Didn't I promise many updates when I got back? (Don't get used to it. 
)
As the car drove up towards Irons' manse, Parker was filled with some mild trepidation. She had been here a few times - once as a child with her father and a few times when she had been head of security at The Centre - but each time she felt that same uneasiness as she approached the mansion. She knew rationally what triggered it: the stone and architecture of the mansion were more than vaguely reminiscent of The Centre's headquarters in Delaware. Still, she could never prevent the sense of unease she felt when she came here.
"Parker?" Ian asked gently from the front seat. "Are you alright?"
She realized that she hadn't heard a word he had said in the last few minutes. Her eyes met his in the front rearview mirror. The concern in his eyes was fleeting but genuine. With a light smile, she replied, "Yes, I'm sorry. It's…been a long day."
She saw him nod once in response as his eyes returned to the road, and then she focused on the darkness on the other side of the window.
Before she knew it, Ian was silently leading her through the house and she found herself remembering the first time she had met Ian. It was a few years after her mother had died and she had been banished to boarding school in Europe. Parker had come to New York to visit with her father and he had brought her here. It was a business trip. She wasn't supposed to leave the bedroom she had been assigned, but she had. In the hall, she had run into a little boy who was no more than five or six years old. Parker could remember how serious Ian had seemed as he introduced himself. She could not remember the details of their conversation except that they had swapped secrets. Parker had told him her first name, the taboo name her father never wanted her to use. She, in turn, had deduced (and gotten confirmation) that Ian was Kenneth Irons' son, which she promised never to tell anyone and had, so far, kept that promise. Parker couldn't say that those secrets were a foundation for a friendship between her and Ian (because they weren't friends, not in the true sense of the word). They had, perhaps, an unspoken trust because of those secrets from which their current camaraderie had been born in Japan many years ago.
For a long time, she had told no one of that particular skeleton in Irons' closet because she had promised not to. Later, as an adult who worked for The Centre, she realized that tidbit of information was her ace-in-the-hole - something she could call upon in the darkest of times to get help from the mighty Kenneth Irons. She hadn't needed to play that card yet, but these were pretty dark times at The Centre.
Ian ushered her through the Kama Sutra paneled doors to what she privately called Irons' sanctum sanctorum. The room's decor in warm colors had not changed much in the years since she had been here last. The most notable change was that the grand piano had been removed and that somehow made the room seem colder and more impersonal.
Ian indicated a chair but she declined, opting to warm up by the hearth. Within a moment, Irons voice came from above. "Ah, Miss Parker. It has been far too long since these halls have been graced with your beauty."
Despite herself, she smiled at the compliment as she turned to watch him descend the stairs. It always surprised her how he didn't seem to age. Parker would have sworn that he hadn't changed since she had first met him. She had spent an afternoon with him in the garden just talking - no adult (not even her own father) had paid her that much attention since her mother; her father had been proud of her because Irons was pleased with her. Irons had made her feel like a princess back then, and somehow being in his presence evoked those feelings again.
"You are very kind, Mr. Irons."
His gentle smile faded and he said, "I was sorry to hear about your father."
Parker nodded once. "Thank you."
Irons walked toward her, stopping briefly at Ian's side and Parker was suddenly struck by the yin and yang of these men, both in appearance and temperament. Irons could be disarmingly charming when he chose, but his demeanor most of the time was regal and demanding. His movements were graceful but calculated. Parker always wondered what he was thinking behind those green eyes of his. She knew he could be cold and ruthless, but that was often hidden under a veneer of erudition and sophistication. Ian, on the other hand, reminded Parker of a panther - as beautiful as he was dangerous. He had a way of blending into the background, as if he never wanted to be noticed, but his eyes took in everything around him. His dark hair and eyes and his intelligence triggered in Parker something that vaguely felt like recognition. Both men were extremely bright; Irons used his intelligence to scheme and, like a chess grandmaster, stay several steps ahead of his foes. Ian, on the other hand, seemed more intuitive; he could make connections that were not obvious and, in that way, reminded Parker of Jarod. While Irons made her feel a little off-kilter (like a schoolgirl with a crush on her favorite teacher), Ian's presence had always made her feel secure.
They spent a few moments engaged in the pleasantries of a social call. Wine was offered and served. Irons lead her to the leather sofa and he sat on her left. She glanced around the room, noting that Ian had disappeared.
"I know about the deal you had with your father," Mr. Irons began. "I believe the terms dictated that you could leave his employ once The Pretender was returned. I am curious as to what you plan to do after you leave The Centre."
Parker gave him a sly, knowing smile. "Are you offering me a job, Mr. Irons?"
He countered with a playful smile, and Parker felt once again like a little girl.
He said, "I am offering you The Centre…free from Triumverate control."
~*~*~*~*~
Gabe opened a plain manila folder and handed it to Sara. "These women were volunteer nurses working with Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War in 1855."
Sara looked at the printout of an old newspaper article with a picture of a group of women, all dressed in apron-covered frocks. Sara's eye was drawn to one of the women seated in the front row; the woman wore the Witchblade. Sara braced herself for a vision, but none came. She glanced at Gabriel then looked back at the newspaper clipping.
According to the caption, the woman with the Witchblade was Florence Nightingale. Sara raised an eyebrow, returning her attention to Gabriel.
"Florence Nightingale?" She hadn't meant to sound as doubting as it had come out.
Gabriel gave her a smug smile. "Actually, no." He reached over to his desk and gave her another printout. "This is Florence Nightingale."
The woman in this printout was not the one wearing the Witchblade in the newspaper article. Sara looked at the newspaper article again. Florence Nightingale was seated next to the woman with the Witchblade. Gabriel added, "They must have made a mistake when they identified the women in the picture."
"So, who is she?"
"Mary Smith. She trained under Nightingale, and according to Nightingale, was a gifted student who helped immensely with her - and I quote - 'almost preternatural insight'."
Both of Sara's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Gabriel smiled and nodded.
Sara prepared herself for visions, but none came. She glanced at the Witchblade with a little surprise, then asked Gabriel, "What else do you know about her?"
"She returned to England a few years later. Got married. Had one daughter…which seemed to be the trend for a couple of generations." Gabriel handed Sara a sheet of paper outlining everything he was telling her. "Smith's great-granddaughter emigrated to the US, had one child, a girl coincidentally enough also named Mary. That Mary married a man named Jamison and they, too, had a daughter, Catherine Elaine. They moved to Delaware when Catherine was a baby and that's where the trail goes cold."
"And the Witchblade?"
"None of them were wearing it in the pictures I could find. But I'll keep looking."
Sara nodded and Gabriel walked over to his computer and started typing on the keyboard. He said, "I've got something else to show you."
~*~*~*~*~
note: The official Witchblade website claimed that Florence Nightingale was a wielder, but I couldn't (in my view) diminish her great work by attributing it to a mystical bracelet. I'd rather believe that a webmonkey misidentified the Wielder.
-----wormie
Neither has been updated in forever:
Witchblade Iansanity
Music Videos & LEGO Witchblade
)
As the car drove up towards Irons' manse, Parker was filled with some mild trepidation. She had been here a few times - once as a child with her father and a few times when she had been head of security at The Centre - but each time she felt that same uneasiness as she approached the mansion. She knew rationally what triggered it: the stone and architecture of the mansion were more than vaguely reminiscent of The Centre's headquarters in Delaware. Still, she could never prevent the sense of unease she felt when she came here.
"Parker?" Ian asked gently from the front seat. "Are you alright?"
She realized that she hadn't heard a word he had said in the last few minutes. Her eyes met his in the front rearview mirror. The concern in his eyes was fleeting but genuine. With a light smile, she replied, "Yes, I'm sorry. It's…been a long day."
She saw him nod once in response as his eyes returned to the road, and then she focused on the darkness on the other side of the window.
Before she knew it, Ian was silently leading her through the house and she found herself remembering the first time she had met Ian. It was a few years after her mother had died and she had been banished to boarding school in Europe. Parker had come to New York to visit with her father and he had brought her here. It was a business trip. She wasn't supposed to leave the bedroom she had been assigned, but she had. In the hall, she had run into a little boy who was no more than five or six years old. Parker could remember how serious Ian had seemed as he introduced himself. She could not remember the details of their conversation except that they had swapped secrets. Parker had told him her first name, the taboo name her father never wanted her to use. She, in turn, had deduced (and gotten confirmation) that Ian was Kenneth Irons' son, which she promised never to tell anyone and had, so far, kept that promise. Parker couldn't say that those secrets were a foundation for a friendship between her and Ian (because they weren't friends, not in the true sense of the word). They had, perhaps, an unspoken trust because of those secrets from which their current camaraderie had been born in Japan many years ago.
For a long time, she had told no one of that particular skeleton in Irons' closet because she had promised not to. Later, as an adult who worked for The Centre, she realized that tidbit of information was her ace-in-the-hole - something she could call upon in the darkest of times to get help from the mighty Kenneth Irons. She hadn't needed to play that card yet, but these were pretty dark times at The Centre.
Ian ushered her through the Kama Sutra paneled doors to what she privately called Irons' sanctum sanctorum. The room's decor in warm colors had not changed much in the years since she had been here last. The most notable change was that the grand piano had been removed and that somehow made the room seem colder and more impersonal.
Ian indicated a chair but she declined, opting to warm up by the hearth. Within a moment, Irons voice came from above. "Ah, Miss Parker. It has been far too long since these halls have been graced with your beauty."
Despite herself, she smiled at the compliment as she turned to watch him descend the stairs. It always surprised her how he didn't seem to age. Parker would have sworn that he hadn't changed since she had first met him. She had spent an afternoon with him in the garden just talking - no adult (not even her own father) had paid her that much attention since her mother; her father had been proud of her because Irons was pleased with her. Irons had made her feel like a princess back then, and somehow being in his presence evoked those feelings again.
"You are very kind, Mr. Irons."
His gentle smile faded and he said, "I was sorry to hear about your father."
Parker nodded once. "Thank you."
Irons walked toward her, stopping briefly at Ian's side and Parker was suddenly struck by the yin and yang of these men, both in appearance and temperament. Irons could be disarmingly charming when he chose, but his demeanor most of the time was regal and demanding. His movements were graceful but calculated. Parker always wondered what he was thinking behind those green eyes of his. She knew he could be cold and ruthless, but that was often hidden under a veneer of erudition and sophistication. Ian, on the other hand, reminded Parker of a panther - as beautiful as he was dangerous. He had a way of blending into the background, as if he never wanted to be noticed, but his eyes took in everything around him. His dark hair and eyes and his intelligence triggered in Parker something that vaguely felt like recognition. Both men were extremely bright; Irons used his intelligence to scheme and, like a chess grandmaster, stay several steps ahead of his foes. Ian, on the other hand, seemed more intuitive; he could make connections that were not obvious and, in that way, reminded Parker of Jarod. While Irons made her feel a little off-kilter (like a schoolgirl with a crush on her favorite teacher), Ian's presence had always made her feel secure.
They spent a few moments engaged in the pleasantries of a social call. Wine was offered and served. Irons lead her to the leather sofa and he sat on her left. She glanced around the room, noting that Ian had disappeared.
"I know about the deal you had with your father," Mr. Irons began. "I believe the terms dictated that you could leave his employ once The Pretender was returned. I am curious as to what you plan to do after you leave The Centre."
Parker gave him a sly, knowing smile. "Are you offering me a job, Mr. Irons?"
He countered with a playful smile, and Parker felt once again like a little girl.
He said, "I am offering you The Centre…free from Triumverate control."
~*~*~*~*~
Gabe opened a plain manila folder and handed it to Sara. "These women were volunteer nurses working with Florence Nightingale during the Crimean War in 1855."
Sara looked at the printout of an old newspaper article with a picture of a group of women, all dressed in apron-covered frocks. Sara's eye was drawn to one of the women seated in the front row; the woman wore the Witchblade. Sara braced herself for a vision, but none came. She glanced at Gabriel then looked back at the newspaper clipping.
According to the caption, the woman with the Witchblade was Florence Nightingale. Sara raised an eyebrow, returning her attention to Gabriel.
"Florence Nightingale?" She hadn't meant to sound as doubting as it had come out.
Gabriel gave her a smug smile. "Actually, no." He reached over to his desk and gave her another printout. "This is Florence Nightingale."
The woman in this printout was not the one wearing the Witchblade in the newspaper article. Sara looked at the newspaper article again. Florence Nightingale was seated next to the woman with the Witchblade. Gabriel added, "They must have made a mistake when they identified the women in the picture."
"So, who is she?"
"Mary Smith. She trained under Nightingale, and according to Nightingale, was a gifted student who helped immensely with her - and I quote - 'almost preternatural insight'."
Both of Sara's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Gabriel smiled and nodded.
Sara prepared herself for visions, but none came. She glanced at the Witchblade with a little surprise, then asked Gabriel, "What else do you know about her?"
"She returned to England a few years later. Got married. Had one daughter…which seemed to be the trend for a couple of generations." Gabriel handed Sara a sheet of paper outlining everything he was telling her. "Smith's great-granddaughter emigrated to the US, had one child, a girl coincidentally enough also named Mary. That Mary married a man named Jamison and they, too, had a daughter, Catherine Elaine. They moved to Delaware when Catherine was a baby and that's where the trail goes cold."
"And the Witchblade?"
"None of them were wearing it in the pictures I could find. But I'll keep looking."
Sara nodded and Gabriel walked over to his computer and started typing on the keyboard. He said, "I've got something else to show you."
~*~*~*~*~
note: The official Witchblade website claimed that Florence Nightingale was a wielder, but I couldn't (in my view) diminish her great work by attributing it to a mystical bracelet. I'd rather believe that a webmonkey misidentified the Wielder.
-----wormie
Neither has been updated in forever:
Witchblade Iansanity
Music Videos & LEGO Witchblade
