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EPILOGUE
Sydney sneezed and groaned, reaching for another tissue. It was so unfair! She never got sick. Even so, here she was, curled up on Nigel's couch, wrapped in a crocheted afghan and surrounded by used and unused tissue, cold medication, a thermometer, and a cup of very hot tea. The cold had manifested when they got back to London. After their adventure, they had seen Alec Ryan taken in by the authorities and then stayed overnight in Fleuve de Sange. Then next day saw them in Paris donating La Mort Rapide to the city's most prestigious museum. Another night had been spent there, then the two tired relic hunters went back to Nigel's. That was when the sneezing and the fever set in. Nigel had been fussing over Sydney like an old mother hen for three days. She complained to him loudly about it, but secretly she was enjoying it. At home, no one but Karen would have cared that she wasn't feeling well, and she doubted her secretary's ministrations would have gone further than a bowl of soup and a phone call. Almost as if the thought of him had conjured him, Nigel came into the room with a tray in his hands. On it was a bowl of something that steamed and smelled delicious—what smell could get through Sydney's poor plugged nostrils. “Up for some lunch?” he asked, putting the tray on the coffee table and sitting beside her. “I think so,” she said, hating how her voice sounded so dumb and sluggish. “I wouldn't want my soup to go to waste. I don't cook for just anyone, you know.” “I'm honoured.” “Good.” He then looked at her keenly. “How are you feeling?” “Better, actually. I'm still stuffed up and coughy, but my throat doesn't hurt anymore, and my headache's gone.” “Promise me that next time you go wandering around London in a downpour, you'll wear your jacket.” She rolled her eyes at him. “I promise, Mom.” Sydney let the afghan fall open enough to free one of her hands so she could eat her soup. She leaned forward, reaching for the spoon, and stopped. “What is it?” Nigel asked, the concern clear in his voice. Something had been running through Sydney's mind since Nigel had rescued her. While recovering from her cold, she'd had lots of time to think, and the more she thought about it, the more obvious it became. She had to ask the question. It would make her happy, and she was hopeful that it would make Nigel happy as well. She turned to face him so she could read his expression. “In the sacrifice room, in the castle, when you didn't kiss me, you said you would never let me go on a hunt alone again. Did you mean that?” His face pinkened slightly, but he said seriously, “You're stuck with me, Syd. Even if it means you don't want me, and I have to follow you around.” “Of course I want you, Nigel.” It came without thought, causing her to flinch at the double meaning. “That will make things easier.” She looked in his eyes, pleased to see no hint of fun had yet entered them. “I'm really glad you said that because I need to ask you something.” His face turned slightly wary. “You do?” Sydney nodded. “But it would mean moving back to the States and working with me again. Sylvia Redgrave has just retired, and the Ancient Studies department needs someone to take her place. The Dean actually asked me if I thought you'd be interested, but I knew you had already settled into your life he...” “You want me to teach at Trinity?” he blurted, cutting her off. “In your department?” “Yes, and that way, we'd be free to...” “Are you sure?” “Well, it's up to you, Nigel, but I'd love to work with you again.” There was a sudden spark in his eyes, and a smile slowly spread over his face. She had rarely seen him look so happy, and it confirmed that asking him had been the right thing to do. “Where do I sign up?” Sydney smiled back. “All I need is a yes from you and, with a quick call to the Dean, your place will be reserved for September.” Nigel uncharacteristically drew her forward and wrapped her in a firm hug. She returned it with the arm not trapped in the afghan. With an almost audible wrench, Sydney felt everything that had been going so wrong during the hunt suddenly start going right again. She hugged him even tighter, saying softly, “I'm so glad you agreed to come home.” “Me too.” Nigel's lips gently brushed her temple. “It never felt right, being so far away.” Sydney warmed at the touch. “I suppose you didn't just kiss me now, did you, Nigel Bailey?” He pulled away, a look of mock surprise on his face. “Of course not.” She was about to chastise him for lying when another sneeze overtook her. Nigel's expression changed, and he waved a hand at the soup. “Eat before it gets cold.” She sighed and once more let it go. There would be time to ask about it later, as much time as she needed. It was almost too good to believe, but Nigel was really coming home. Her stomach rumbled, and she reached for the spoon again with one hand. She untangled the other to pat his knee. “You are way too good to me.” “That's what friends are for,” he said simply. The End
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