The Museum is down on the Southside of London, Lambeth, specifically. In
the manicured grounds, adorned with both rose beds (now wrapped up for the
winter) and large pieces of WW II era artillery, sits the massive
Victorian structure that now houses the Museum. As one enters, up the
front steps, the first room is the immense multistory atrium, where they
store all the various pieces too large to be put elsewhere. A Spitfire and
a Messerschmit are hung from the ceiling, while a V-2 rocket and a Polaris
missile rear up towards the skylight, while tanks and other vehicles
crouch at their bases. Off to one side, divided from the atrium, is the
cafe, from which emerge the pleasant scents of fresh tea and baking.

Among the visitors entering is a tall woman - somewhere in her thirties,
perhaps; she might be taken for younger, except for the air of
self-possession. She stands straight, walks briskly, doesn't slouch. She
wears jeans and a fringed purple jacket, round-lensed glasses, a pendant
bearing an angular carving on a silver chain at her throat. Sleek, shining
black hair falls well past her waist. The features of her face are
symmetrical, pleasant curves, her expression calm, her manner dignified -
and her grey-blue eyes scanning absently for the man she's come to meet.

He's at one of the smaller tables, in dark suit and overcoat, a bag of
books bearing the museum mark and a black fedora sitting before him. At
the sight of the purple jacket, he rises and offers a little wave. Here I
am. "Miss Wisdom?" he calls, softly.

The woman turns and studies him for a moment, there. She's taller than
Pete - only a few inches shorter than the man in the overcoat - and less
skinny; her eyes are paler and not so vivid, with a different quality of
focus; she's far less rumpled, and despite purple and fringe, far more
collected and presentable. Still, there's a faint resemblance in the set
of her mouth and the intentness of her expression. After that brief pause,
she steps forward to meet him at his table. "Mr Celliers." Her hand is
offered: slender, strong fingers, nails clipped short and undecorated.
"Pleased to see my evil little brother hasn't sent me chasing geese. Hope
you haven't been waiting long."

He smiles, faintly, accepting the hand in his own and bowing a little over
it. Ungloved, the hand in question's absurdly pale, enough so that one can
clearly trace the blue lines of veining, and spidery-thin. He's as gaunt
as ever, the dark suit giving him a faintly funereal air. "Not at all. A
pleasure to meet you." He makes a faint gesture at the great chamber
outside the cafe. "I arrived early enough to have a bit of a look around,
happily. Do sit? And is there anything you would like?" To the ears of a
native Englishwoman, his accent is oddly archaic - not one found anymore,
especially with the homogenization of the BBC.

"Found a few things you were interested in, I see," Romany Wisdom replies,
with an equally slight gesture - barely more than a tilt of her hand -
toward the books. "Tea would be nice," she adds as she seats herself. When
the day's down to less than eight hours of sunlight, one takes heat where
one can. Still - it's essentially a delaying tactic. It's not precisely as
if she's studying him, so much as that she's studying the air around him,
the space beyond him. The motions he makes and the way his eyes move are
merely absorbed as something of a side note.

He paces away briefly, to place the order for tea, before returning.
"Indeed, I have," he admits, before patiently shuffling the volumes out of
the bag. They prove to be mostly biographies, oddly enough: Erwin Rommel
and T.E. Lawrence, as well as a book of general information on the first
world war. "The technology there hasn't changed, happily," he notes,
tracing the title on the first with a fingertip. His movement is far
stiffer than one would expect of someone of his apparent age, though there
are remnants of his old efficient grace. "And these were fascinating
periods of history."

There's a brief hint of a smile in a curve of dark lips. "But then, all of
them are." Change in tense: present, not past. History as a living entity.
This woman can be still and patient in precisely the ways that her brother
is generally not; beyond turning her head to follow his movements, she's
still seated just where she was when he rose. "Imagine our books will last
longer than we will. They've tried to update them, you know. Make them
electronic. Never caught on at all."

Celliers settles himself back down, with great care, as if his joints were
made of glass. The tea is cupped carefully in the long fingers, more for
warmth than anything else. "So I understand, and confess to being rather
grateful that books have mostly remained as they were," he grins, in
return. "And that is true, about history. Thank you for meeting me - your
brother and his fiancee suggested that you might be helpful."

Does look like he needs a bit of help, doesn't he. Romany tips her head a
trifle to study him over her silvered frames. "Might be," she agrees
neutrally, "if I can. Tell me about the problem?" At least there's no
doubt whatsoever that there *is* a problem.

"Certainly," he agrees, though his voice has lowered. "May I ask - did
your brother ever discuss with you our trip to Bermuda, and what ensued
there?"

"Not in detail." Romany reaches for her own tea, cradling it in a mirror
of Celliers' posture. "Called once. Asked for advice. Know there was some
sort of trouble."

Celliers mmms softly, gaze going remote as he mentally turns over the
series of incidents. It takes a little while before he glances up again
and focusses in on the lady before him. "To be as brief as one may - John
Constantine got wind of an incipient occult disaster in Bermuda. The
demons bound under the Triangle were working loose. We went down to
investigate. Ultimately, the only permanent solution demanded the willing,
conscious sacrifice of three human beings. I was one. I and two others
performed the necessary ritual, under Constantine's guidance. That should
have been the end of my involvement in the story (and in any other story,
for that matter) save that someone later substituted himself in the
framework of the ritual. Thus, two of the three sacrificed were revived. I
and one other, obviously. However, in both instances, there were
aftereffects. In my companion, they seem mostly to have been positive, and
she has suffered no apparent lasting trauma. I can not say the same." As
he speaks, his voice has gone all clipped and clinical, the tone of a
solider delivering a report to his superiors.

Romany's lips are pressed somewhat more firmly together from the very
first mention of Constantine's name. Apparently Celliers is not the only
person at this table to dislike the man. Her expression of faint distaste
intensifies just another trifle when human sacrifice enters the story.
"Explains why my brother was worried, doesn't it," she comments when he's
finished. "Could have been something dodgy with Constantine's version of
the ritual. Wouldn't surprise me a bit. Could have been something else.
Like to take a closer look at you, if you wouldn't mind it. Not here, of
course"

Celliers makes a gesture of acquiescence, turning over one hand to expose
the palm. He offers a soft cough of laughter. "Yes, he is rather master of
'something dodgy' in general, isn't he? And as for the other - at your
convenience, though I shouldn't remain on this side of the pond for too
very much longer," he murmurs/

"Also master," Romany replies, "of slipping and making someone else pay
for it." It's couched in terms of mild disapproval and a trace of
amusement - but if Celliers is watching closely, he can see a faint, brief
flash of anger in her eyes. "I've a place; it's private enough, if you
don't mind crossing my threshold. Can take a look there, and bring
anything to help with when I visit." Not to mention that she's hardly
about to query him on the subject of that trauma there in the cafe.

He wears a look of open approval. You speaka my language. "Certainly," he
murmurs, with a slight inclination of his head. "Shall we?" he wonders,
flicking a hand at the door.

Romany answers that with a matching inclination of her head as she rises.
Tea, as it happens, still untouched.

Celliers lifts it for her, after tossing away the remainder of his own.
Paper cups, of course. "Lead on, MacDuff," he urges, eyes bright with a
momentary flicker of amusement.

"No-one ever /does/ get that quote right," Romany notes with that slight
smile again, and leads the way.