Chapter Text
“Ms. Cunningham, is it?” Elias Bouchard clasped her hand warmly, creases deepening in the corners of his eyes.
“Just Rosie will do, thank you, Mr. Bouchard,” she trilled, dipping into a small curtsy before she could stop herself. She cringed. “Ah, sorry. Old Catholic school habit.” She dropped into the chair Elias indicated.
“Not a problem at all. Rosie .” She returned the friendly smile he flashed her way. “St. Brigid’s National School, was it, in Kildare?”
“Yes sir!” Rosie leaned forward eagerly. “Born an’ raised in Kildare, and just completed my History bachelor’s at UCL.”
“Very good,” he said, scanning a sheet of paper she could only assume was her CV. She wondered, briefly, why she hadn’t taken off the bit about St. Brigid’s. Must have been a relic from when she was applying to part-time gigs between classes, before she finished her degree. Mr. Bouchard’s voice snapped her attention back.
“And you’ve done reception work before, is that right?”
“Yes, sir, I have. Been doing front desk and scheduling for a hairdresser’s this past year or so, and before that I did a bit of hotel concierge work.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Bouchard said, and laid her CV flat on the desk. He steepled his fingers and considered her, leaning back in his chair.
“Why the Magnus Institute?” he asked.
“Always wanted to work in a grand old place like this one,” Rosie supplied without hesitation. “I mean, I love history-- obviously, what with my degree an’ all-- but I like the idea of interacting with people too. A museum’s too stuffy, too-- stagnant, I suppose. I wanted a place where I could keep learning but chat with folk too. And normally I’d be a bit shy about applying with as little experience as I have but I remember when I was just a wee girl and you were all in the news with your leaked statements so I figured you lot weren’t probably in a position to be too discerning with your front o’ house hires.”
Rosie stopped, eyes wide, both hands splayed over her mouth. “Oh! Mr. Bouchard, I am so, so sorry, that’s absolutely inexcusable of me, I don’t know what came over me--”
“That’s alright, Rosie, no need to apologize.”
The smirk he wore now reminded Rosie abruptly of the first time she’d ever seen his face, six years old and poring over her nan’s copy of The Sun on one of their holiday visits. A grainy shot of Elias Bouchard, fifteen years younger than the man before her now but virtually unchanged, wreathed by the headline “TRICK OR TREAT? BOUCHARD DENIES AUTHENTICITY OF LEAKED DOCUMENTS FROM DISGRACED LONDON INSTITUTE.”
“For what it’s worth,” she offered now, cheeks burning, “My uncle’s a historian too, and he always thought the leak was a ploy to get the tabloids to leave you alone, so you could carry on with your real work in peace.”
“A very generous interpretation,” Mr. Bouchard said, sounding appeased. “Especially as so many outlets were quick to dismiss my insistence that most of the statements had been fabricated. There have certainly been prouder moments in the Institute’s history, but the show must go on. Tell me, Rosie, do you believe in the paranormal?”
“I suppose I must do, comin’ from the family I have. I’m not a-- a conspiracy nut, or anything, but we all have our little traditions that we cling to. Leaving bread out for the wee folk, things of that ilk. Can’t say I put much stock in it, myself, but I don’t see no harm in keeping observances out of respect.”
“Interesting. And do you speak of this to many people?”
Rosie laughed. “Oh, no, sir. Hardly anyone except them what think to ask, such as yourself. Honestly, I hardly think of the wee folk myself.”
“Except when you see your tattoo.”
“I-- yes, I suppose so. How did you…?”
Mr. Bouchard nodded to her arm. “If I may?”
Cheeks burning again, Rosie rolled up the sleeve of her blouse, cursing Primark for the cheap fabric she was convinced must be all but translucent.
The tattoo nestled above the crook of her right elbow, a spray of three star-shaped yellow flowers and a sprig of green behind them. “St. John’s Wort,” she explained, “shakes off any fairy influence.”
He smiled broadly at her, apparently pleased. “Fascinating. I would be pleased to offer you the role, Rosie, if you are still interested?”
“Oh! Ah… yes, of course! What, um…” the immediacy of the offer had taken her aback. She fought to remember the interview follow-up questions she’d memorized from the internet. “What will the next steps look like?” Hurriedly, she added, “And, thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Bouchard. I won’t let you down.”
“Just Elias, if you please, Rosie. We’ll be working together, after all.” He-- Elias-- stood from behind his desk. She scrambled to follow his lead. “I’ll have your official offer letter prepared and sent over to you by the end of the day today. Do please try to sign everything by week’s end-- I’d like to have you start Monday, if you would be amenable to it.”
“Sure,” she said, a little breathless. As he took her elbow to lead her out, she glanced wide-eyed around the room, astonished at the idea that she too would be working here as soon as next week. As she did, her gaze fell on Elias’ desk; she realized with a jolt that the paper he’d been studying was not her CV, but was in fact entirely blank.
She glanced up at him to ask, and the door closed firmly behind her.