20 December 2035: At Bran's house

[theravenboy]

While Margaret takes Cordelia upstairs, to see to her room, Bran makes a phone call from the kitchen.

At 7:30 in the evening in Wales, it is 7:30 the following morning in New Zealand. Will should be awake by now.

Bran dials the international calling card number, first, and then another number. "Mr Stantz?" he says, when the phone picks up. Better to be safe; he has no way to tell who else might be about.

Comments

[sign-seeker.livejournal.com]

"A long journey, and I will have to see if the assistants can mind the shop. It would be a pity to close up so close to Christmas more than we have to."

"Day after tomorrow, yes. I'll tell you the details when I know, but that should be right. I'll come as fast as the flights allow, of course, but I don't think there's a need for extraordinary measures."

There's no need to put significant weight on any words; they understand each other, as they have for a very many years.

[theravenboy]

Bran interprets the last sentence (The situation is not urgent enough to require supernatural travel) without difficulty.

"As long as you are not travelling on Christmas Eve; hardly any trains at all, then, and the most horrid hours," Bran answers. No, no need for that.

[sign-seeker.livejournal.com]

"Spare me," Will returns, with a mock shudder.

"Miserable day to be traveling. No, I'll happily skip that for Margaret's good eggnog, and Christmas Eve afternoon with all of you."

[theravenboy]

"Then I will leave you to arrange your flights. Just remember to tell us when you are coming, so that someone can collect you at Tywyn station."

[sign-seeker.livejournal.com]

"Of course."

With that settled, there's little more to say that won't easily wait for a later call or the visit itself. After a few more minutes of chatting, Will thanks Bran again for the birthday wishes, and hangs up.

And spends a moment studying the phone in his hand, his round face blanked in a thoughtful abstraction Bran Davies would recognize very well, and most of William Stantz's friends not at all.

"Well," he says softly into the air of his empty kitchen, and sets the phone down to finish making tea.

Time to book flights and a car, and to inform his assistant jewelers of his aunt's sudden grave illness, and the sad necessity of flying back to Britain on such short notice.