A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

This time he did smile, though it was sour. He was not concerned by the aspersion; ordinary was the camouflage Sören chose for much of his life in order to move between the different spheres he traversed for his work. Even now the finds unearthed at the new dig around the Roopkund discovery were attributed to Declan’s name alone, as per Sören’s own orchestration. That the woman saw ordinary only meant she saw what she was supposed to see, along with everyone else.

It did not mean it was what Sören was.

“You are remiss,” he said bluntly, “to judge a man by appearance alone.” His gaze roamed her tip to toe, as though he might wield the same weapon in kind, but did not speak of his perceptions. She was small enough to presume frailty, but he had not dismissed the complaints made of her venom. His companion in the banya had made them loudly enough.

“Though,” he added slyly, gesturing with the scale, which he then looped back over his head to hang against his chest, “you are correct that you did not hear the whole story.”