The gangly Sunday’s Child with straggly hair and a missing tooth was gone. Claire Summerlad had grown into a woman of elegance with fine, somber features and guarded eyes. Their very first meeting, when she’d seen through his glamour and entranced him with the discovery that Sunday’s Children were still in the world, had also been the last between them.

Nicholas’s magic was different from ljósálfar magic, bestowed by a divine force unrelated to the Ljósálfheimr realm and resistant to Claire’s deep Sight. The saint could visit the girl’s house each year unseen if he wished. Andor couldn’t, and Nicholas had been adamant that the elf avoid any children like Claire, no matter how rare, at all costs.

“This is a century that ridicules magic, Andor. Claire’s Sight isn’t a gift. Because she’s a child, people will think her just highly imaginative and indulge her. As she grows older, that indulgence will become concern and suspicion. Claire herself will question the soundness of her mind if she sees and hears things no one else does. It’s better that she let her Sight fade and her memory of you become the dream of a childhood she’ll set aside.”

For some odd reason, that last part had turned Andor’s stomach, but he did as Nicholas counseled and never saw Claire again, until their meeting on the Carmichael’s loading docks. She had stared at him with a weary gaze that no longer saw wonder or the ljósálfar elf whose pointed ears she once complimented. He hadn’t missed the puzzled flicker of recognition in her eyes—as if the shadow of that distant Christmas Eve teased her memory—or her embarrassed blush at being caught staring at him with very womanly admiration.

Andor watched her surreptitiously this morning as he and another preparator opened boxes and filled out condition reports on one of the long tables in the conservation lab. Claire, Dee and one of the conservators unpacked boxes at another table. Their nitrile-gloved hands looked like doves as they checked each illuminated manuscript sent from the Matenadaran for damage and cataloged their contents.

Despite time and her maturity, Andor recognized Claire instantly when they met two days earlier on the loading docks. Her Sight had faded just as Nicholas predicted, and she didn’t see past the glamour that humanized his features and disguised the distinctive shape of his ears. He’d worn this particular spell so often and for so long while among humans that it rested as comfortably on him as an old shirt. Still, it wasn’t enough to lessen his vague disappointment that while Claire might admire him, she didn’t truly see him. He disagreed with Nicholas that her Sight had not been a gift.

“Uh oh.” Dee frowned at the box in front of her.

The much taller Claire leaned over her shoulder. “Missing the bill of lading?”

“No, it’s there. But just the Armenian version. Either the English translation got lost or someone forgot to put it on.”

Claire shrugged. “E-mail the curator and ask for another copy. They’re what, eight hours ahead of us? By the time you get in tomorrow, they’ll have replied.”

Andor approached their table. “I can read Armenian.”

Three sets of gazes settled on him and stayed. Claire and the conservator each raised an eyebrow. Dee tilted her head to one side. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?”

If she only knew. Andor smiled, not at all offended by their doubts. Houston was a huge metropolis with a diverse population that encompassed numerous linguistic families. English, Spanish, and Vietnamese were the most commonly spoken. Armenian was considerably more rare.

“I’m fluent in several languages.” A thousand years of exile in Midgard had provided ample time to learn the many tongues of the humans.

Claire slid the list to him, her mouth tilted in a faint smile. “What does it say?”

He translated the bill, pausing only when Dee held up her hand. “We’re convinced,” she said. “Read it again, and we’ll report and catalog as you go.”

An hour later, Andor left the lab for one of the exhibit halls where another team of preparators worked to set up an exhibit of 19th century art glass. The sound of footsteps paced on a long stride drifted to his ears. His heartbeat sped up. Claire.

“Mr. Hjalmarson, wait.”

He stopped and turned. She offered him a wider, friendlier smile than the one she gave in the lab. It transformed her features in subtle ways. The hollows below her cheekbones filled out, and her eyes sparkled, reminiscent of the young girl who saw an elf for the first time, standing in her mother’s living room. The refined angles of her face softened and warmed. Andor thought her lovelier than any ljósálfr woman.

“Just Andor is fine,” he said. “The only people who address me by my last name are my accountant and the police.”

Her eyebrows shot up and the smile wavered a little. “Do you often deal with the cops?”

He grinned. “Not in the way you’re thinking.” Her skin pinked at his teasing. “Two speeding tickets is the extent of my life of crime.” At least by the definition of 21st century laws. He chose not to mention that caveat.

She chuckled. “Oh, well then, I’m a more hardened criminal than you. Two speeding tickets and an expired tag.”

Curious as to why she sought him out, Andor didn’t continue their banter. “What can I do for you, Ms. Summerlad?”

Her blush returned a little rosier this time. “Please call me Claire. I hope I didn’t insult you with my doubt about your claim to read Armenian. It just seemed too convenient to be true. Our temp preparator helping us at just that moment and also fluent in a language not at all common in this city? No one gets that lucky, you know?”

Andor shrugged. “No offense taken. And maybe it was more fate than luck.”

Claire laced her fingers together and clasped them in front of her. “Paul will be back and you at the Menil before Dee gets started on the main work of her exhibition. However, I’ve already begun work on research and provenance for some of the illuminated manuscripts we received from the Fitzwilliam and the Morgan. I’ve located texts that describe the manuscripts in more detail. Unfortunately, some of the descriptions aren’t translated.” She took a breath and continued. “I can hire out a translator, but having someone in-house who can do it would be a lot easier.”

“You want me to translate for you?”

She nodded. “I do.” Her hands came up in a gesture that warded off argument. “I know you’re as busy as the rest of us with the Gallé exhibit and the upcoming benefit dinner, but if you can carve out any time to do a little translation, I’d be grateful. Weekends even if that’s all you have. We’ll expense it through my department, and I’ll deal with accounting later.”

Time with Claire, grown to adulthood and no longer aware of magic. This was definitely fate more than luck. Andor had a wary respect for the Norns and sensed Verđandi’s weave in this scenario. If the jötunn giantess were here now, he’d thank her.

“Have lunch with me today,” he said.

She backed up a step, and her arms crossed. Her eyes narrowed. “You’ll help me with translations if I have lunch with you?” A touch of frost glazed her voice.

Since his exile, Andor had lived amongst humans, immersed in their ways and behaviors. Nicholas only required his presence a few days out of each year, and he’d embraced the saint’s suggestion that he learn more of Midgard and its people, disguised as a human himself. Nicholas didn’t voice what they both knew: a bored elf was a troublesome one.

Andor had at first protested against Nicholas’s single restriction on his plan, but the saint had been adamant. “You will not engage in their wars as a fighter, Andor. If I find out you have, I’ll send you back to Ljósálfrheimr where you can fight for your life against Dagrun and Alfr.”

Andor had reluctantly agreed, and in the centuries that followed, he didn’t take up a weapon as a warrior for someone else’s war. That didn’t mean he didn’t take up a weapon or end up in war. Time, magic and curiosity had set him on many paths, and he learned many things. He’d been a battlefield medic, Bow Street Runner, wagon train scout, and a bodyguard. He pursued other occupations and vocations as well, some far more peaceful, like the current one as a preparator.

Humans lived short, intense lives, compressed into a handful of years the nearly immortal ljósálfar considered less than a breath of time. After almost ten centuries, he probably knew more about humans than any of his kin, and they still puzzled him mightily. He gazed at Claire, with her stiff posture and cool expression, and wondered what had made this previous child of magic into such a cynical adult.

“If you have lunch with me today, I’ll pick up the tab,” he said. “As far as the translations, I will be happy to help you regardless of your answer to my invitation.”

She winced. “I’m sorta clumsy at this—”

He held up a hand to forestall the apology hovering on her lips. “It’s fine, Claire.” He liked the feel of her name on his tongue. “Have you been to Paulie’s?”

Her eyes lit up. “Every chance I get. Great food.”

They settled on a time to go. Claire gave Andor a small wave before she headed back to the lab. “See you in a couple of hours.”

He inclined his head. “Claire.” He watched her walk away, her long strides carrying her out of his sight in moments. A hint of the soap she used on her skin still lingered in the air, a touch of spring in autumn. A tide of heat in his blood.