years, and though she had spent several years away, it had become home once more.

Scarlett woke with a start, her cheek creased by the imprint of the book binding she had fallen asleep on. She glanced at her watch - half past eight. With a groan, she gathered her papers and books together, stuffing them in her bag. It was Friday, so many of the students were out at the pubs, enjoying the beginning of their weekend. Scarlett should have gone home hours ago, but instead she had fallen asleep grading papers. She stepped out into the deserted quad, her face misted with light drizzle, and she pulled her tawny peacoat more tightly around her. It was a short walk to her flat from campus. Thoughts of a hot bath and a glass of red wine quickened her pace.

A muffled clanging from one of the defunct astronomy huts stopped her in her tracks. Scarlett took a few soundless steps toward the nearest one, wondering if she had imagined it, when the rhythmic banging started again. A shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the dreary weather. Vaguely she thought she should call a security officer, but what if she was overreacting? Perhaps the university was renovating the observatories and had contractors working during off-hours so as not to alarm the campus community with the ruckus.

Scarlett reached out a trembling hand just as the door opened with a scream of metal on metal. She gasped and snatched her hand away. It was most certainly not a repairman who stood before her - it was the student who spent every Monday and Thursday afternoon, weather permitting, perched on the bench directly outside Scarlett's office window. He was clearly as stunned to see her as she was to see him.

"Secur-" But Scarlett's shout was abruptly muffled as the young man lunged forward. He clapped a hand over her mouth and wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her backwards into the observatory.

He didn't release her right away. Scarlett could feel his breath tickling her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. Then, slowly, she felt the pressure of his arms lessen, and for a wild moment, she felt disappointed. In the dark the only sound was their frantic breathing, then a soft tick as a match flared in the darkness. A soft glow diffused the small circular hut as the man lit a propane camp lantern at his feet. Scarlett flattened herself against the opposite wall, eyeing the door behind him. She noticed a variety of tools scattered over the floor.

"What the hell is this?" she asked.

He regarded her critically, his eyes a murky green in the lamplight. He rested his hands on his hips. "I'm fixing this telescope," he said matter-of-factly.

"You're American," she realized.

He smirked and rocked back on his heels. "You're very observant."

Scarlett drew herself up to her full height. She would show him observant. "You spend every Monday and Thursday afternoon studying in the quad outside my office window."

He didn't look as impressed as she had hoped. "Yup. You're right. I also audited your Intro to Urban Archaeology class last semester."

Scarlett's breath left her in a rush. "What?"

"Not as observant as you thought, I see. It's been a treat as always, Dr. Marlowe, but if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do. I'd appreciate if you would not call security on me." He bent down and picked up an oddly-shaped wrench.

"Wait, wait, wait," Scarlett said. Had he really sat in on her lecture for a full four months without her once noticing him? "Who are you?"

"Think of me as an exchange student."

Scarlett raised her eyebrows. "Are you?"

He laughed. "No."

Scarlett gestured around them. "So you're doing this for credit, then?"

"Nope."

Scarlett was starting to grow more frustrated by the minute - but also incredibly intrigued. "Then why?"

He shrugged. "I like to fix things, and I'm good at it."

"You're mad," Scarlett said.

He smirked. "'And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music,'" he quoted softly.

"Point taken," Scarlett conceded. "But no one's been to repair these for years. What makes you think you can fix them?"

"Watch this," he said with a devious grin. He picked up a can of aerosol lubricant and oiled the hinges, filling the small space with the astringent scent. Then, he flipped open the hatch and pulled back on it. Scarlett gasped. The metal groaned mightily, but gave way and opened to the heavens. The drizzle had cleared; though clouds still obscured the stars, the waxing moon was visible overhead. She didn't notice his genuine smile as he watched her admire his handiwork. He knelt and began gathering up his tools, tossing them into the worn leather messenger bag at his feet.

"This is amazing," Scarlett blurted out, then reddened. "I - I mean - what I meant to say was, you've done good work. The university is lucky to have you."

To her bewilderment, the young man sighed. "Yeah, tell them that," he muttered. He held out his hand and she shook it. His grip was strong and warm and his palm was calloused. "Always a pleasure, Dr. Marlowe." She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

With that he was gone, leaving her in the open-air observatory, the gaping roof the only evidence he had been there at all.

When Scarlett returned to work on Monday, she was uncomfortably aware of the notices plastered all around campus, requesting any information regarding the so-called 'vandalism' of the historic astronomy huts in the quadrangle. The notices advised anyone with relevant information to come forward in hopes of identifying and charging those responsible. Though the mysterious American had not been necessarily friendly, nor had he asked her to cover for him, Scarlett still couldn't bring herself to turn him in - not when he had repaired a pair of telescopes that had been out of commission for decades, seemingly out of the goodness of his own heart. She was not about to incriminate him, especially when she didn't even know his name.

Whoever he was, he certainly wasn't concerned with being linked to the astronomy huts, because that afternoon Scarlett happened to glance out her office window to find him seated casually on his usual bench. He had one ankle propped on the opposite knee, a well-read paperback in one hand. As soon as he realized she was looking at him, he broke into a smug grin and waved. Cheeky bastard. Scarlett felt her traitorous heart squirm in spite of herself.

It wasn't until she was startled out of a book on Templar lore by a group of noisy art students in the corridor that Scarlett remembered she had a standing appointment to meet her father for lunch. One which she was now ten minutes late for. Shit. Scarlett hurried out into the misty grey street, down the block to the delicatessen on the corner.

"I'm sorry, Dad," she said breathlessly, sliding into the seat across from him. "Time got away from me." The elder Dr. Marlowe set down his coffee cup and regarded her with eyes as overcast and grey as the clouds outside.

Scarlett ordered a salad and studied her father. His latest trip to Syria must have been difficult - the lines around his eyes had deepened and his whole body seemed to sag from the shoulders, as if the burden he bore was too great for even his burly frame. It was as if he had been gone ten years rather than just two months.

"How was your trip? It's wonderful to see you," she said brightly. Perhaps he was just tired.

"Long and tiresome," Walter Marlowe said, "but hopefully fruitful. I think I've found the location of the Rose Key, Scarlett."

Scarlett, who had been taking a sip of water, nearly choked. "You found it?" she said, excitement shining in her brown eyes.

He brought out the familiar leather-bound journal he carried with him everywhere and opened it to the end. He was running out of pages - soon he would have to buy a refill pack.

"Not exactly," Walter said, turning the book around so she could see. "I found this passage inscribed on a tablet in the ruins near Damascus."

"What does it say?" Scarlett asked.

Walter shrugged and took a long swig from his coffee cup. Scarlett frowned - sometimes she worried all her father ate these days was toast and coffee.

"It's in Aramaic," he said, and Scarlett groaned. The translator her father had gone to in the past had died in a traffic collision just eight months ago. Saul had been a soft-spoken Lebanese Catholic who had relocated to London as a young man. Many of Scarlett's early memories involved Saul's deep melodic accent as he read or sang to her, her face and fingers sticky with Attar syrup and flakes of filo pastry. His death had hit her hard - Saul had been like a second father to her - but he had been Walter's dearest friend, and her father was still staggered by the grief of Saul's passing.

"I'm sorry," she said, the words heavy with meaning - she hoped he understood she was sorry about Saul, too.

"The world of academia is vast," Walter said. "We'll find a translator yet."

Scarlett smiled and laid her fingers over the looping, delicate script. "Can I borrow this?"

Walter flipped the journal shut and pushed it across the table. "Take the whole thing. You'll get more use out of it now than I will."

Scarlett took the book, running her fingers over the soft leather, eyebrows knitting together as she regarded her father with puzzlement. "Dad . . . are you sure? This is all your work, your research - I couldn't possibly -" She held it out as if to return it, but Walter shook his head.

"I am giving it to you, little Red," Walter said, using his childhood pet name for her and tousling her wavy locks. As a child her hair had been as red as her name, but as she grew up it had faded to the fawn color it was now. "I trust you will keep looking for answers, as you always have. I am so proud of you, Scarlett."

Scarlett hugged the book to her chest. "Thank you, Dad." She glanced at the clock over the deli counter. "I've got to go. This was lovely, Dad; truly, it was. We should do this more often."

"Yes," he said, as she tucked the book safely into her jacket. "Yes, we should."

The mysterious American was still absorbed in his book when she returned from lunch, and she paused right in front of his bench, casting her shadow upon him with her arms folded over her chest.

"Do you know how much trouble you are in?" she hissed. He looked up with languid arrogance, dog-eared the page to keep his place, and laid down his book on the bench beside him.

"None yet," he said. "And I suppose I have you to thank for keeping your mouth shut."

She blurted out the question that had been on her mind all weekend. "Who are you?"

"How do I know you're not just asking so you can turn me in?"

"Maybe I should," she said, clenching her jaw.

"In that case . . ." he said, taking out his phone, "I think I'm gonna go." He put the phone to his ear. "Hello, yes, UCL Security? I'm in the quad and a woman in a tan peacoat is harassing me."

"What?" Scarlett exploded.

"Yes, I'll stay on the line."

Scarlett gaped at him. There was no way this man was going to come out ahead on this. She hadn't planned on turning him in, but now he had forced her hand. She folded her arms in front of her chest. She would just tell the officers what was going on, and this whole problem would get sorted out. It wasn't long before two security guards walked across the quad to approach them.

"Miss?" one of them said. "I'm Officer Tate. Would you be so kind as to step over here with me, please?"

She followed him a few steps away. "I'm sorry, Officer; this has all been a misunderstanding," she said. "That man over there is responsible for the vandalism to the astronomy huts, and I was simply trying to get his name."

Officer Tate didn't look convinced. "Do you have any evidence to support your accusations?"

"Well, no -"

"Then I'm afraid there is little we can do other than document your statement. I assure you we are doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this."

"But - can't you escort him off-campus, or something? He's . . . bothersome."

Tate chuckled. "We can't just ask him to leave if he annoys you. Oy, Granger," he called to his partner. "Does the young man have business on-campus?"

Officer Granger lifted a hand, holding a student ID card. Tate turned back to Scarlett. "I'm sorry, but our hands are tied. He has as much a right to be here as you do. Can I get your name, please?"

Scarlett held Tate's gaze with flashing eyes, fuming at the indignity of it all, and stalked away.

It was half past midnight, yet the glow of Scarlett's laptop still illuminated her office as she scrolled through web pages advertising freelance translators and their services. It had already been two weeks since her father had given her his journal and the Aramaic text, though her search for a reliable translator had been fruitless. Aramaic was, indeed, a dead language.

Scarlett's eyes itched and slid shut before snapping open again. She had a class to teach tomorrow, and she would pay dearly for the chain of sleepless nights she'd been spending on her futile search. In her exhaustion, she almost missed the post in a forum for those looking for translators of dead languages. Scarlett scrolled up and reread it three times before it sunk in.

I know an Aramaic translator, but he's a bit of a drifter. Last I heard he was in London. A phone number followed. Scarlett grabbed for her mobile phone and called the number, heedless of the hour. It went to an automated message followed by a beep.

"Hello, my name is Scarlett Marlowe, and I was given your number as a translator of Aramaic. Is there a way we could meet to discuss a translation? Perhaps tomorrow. One o'clock at the pub on Tottenham Court Road and Maple? Please respond." She hung up and let out a breath. At this point it wasn't worth the walk home - it wasn't the first time she had slept in her office. With a nervous flutter in her stomach, Scarlett stretched out on the shabby loveseat by the bookshelves behind her office door and fell asleep.

Mere kilometres away, a mobile phone buzzed on a bedside table. The recipient smiled, typed a quick message, and hit send:

I'll be there.