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Julia Hoffman opens the door, and already Timothy Eliot Stokes feels his heart beginning to ache.
When he was a young man, simply her presence here would have been a minor scandal. An unmarried woman at ease enough with being unaccompanied in a man's home late at night to play the hostess, admitting guests and taking their coats like she was the mistress of the house. It would have set tongues to wagging all over most of polite society. In fact, much about Julia would have been cause for gossip: her short hair, her single status, her medical degree, her fascination with the occult. But now she smiles warmly at him, touching his arm in greeting and offering him a beverage, and Eliot is ever so glad that he has never put much stock in social niceties.
Julia's eyes glint as she looks up at him. "May I see it?" Her face is etched with an expectation that in a younger woman would indicate the imminent gift of two dozen roses. Eliot was never one for bringing flowers to girls, but he has been aching to reveal this particular treasure to this particular person since the moment that he acquired it. So he tugs off his gloves and listens to her exclamation of delight.
It was a silly conceit, he supposes, to wear the ring. It is delicate, older than recorded time, and after he has finished his research he knows that the responsible thing to do will be to donate it to a museum. He is not sure what drove him to wear it; he is usually a man with the greatest of respect for artifacts. But when Julia places her warm hands on his, her thumbs unfurling his fingers to get a closer look, he cannot regret his choice. He lifts his beringed hand into the light for better inspection, closer to her own face, and he feels her breath against his skin. The erotism of the sensation makes him shudder.
"Ramses II", Julia whispers. It isn't a question; she is as much an expert in such things as Eliot himself. But he nods nonetheless.
"I believe so. The carvings most certainly indicate it. There is a particular marking I cannot place though, on the inner shank. It may have been added later but I would love to get your-"
"Professor Stokes!" Barnabas Collins descends the staircase, his severe features tempered by a welcoming smile. Eliot's heart sinks. It is not that he doesn't like Collins; in fact, he thinks of the man a friend, which is a minor miracle considering his suspicions of him when they first met. But, as always, he pulls Julia's attention like a flame calling a moth. She pivots away from Eliot, heartbreakingly casual, and it takes all of his strength to muster a smile for the gentleman.
"Julia tells me you had a quite a fruitful trip." Barnabas peers at Eliot's hand curiously, no doubt wondering why he chose to wear his treasure here. "Is that the ring you wrote of?"
Sheepish as a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar, Eliot tugs off the ring. He hands it to Barnabas, who accepts it with the lack of reverence typical of those who have spent a lifetime being offered items of untold value. But then, something in his face changes. "It's beautiful", Barnabas remarks. "Do you think it connects to your research on mummification and immortality?"
"I'm not certain yet," Eliot admits. "I was hoping the two of you might be able to assist me in figuring it out." It pains him greatly to refer to them as a unit in that way, but he makes himself push that aside. "There are the university archives, of course. But I must admit, when it comes to this particular topic, your personal collection of literature is probably the finest in all of Maine."
Julia beams like he has given her the greatest imaginable flattery. She's the most beautiful woman in the world when she smiles, and it breaks Eliot's heart that she so seldom has cause to do so. "Shall we move to the library?" Her voice is eager.
The three of them pull down large volumes and settle themselves around the great carved table to begin their work. Barnabas seems drawn to the physical reality of the ring, his fingers stroking it absent-mindedly as he reads. Eliot notices that he appears to be especially attracted to that one confounding mark; he rubs it again and again, as if it somehow soothes him to do so. Eliot makes a mental note of this, even though he has no idea yet what it might mean. It is worthy of attention, no doubt, but it is not the only thing clamouring for space in his mind at the moment.
It is the most pleasant sort of pain imaginable, just to sit beside Julia. Eliot breathes her scent of smoke and paper and brandy; he watches her clever fingers skimming through obscure texts with the same skill that a gifted pianist employs to make their instrument sing. He listens to her low voice murmuring hypotheses and he marvels at the reach and depth of her mind. Every soft smile, every exclamation of discovery, every casual accidental brush of her hand makes his heart ache deeply. It is agony, and he lives for the nights that he gets to feel it.
But the idyll ends when Julia cries out. Eliot and Barnabas both turn to her, alarmed; they've all seen too much not to worry. But it is only the pale golden streaks across the sky outside the window which have attracted her attention. "I didn't realize how late it is." She looks across Eliot, as if he isn't there, towards Barnabas. Perhaps we should stop for the night."
Barnabas nods at her, with inexplicable gratitude. "A good idea." He rubs his thumb across the mark on the ring one more time before handing it back to Eliot with a reluctance he tries hard to disguise. "I hope you can return this evening, if you have no more pressing business elsewhere. I feel like we have only scratched the surface of possibilities tonight."
Some sort of instinct urges Eliot to refuse, and he very nearly does. He has a sense, as strong as anything he has ever felt, that allowing Barnabas unrestricted access to this ring could lead to disaster. There is no logical reason behind it, but he has learned to trust his gut on such matters and that path has saved his life countless times in the past.
But Julia would no doubt join them for a further evening of research, and the allure of that is irresistible. So he merely nods, and slides the ring back on to his finger. It is warm in a way that he doesn't remember it having been earlier.
"I'll turn in then." Collins seems to be in a rather odd hurry. Only at the last minute does he turn back to Julia. "Will you sleep here tonight?" And the casual air with which he asks is like a knife into Eliot's chest.
His blood must literally be boiling, because the ring is suddenly hot enough to burn his skin.
Julia nods, seemingly entirely unaware of the state of her guest. "I'll show the Professor out first." She takes Eliot's arm to walk him to the door as Barnabas heads up the stairs.
The house is, of course, rather neglected, but it still radiates old wealth. The oak beams are solid and steady beneath their feet, and Eliot counts their steps as Julia steers him towards the door. He never wants to leave her presence, but for some reason this particular parting feels especially undesirable and his mind clutches for any way at all to delay it.
The idea, when is comes to him, whispers itself in his skull with a voice that is not his own.
Offer her something he can not.
He does not know what he plans to say until he hears himself speaking. "Would you like to take a walk with me before I go, Julia? Perhaps we could watch the sunrise."
Her eyes widen just slightly at his choice of words, and out of nowhere he finds himself wondering which of them is truly blind to what should have been obvious all along.