Gillian Anderson - A Dream of Ice

Caitlin was oblivious to all of it. Standing on the front steps of the Group’s mansion, she was prepared to try the word “Galderkhaan” as her admittance password. Since it was around ten o’clock at night she couldn’t pretend to be a tourist or a neighborhood outreach representative from the Church of the Ascension across the street—though the name was apt enough.

But excuses weren’t needed. The young woman who opened the door wearing green sparkly eyeshadow seemed a bit surprised at the sight of her, then immediately asked Caitlin to come in without another word. Flora had hired Erika as an assistant for many reasons, but the fact that she verged on having an eidetic memory was especially helpful. Erika did not say aloud that she remembered the visitor from a video she’d seen of a gathering in Jacmel, Haiti.

She showed Caitlin into Flora’s office. It was filled with a mishmash of antique furniture that showed a preference for Art Deco and long brown-and-blue velvet drapes that covered the windows.

Erika found Flora coming up the stairs from the basement and warned her who had arrived.

“She’s here ?” Flora exclaimed. It was all the Group leader said in response. The words had the weight of continental drift, an acknowledgment that large things were in motion.

Donning a smile, she entered her office.

“I am Flora Davies.”

“Caitlin O’Hara,” her guest replied. “A mutual friend sent me in your direction. Yokane?”

“Oh, yes,” Flora said.

“You know her?” Caitlin asked.

“I know of her,” Flora replied. In fact she had never heard the name but she certainly wasn’t going to give the woman a reason to walk away. She didn’t say anything else, simply gazed at Caitlin.

“I’m a psychiatrist,” Caitlin continued.

The comment invited a response, but Flora offered none. The silence stretched out.

After years of talking with teenagers, Catlin recognized the recalcitrance tango—similar to the slow dance she had done with Odilon across the Ping-Pong table. Flora Davies’s demeanor was notably polite and polished, and Caitlin had no idea how long she would maintain her silence. It was likely that she had been presenting this pleasant facade for decades. So Caitlin just stared around the room at the antiquities, maps, and books. If Yokane were right about Davies’s having a Galderkhaani artifact somewhere in this mansion, then hiding everything would be much more natural for her than confiding. Caitlin might have to say something inspirational, irresistible, to break through that wall.

Yet Caitlin wasn’t sure what she could or should say. Mentioning Yokane had elicited little response and no flicker of familiarity, no smile of liking or flash of dislike. She was betting Davies had never heard of her. And an archaeology group that hadn’t publicized one of the greatest finds in the history of the field was probably not to be trusted. It went against academic tradition. You find something big, you announce it, then you go to radio silence while you study it and prepare to publish. That way, if someone else finds one, you still get bragging or naming rights.

Besides, Caitlin didn’t want to share her knowledge of Galderkhaan without getting something in return. Flora might take the information, thank Caitlin with practiced politeness, and kick her out the door. Caitlin needed information and her silence was the only bait she had.

There’s only one difference between us , Caitlin thought as her eyes scanned the heavy desk. Flora had obviously been here a while. She had time. Caitlin did not. Her experience with Galderkhaani told her that if there were one ancient soul attached to Jacob, there could be others not far off.

She was suddenly, sorely tempted to surprise Flora by taking a shortcut through an energy exchange, but Yokane’s trepidation about “accessing” while in the proximity of a Galderkhaan artifact seemed wise to heed. Forming such a conduit was also one of Caitlin’s hidden assets that she would not reveal until she had some sense of common purpose with this woman.

Or until you’ve got nothing else to work with.

Flora made a careful opening move, a bland statement of the obvious:

“What does a psychiatrist want with our Explorers’ Group?” Flora asked. “Yokane must have thought there was a good reason to send you.”

“I’ve been doing some exploring of my own,” Caitlin said mildly.

“Where?”

Caitlin decided to take this to the next level. “Everywhere. Through patients. They’ve had visions.”

“You used hypnosis?”

“Something along those lines,” Caitlin said mildly. “May I ask—what do you explore?”

“The rather more mundane physical world,” Flora replied apologetically. “Would you care to see?”

“I would,” Caitlin replied, trying to hide her surprise that Flora had offered.

Flora began the speech she reserved for senators and university presidents. The speech was accompanied by a tour through two floors of the mansion.

“Definitely not a museum,” Caitlin observed as she stepped—vaulted, in fact—over a leaning pile of spears obscuring a doorway.

Flora laughed politely and fluttered her hand at the jumble of objects in the room, which was actually slightly more organized than the others.

“This is a storage area for our explorers,” Flora said. “We offer categorization, authentication, and appraisal services. Many people like to donate old rocks and stones and such for tax benefits.”

“An old-school approach to collecting?” Caitlin said.

“Like medieval nobility,” Flora admitted. “Getting material is the thing, and discussing the rarities with each other over drinks.”

“But not with anyone else.”

“This is an old, very private sandbox, Dr. O’Hara,” Flora remarked. “Most of the donors and some of the archaeologists we fund have an inflated sense of the worth of their finds.”

Or deflated , Caitlin thought.

The mansion was a very convenient spot at which to purposely devalue and conceal goods. The eccentric non-filing system had a cultivated sloppiness to it that screamed “underfunding”—an excuse to raise donations or grants that went to other work. The real work, whatever that was. Caitlin had no doubt that Davies also functioned as a fence for unwanted items whenever the opportunity arose. The woman might even trade something of enormously high value to a collector or museum for something she particularly wanted.

Caitlin noticed that there were more weapons among the artifacts than any other functional item, yet nothing of Galderkhaan… until in a cramped, claustrophobic hallway they passed a closed door that gave Caitlin the faintest sense of vertigo. She experienced it for no more than half a pace, thankfully, so she covered it just as Flora glanced back at her.

“Mind your head,” Flora said, patting a low beam as they passed into another Crock-Pot of a room.

“You know what this place needs?” Caitlin said lightly. “A dog. An Irish wolfhound, negotiating Polynesian oars and the like. To complete the picture.”

Flora laughed. “I’ve thought about it,” she said. She hadn’t.

“Crazy what happened with the animals today,” Caitlin tossed out.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll trace it back to some sort of emission,” Flora delivered smoothly. “Remember that maple syrup smell all over Manhattan in the mid-2000s? Turned out to be a fenugreek factory in Jersey. With all the communication waves that are floating around now”—she whirled her hand above her head—“who knows what kinds of bandwidth are affecting our brains.” She added as she returned them to her office, “Have you experienced anything like that? Disorientation?”