Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR. This is all for personal fun and enjoyment.

A/N: I had a Shining Writing Day yesterday, and this is the result. All my thanks to Shug for her ungodly-fast editing and to Septentrion for her assistance with French translations. Thank you both from the bottom of my heart!

*

The next morning

"Debout, marmotte!"

Hermione shifted in the bed and slowly opened her eyes, only to close them again at the shock of light coming through the shutters. She gave a slight groan and rolled over. A gentle hand on her shoulder rolled her back.

"Debout, marmotte," the voice said again gently. "Hermione, wake up."

She opened her eyes again only to see Pierre standing over her, looking down at her kindly, rather like a concerned uncle.

"Is it morning?" she asked.

"Oui. It's eight o'clock. You've been asleep for thirteen hours."

Her eyes opened wide. "I've never slept that much in my life!" she exclaimed. Give or take being petrified, she thought, sitting up against the headboard. She groaned a bit at the sudden head rush.

"I didn't want to wake you, but I'm leaving for the conference and wanted to make sure you ate something." Pierre lifted up a breakfast tray and set it down over her lap. "Dry toast, a scrambled egg, and a glass of orange juice," he said. "I didn't think you'd have much appetite."

"I don't," she said frankly.

"Well, you must eat something. Your body is clearly exhausted. I should have noticed earlier," Pierre said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You've been working ten, eleven hour days every day for the last few months, and on top of that, there's the switch of Parisian weather to this hot mess, and the shock of seeing a professor you've long thought dead," he said slowly, shaking his head. "It's a wonder you're not worse. You haven't been taking care of yourself."

Hermione bit into a piece of toast. "I'm sorry," she said weakly.

"Don't apologize. You scared us all, ma chère. You scared us quite a bit."

Hermione saw the worry lines on Pierre's forehead and noticed the dark circles under his eyes. "Was it bad?" she asked softly.

"Well, you fainted in Severus' arms. He picked you up and strode across the entire lobby to me, told me briefly what had happened, and we brought you back to the hotel. He knew a doctor at the conference, and we had him come with us to check your vitals and make sure you regained consciousness, even though you fell asleep the moment you did."

Hermione shook her head. Oh God, Severus. She shut her eyes and put her hands over her eyes. "Oh my God," she murmured. "He..." He knows.

"He was of great assistance to me last night. He stayed with me for an hour to ensure your well being."

"You..." She shook her head, conscious, reasonable thought fleeing her, "you know him?"

Pierre nodded. "He's one of our potions suppliers."

Hermione let her head fall against the headboard with a heavy thud. "My God..."

"He survived the war and had resources and colleagues in France. Quite frankly, Hermione, his existence is the most open secret in the French wizarding community, at least amongst academics. He owns an exceedingly successful apothecary in Paris and does quite a bit of work for us from time to time – not your department," Pierre said with a gentle smile. "Drink your orange juice. I know it's a shock."

"Pierre, I can't think right now," she said, barely mustering the strength to speak. "I... he's alive... he owns a shop, he works for us, for God's sake, and I didn't know!" She breathed heavily. "Why didn't you tell me he was alive? He was my professor! He's a hero! Why didn't I know, if it's an open secret?"

"We hardly publicize it, Hermione. We're discreet. You know this."

"Of course, you're right, I know you're right." She shook her head, trying to quiet her racing heart, trying to digest all of this new information – apothecary, Capois, Paris, known existence – God.

Pierre rose off the bed. "I don't want you going anywhere near the Symposium this morning, do you understand? You need to sleep."

"I couldn't go if I wanted to."

"And you're not going this afternoon if you're not better. Keep sleeping."

"Can I have coffee?" Hermione asked, turning to face her boss as he put on his suit coat.

"So coffee helps you sleep now?" Pierre grinned.

"Please, Pierre. I don't know what to do with all this information."

"Coffee may help you think, but it will not help you sleep. I've specifically ordered the front desk to withhold any caffeinated beverage you may order."

"Pierre," Hermione growled.

"Sleep, marmotte! Finish your egg." He smiled and walked towards the door. "I'll send Cosette to check up on you in a few hours."

Hermione sighed. It was a losing battle, fighting her boss. "Merci, Pierre. For everything."

He nodded. "Sleep," he said and walked out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

Hermione sat back against the headboard and mindlessly picked up the other piece of toast. She finished her breakfast and laid down to rest.

*

A few hours later

There was a knock at the door. She opened her eyes.

"Hermione?" Cosette's voice echoed.

Hermione reached for her wand to unlock the door. "Come in," she called, pulling the white cotton sheets tight around her.

Cosette came through the doorway with her typical burst of energy. She was dressed in a sleek crimson-colored pantsuit and had a coffee in one hand, her briefcase and a cloth tote in the other.

"I see you're walking this morning," Hermione said dryly, if a bit weakly. "No worse for the wear, eh?"

Cosette smirked. "I could say the same to you," she said, depositing the tote on the floor next to Hermione's bed. She sat down next to Hermione and took her hand. "Pierre says he's put you on bed rest."

"I don't need more bed rest," Hermione said flatly.

"Says the girl who passed out and proceeded to sleep for thirteen hours straight," Cosette said, raising an eyebrow. "I've brought you chocolate bars and a little souvenir book from the Uffizi to keep you occupied."

"Merci," Hermione said softly.

"You're quite welcome," Cosette whispered back, brushing a tendril from her friend's face. "You look exhausted."

You have no idea, Hermione thought, closing her eyes. "I'm just tired."

"Physically, mentally, emotionally?" Cosette asked.

"All three, I think."

"Mmm." Cosette nodded and pulled a chocolate bar from the tote. "Here," she said as she unwrapped the bar and put it to Hermione's mouth. "Eat."

Hermione took a very small bite. "I'm not hungry," she said, her mouth full of chocolate.

"Well, you'll need to eat if you want to get to the conference this afternoon. If you're still like this, Pierre will put you under house arrest until we're ready to leave."

Hermione put her hands over her eyes. Severus. His name rang through her mind like an incessant bell.

"Oh, ma chère. What's wrong?" Cosette rubbed Hermione's back.

Hermione breathed deeply. "Seeing him alive. I didn't think..." she started. I didn't think I would be so shocked.

"I was surprised when I saw him for the first time, too," Cosette said mildly.

Hermione turned over quickly. "What?" she asked, sitting up far too quickly. She got a bit of a head rush and reached for her water glass. "You've seen him before? You knew he was alive?"

Cosette looked taken aback. "Oui, of course. I distribute his potions to different departments."

Hermione breathed heavily, a sudden fire overtaking her being.

"You..." she sputtered, "You knew he was alive and didn't tell me?" she questioned, volume increasing, "We went to Capois - walked by his house - you knew I'd gone to Hogwarts, knew that I knew him, knew both of our involvements with the Order. You knew and you didn't say anything? I can understand Pierre's discretion, but you, Cosette?"

"Hermione, calm down!" Cosette exclaimed, surprised. "I knew that you had been his student and that he desired no contact with anyone in Britain. I hardly know the man, but I do know that he is an intensely private individual who would not appreciate an impromptu reintroduction to a student he probably disliked," Cosette retorted quickly. "He speaks disparagingly of most of his students – how was I to know you'd had a special relationship with him?"

Hermione's breathing had slowed. Special relationship. She put her hands to her head and breathed in deep. 1, 2, 3. "I never had a special relationship with him, as you call it, and his dislike for me was intense. You were right," she said softly. "God, I'm sorry." She crossed her arms across her chest, chilled by the sudden breeze that swept through the room.

Cosette flicked her wand and slammed the shutters shut. "Don't apologize. You obviously care for his well-being and are happy to know he's well." She looked at her friend oddly. "Though you do care... quite a bit."

Hermione held her head in her hands. "He... he died in front of me," she whispered. "I watched him die, Cosette. I watched him die, and I was one of the ones who went back for his body. I..." She stopped herself – she could not bring herself to admit her... obsession... that word hung like a dark cloud over her... and he knew....

"Yes?" Cosette prompted.

She gulped. "Seeing him was a... shock. A visceral, hard shock."

"And you didn't just see him – you fainted in his arms," Cosette said with an amused smile.

"Bloody hell," Hermione muttered, biting off a hunk of chocolate bar. "What time is it?" she asked after swallowing.

"Ten o'clock in the morning, why?"

"Is it too early for alcohol?" she asked. I'm going to need some. God, he knows... he knows....

Cosette laughed. "Of course not, you're in Italy. What would you like?" she asked, picking up the phone and dialing room service.

"A limoncello would be nice."

Cosette snorted. "Another convert. Pierre will be thrilled." She ordered the drink and hung up the phone. "I'll wait for your drink, but I do need to get going. Henri is having lunch with some of his colleagues and would like me to be there."

Hermione smiled. "It's fun to watch you two together."

Cosette laughed. "Hopefully we'll have a dinner soon, just the three of us. I would love to see you and Henri in a debate."

There was a knock on the door.

"That's fast for Italians," Hermione remarked as Cosette rose to get the door. She brought the small drink back to Hermione.

"The beauty of staying in a wizarding hotel. Here you are. Now, please rest. I will see you at two o'clock if you're feeling better." She planted a quick kiss on Hermione's forehead and grabbed her briefcase. "Au revoir!" she said and walked out the door.

Hermione sighed and sipped her limoncello. She downed it in two gulps and set the empty glass on her bedside table before putting her head on her pillow again. She didn't realize how exhausted she'd been. This wasn't just because of Professor Snape... Severus. She'd run herself ragged these last few months and hadn't looked back, and her professor had proved the catalyst that forced her into bed rest. She'd be up by two o'clock, though, she thought as she closed her eyes. Images of the Florentine marketplace and The Birth of Venus flew across her mind, and the memory of a whiff of pine came to her just as she tumbled over the brink into sleep.

*

Noon

Hermione awoke and felt around on the bedside table for her watch.

Noon. Time to get up.

She was feeling much better. She supposed that thirteen hours of sleep plus four hours of on-again-off-again sleep, and a light breakfast, and limoncello to boot, would be more than enough to get anyone on their feet.

She threw the covers off and stood to her feet slowly, mindful of the head rush she'd experienced earlier. She walked across the plush carpet, shedding her camisole and boxers....

Wait.

Just in front of the bathroom, she paused. She'd passed out in her pantsuit. Theoretically, she'd been put to bed in her pantsuit.

She'd woken up in a camisole and boxers.

Something was not right. She let out a breath, shook her head, and walked into the bath to turn on the shower. Her mysteriously changed clothing was one of many eccentricities she had experienced in the last twenty-four hours. She stepped out of her knickers and unhooked her bra – at least those stayed on! – and stepped under the steaming stream of water.

She was remarkably unperturbed about the clothes change, she thought. But then, there were other things to consider... such as that Severus Snape was more connected to her than she thought. He was one of Pierre's suppliers. Circe....

Pierre and Cosette clearly thought she was shocked merely at his being alive. She was admittedly shocked at seeing – feeling – him in the flesh. That had affected her more than she'd thought it could, but it was more that he knew she'd... snooped. Intruded. Known of his existence.

He knew she'd been to Capois. Well, that was partly by accident. Cosette would have taken her there anyway. And Viktor's letter – the thing that had started it all – was also coincidental.

He didn't know the most damning thing: that she'd come to France because of him. She had stayed for herself, though, she reflected, so even that....

She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling the knots, soothing her scalp, and attempting to soothe her spirit. It would be all right. It would all be alright. Things have a way of working themselves out. That's what her mum always said. It was true. She breathed deeply, calming herself, letting the water run down her body. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the shower's cleansing pound.

*

Hermione took a long shower and then cast a few drying charms, making sure to take extra care with her hair today. It was a professional conference, and this was Italy. It was hot, sticky, and the frizz would kill her if she didn't go beyond her usual routine.

She went over to her closet and pulled out some undergarments, a pair of black slacks, and a white button-down. She dressed, put her hair up, put her pearls on, and decided that that was enough.

She reached for her briefcase and saw a white envelope sticking out of it. Curious, she thought, kneeling down on the ground to open it. She fell on her arse when she saw the handwriting on the front – Miss Granger scrawled in the sharp, jagged lines that characterized his writing. The sight of it sent her heart rate through the roof. She tore through the envelope and pulled out a singular sheet of paper.

Miss Granger,

I did not intend to scare you into a fainting spell last night, though I realize that seeing a man thought to be dead could have induced some sort of paralytic shock. Pierre has informed me, however, that you've been running yourself ragged with work these last few months, so you are partially to blame, as well.

Much as I desire to discontinue your acquaintance, I am, unfortunately, well acquainted with your incessant need to know everything. As such, it is best to get this questioning out of your system as soon as humanly possible. If you would like, you may meet me for dinner at the Rossi Bistro at six thirty. It's on the first floor of the hotel. Pierre insists that their limoncello is excellent.

-SS

Hermione re-read the letter several times over before putting it down and said the only coherent thing she could think of.

"Holy shit."

*

Six thirty

"Breathe, breathe, breathe," she muttered to herself under her breath, staring into her reflection. "It'll be all right, it'll be fine."

"Keep telling yourself that, dear," the mirror responded.

Hermione grunted and leaned across the sink. "Mind your own business."

The mirror steamed over in reply. "The impertinence!" Hermione exclaimed and wiped her hand across it.

It was six thirty. She took in deep breath after deep breath. She had stalled thinking about this meeting – really thinking about this meeting – for the entire afternoon. The presentations had been just fascinating, had really drawn her in, and she wasn't about to miss out on any detail by thinking about Severus Snape.

In retrospect, perhaps she should have tried less to banish the thought of him – then she might actually feel slightly prepared for this meeting.

Oh, she was a bit prepared. She had a yellow tablet with dozens of questions, most of which she knew would go unanswered, but she had them, nonetheless.

She was theoretically prepared to meet her former professor, the man who had brought her to France and given her a new lease on life.

In reality, she was absolutely unprepared and felt like retching. Again.

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger was in danger of running in the other direction.

No, she thought, summoning all the strength she had in her. You can do it girl. You need to!

She turned the water on as cold and as high as it could go and bent down, splashing her face with biting cold water. The tendrils of curl around her face dampened, but she stayed that way, leaning over the running sink in the women's private toilet at the Rossi, nervous as she could ever remember being in her life.

She breathed deeply and cast a drying charm. She pinched her cheeks, swallowed, and reached down for her briefcase, yellow tablet inside.

She drew herself up and smoothed the front of her button-down. She hadn't changed since the presentation; she wasn't about to give him the impression she was dressing up for him.

And she was relatively sure she'd wiped all her makeup off by now.

Bugger.

Without further ado, she strode towards the door, pushed it open, and walked across the well-lit, bustling lobby to the Rossi Bistro.

The Bistro was dimly lit, compared to the lobby. Mood lighting, it was called. The floor was wood, the walls ornate. The place reeked of class, elegance, and what she sincerely hoped was seafood smoking on the grill.

She looked around at all the faces, all the bodies, trying to distinguish voices and languages – there were at least five being bantered around – and all the noise almost made her dizzy. She looked to a back corner and finally saw the object of her focus. She could barely make out his silhouette but she knew he was there.

She walked across the Bistro with her chin held high until she arrived at the back corner booth, the most dimly lit booth in the entire place. Sitting at the corner's juncture was Severus Snape, leaning into the booth, arms crossed, hair pulled back, chin just as high as Hermione's. And he was staring at her unnervingly.

"Miss Granger, won't you take a seat?" he asked after a long moment, gesturing to a side.

She nodded and slid in, some of her faculties returning to her.

"I took the liberty of ordering already."

The impertinent...

And with that, Hermione found her voice. "I'm surprised you picked a booth, Professor. I imagine a table would provide an easier escape from my – what was it? Incessant questioning?" she asked, meeting his glare, ignoring the light pine scent emanating from his being, soaking itself into her senses.

He grunted. "I've no idea what else you would call it."

The waiter appeared. "What would you like to drink, miss?"

"We're having grilled shrimp over linguini with a pesto sauce and toasted garlic bread," the preposterous man interjected.

Hermione glared. "Don't interrupt me."

"It's best to know what you're eating before you order your wine."

"Or I could just have two glasses," Hermione said, slightly annoyed. She smiled up at the waiter. "I apologize. I'll have a glass of Chianti Rufina."

The waiter nodded and walked away.

"Still glad I'm alive?" her former professor asked, a feral grin on his face.

"Of course, Professor," she said, gathering her wits and manners again.

"Good to know. And don't call me Professor."

"Then what should I call you? Mr. Snape?"

"Good heavens, no. It's an awful name," he said, pausing. "You may call me Severus."

Oh, shit.

"Umm... you can call me Hermione," Hermione said, feeling entirely unnerved and completely out of her league.

"Right then." He sighed. "We may as well get this over with. You have questions, I presume."

"Why are you even granting me an audience?" she asked, looking at him straight on.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because you and I both know that you will hunt me down and interrogate me. I thought I'd be proactive, for once."

She leaned against the booth. "Why are you here?"

"In Florence?"

She glared.

He smirked. "I presented this morning."

"With your potions work?"

"No, by flying around the Ballroom on a broom and exercising my Quidditch skills. Of course with my potions work."

"So you're still... active, then?"

He shrugged. "I own an apothecary in Paris and sell to various companies, such as the one you work for. I assume Pierre told you all this, so why waste our time asking questions we both know you already know the answer to."

"You might refuse one of my other questions."

"That is a very likely possibility, but you'll have asked it and got some sort of response, which is more than you'd have otherwise," he said, reaching for his wine glass.

She swallowed. "How did you survive?" she asked quietly. "I..."

He waved a hand, cutting her off. "Yes, I know you were there. It must have been... awful for you to witness," he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Don't do that!" Hermione slammed a hand down on the table. "Don't you dare patronise me for being here and having questions! You were dead for nearly three years, and then suddenly you... weren't!" she exclaimed, gesturing towards his body with her hands. "Don't you dare criticize me for wondering or for caring. Maybe you saw too many dead bodies when you were a Death Eater to remember the horror of the first one that's killed right in front of you!" she finished, breathing heavily.

He sat across from her, still, silent.

"Fair enough," he said slowly. "How did I survive, then, was the question?" he asked, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "I inoculated myself against Nagini's venom. A relatively simple antidote, considering that I already had a base to work off of."

"The attack on Arthur," she whispered, already falling under his voice's power.

He nodded. "I had an emergency Portkey to a safe house that Dumbledore had set up for me several years before. I waited for you and Potter to leave, and then I left."

"You... shared your memories...."

"A dying act if ever there was one, yes?" he said, smirking as he drank his wine.

"And you healed yourself at the safe house."

"Essentially." He drank more wine and set the glass down on the table, smacking his lips in satisfaction.

She shook her head and put her elbows on the table.

"What is it?" he asked, amused. "You're leading this conversation. Lead."

"I didn't expect you to be so..."

"So... what?"

"Comfortable, I suppose."

And at this he laughed, a great laugh that echoed in the booth and reverberated in the restaurant.

"I've been in active wizarding society for nearly three years, Hermione. It only shocks you because I haven't been in yours," he said, sending his glass flying to the bar for a re-fill. "I've been free of Voldemort's control for three years, free to live as I like and do as I please and have no master but myself. You have never seen nor heard me in this form, and it rightly shocks the hell out of you, if I may be so frank."

She nodded. "Er – yes."

"It is disconcerting, admittedly, to speak with someone who knew me... then," he said as the glass came back to him. "But you're an adult now, and I am willing to talk, so you should be as well."

At that, the waiter brought over their plates.

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed. "Oh, it looks wonderful."

She looked up to thank Severus only to find him looking at her – he was smirking, but his eyes were intent.

"Thank you," she said softly, picking up her fork to bite into the pasta.

He nodded. "You're welcome."

*

They talked of her work with Pierre, and he was kind enough to ask intelligent questions and seemed genuinely interested in her work. She asked about his apothecary and how he knew Pierre – they'd met at a wine bar, naturally – and he regaled her with stories of his clientele and some of his stranger experiences living in France.

"Speaking of the apothecary. The incident in Capois," he said naturally, sipping his wine.

She dropped her fork to her plate.

"You snooped," he said, his tone accusing but his eyes amused.

"I didn't know it was your cottage. My co-worker said it was the Prince cottage, and I wondered," Hermione said, her heartbeat kicking up. She'd gotten comfortable here, talking with him, bantering with him, completely forgetting that she was Hermione Granger and he was Severus Snape – perhaps because here in Florence, she wasn't that Hermione Granger and he wasn't that Severus Snape. "And how did you know I... trespassed – there I said it, happy? – anyway?" she asked.

"My familiar."

"Your cat?"

"That would be my familiar, yes." He sighed. "To spell it out for you, she called to me, and I arrived at the cottage just in time to see you scampering through the fields. Rather entertaining, if a bit surprising."

She stared at him. "You knew? You knew I was in Paris, working for Pierre, and you didn't do anything?"

"I did not want to see you, no. I prefer to avoid complicated entanglements."

"So this is a complicated entanglement?" Hermione asked, viciously stabbing the last bit of shrimp off her plate.

"You're a former student, you are aware of my past life, you watched me die, and you were permeating the realm of my new life. Yes, I call that a complicated entanglement."

"So – this...." she said, gesturing helplessly at the booth.

He met her eyes and stared. "I did not think such entanglements could be so enjoyable. This has proved less... wretched than I imagined it."

She swallowed. "I'm still surprised you're talking to me."

"You haven't asked too many impertinent questions, have you?" he retorted. "And I made you pass out last night, and you were not well afterwards, so you could say that I owed you."

"Speaking of which, what happened to my clothes?" she asked suddenly and rather loudly.

He sputtered into his wine. "Excuse me?"

"My clothes," she said. "I went to bed in a pantsuit and woke up in boxers." She held her hands, questioning.

He chuckled. "A simple charm that can easily be performed to – switch – someone's set of clothes. Not to worry, ah, Pierre and I performed it with you under the sheets."

Oh, God. She felt the color rising in her, up to her cheeks, and soon she was blushing a furious red.

"Would you like tiramisu for dessert?" he asked.

"That would be lovely, thank you," she murmured and brushed a curl off her face, oblivious to the intensity of his eyes on her form.

Thankfully, the waiter brought the tiramisu almost immediately. Hermione bit into it and realized that she had not truly had a dessert until now. It was sumptuous, decadent, and her next bite was twice as big, having the unfortunate effect of filling her mouth too full and crumbling a bit at the sides, which amused her companion far more than she was sure he was willing to let on.

"Severus?" she asked after swallowing.

"Yes, Hermione."

"Why did you hate me so much?"

His eyes darkened. "So you wait until the end to pepper me with difficult questions."

"You hated me in school."

He cocked his head and looked at her. "I didn't hate you. Far from it. You were an exceptionally bright student who kept unfortunate company and as such made irrational decisions. You also were a cheeky little bint with an axe to grind and an ego to prove," he added. "Thus, the know-it-all hand waving. It's quite annoying, by the way."

"Severus..." she started.

"It's true." He shrugged.

"I thought you'd become nicer," she insisted.

This time, his entire countenance darkened. "And I thought you'd matured enough to know that I've been doing my best to be exceptionally polite and cordial to you tonight. And to have taken me off the white horse."

She huffed. "I never..."

"Hero worship is an unfortunate affliction that plagues young women in particular when they find out that a rake has been reformed – or, perhaps, that the rake was always reformed but hid it in the interest of a nobler cause," he said, his tone disdainful. "I am not a nice man, Hermione. I never have been, and I never will be. I am doing my level-headed best to be polite to you and answer your questions and satisfy your damned curiosity, but do not think that this is how I always am. That would be a most erroneous assumption."

She swallowed. "You're..."

"My grandmother hammered manners into me, and lest you forget, I was a spy for twenty years. I know how to act in social situations."

"You just choose to be a surly, antisocial, rude, prat of a bastard in private, then?" she challenged, a wild glint in her eye.

He sat back, admiring. "See, that," he said, pointing to her. "That is the reason I'm still sitting across from you." It seemed as though a smile played at his lips, but it was quickly suppressed.

He slid to the edge of the booth to stand up. "I must take my leave, Mademoiselle. It's been a... surprising pleasure."

"But I still have questions!" Hermione exclaimed, suddenly remembering her list.

He snorted. "I am sure you do. However, I am not going to answer them – at least not tonight." He bent, picked up her hand, and kissed it. "Au revoir. I am sure we will meet again."

And with that, he grabbed his waistcoat and turned, putting it on as he walked away, striding through the Bistro with that irrepressible arrogance he had clearly developed these last three years.

Hermione leaned back in her booth and slumped. She pulled out her tablet:

1. Why did you choose France?

2. Why haven't you returned to Britain?

3. Are you still in contact with anyone?

And the list continued.

She groaned. He'd kept her talking and occupied enough on small, comfortable subjects that he'd managed to evade some of the larger ones.

She sat up at that realization.

He'd steered the entire conversation.

That bastard!

The waiter came by the table again and handed her a slip of paper.

She swore under her breath.

He'd also stuck her with the check.

Surly...

And as she pulled money out of her purse, she vehemently repeated every swear word she knew under her breath.

She paid and got up from the table. She didn't have a sense of closure – she was intrigued. She felt as if Pandora's Box had been presented to her and she'd just peeked inside the lid. A few questions were answered, but there were so many more....

And he was absolutely fascinating.

And fun. She'd had fun.

As she walked out of the Bistro, she knew.

She had to see him again. Once wasn't enough.

As if he'd want to see me again, though, she thought as she walked out into the crisp night air.

Somewhere during her walk, in between the sanctity of the city and the bustle of the streets, the heavy cloud of night and the dim street lights, between the Rossi and her own hotel, his words came back to her –

I am not going to answer them – at least not tonight.

"At least not tonight," she said aloud, a grin spreading across her face.

He's going to see me again.

And she practically danced the rest of the block to the hotel's entrance, exuberant in the joy of finally seeing her former professor, talking with him, laughing with him, bantering with him, and knowing that this was perhaps the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

*

Please forgive the shameless Casablanca reference. :-)

I very much hope that you've all enjoyed this chapter.