10. Measured Words
CHAPTER 10
Measured Words
M orning light sliced through the Met's skylights, turning dust motes into floating galaxies above the Greek and Roman galleries. At this hour, the marble halls belonged to the determined few – art students with their sketchpads and the occasional tourist who'd actually read their guidebook. The quiet felt almost sacred, like being in on a secret the rest of New York hadn't discovered yet.
The Asclepius statue stood sentinel nearby, his stone eyes holding whatever wisdom ancient gods kept to themselves. I'd chosen this spot with tactical precision – visible enough from the entrance to seem coincidental, far enough from the tour routes to allow real conversation.
My watch ticked away minutes like heartbeats. Trading my usual Armani for casual weekend wear felt like stepping out of character, but today wasn't about the billion-dollar developer meeting the star surgeon. Today was about something else entirely.
Footsteps echoed off marble, and my pulse jumped like some goddamn teenager. Eli appeared around the corner, armed with coffee and wearing a grey sweater that made him look softer somehow, more real than the starched and pristine ER chief I usually saw.
“Mr. Rothschild,” he said, his hand going to straighten a nonexistent tie.
“Alex,” I corrected gently. “We're not at the hospital now.”
His eyes darted between me and the exits, but curiosity won over caution. “Do you often spend Saturday mornings with ancient medical gods?”
“Only the interesting ones.” I gestured to the bench beside me. “He's got good stories, if you know how to listen.”
A small smile tugged at his lips despite his obvious attempt to maintain distance. “I suppose you're an expert on ancient Greek mythology too?”
“Hardly. Just someone who appreciates good craftsmanship.” I shifted slightly, making room. “The bench has a great view, if you're interested. No shop talk required.”
He hesitated, then sat with careful precision, maintaining proper space between us. His coffee cup trembled slightly as he set it down, those surgeon's hands less steady outside the operating room.
“I used to come here with Michael,” he said suddenly, as if the words surprised him. “He loved the architecture. Said these spaces felt like they held secrets.”
“He wasn't wrong.” I kept my voice soft, letting the morning quiet wrap around us.
“I dream about places like this sometimes,” he admitted. “The light feels... familiar.”
“It's good light for healing,” I said simply.
A tourist group clattered past like a herd of well-meaning elephants, their excited whispers bouncing between centuries-old sculptures. We waited in surprisingly comfortable silence until they moved on, our shoulders almost but not quite touching on the marble bench.
“How do you do that?” he asked finally.
“Do what? ”
“Say things that sound perfectly normal but feel like they mean something else entirely.” He turned to look at me properly for the first time. “Why do I feel like I know you?”
Sunlight caught his profile as he spoke, turning him into another masterpiece among the statues. My heart ached with possibility, but I kept my voice light. “Maybe we just have compatible appreciation for ancient art and good coffee.” I nodded at his cup. “That's from Giovanni's, right? Best brew in the city.”
His surprise showed plainly. “How did you?—“
“I have an excellent nose for quality coffee.” I grinned, letting some of my usual corporate polish fall away. “And I may have noticed you getting your morning fix there once or twice.”
“You mean you've been watching me.” But his tone held more amusement than accusation.
“I prefer to call it professional interest in my project partners' caffeine habits.”
That earned me a real laugh, the sound echoing off ancient marble like music. “Is that what we are? Project partners?”
“Among other things,” I said softly. The morning light painted shadows across his face that made my chest tight. “Maybe friends, if you're interested.”
He studied me for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. “Friends,” he repeated, testing the word. “I'm not sure that's wise, given our professional relationship.”
“Probably not,” I agreed easily. “But wisdom's overrated sometimes.”
Another smile tugged at his lips. “Says the man having a casual chat with Asclepius on a Saturday morning.”
“He's a very good listener.” I gestured to the statue's serene expression. “Never interrupts, always looks interested. Perfect conversation partner.”
This time his laugh was fuller, more natural. “You're nothing like I expected, you know that?”
“I'll take that as a compliment.” I let myself enjoy the moment, just us here in this pocket of quiet among the ancient stones. “For what it's worth, you're exactly what I expected. In all the best ways.”
A faint blush colored his cheeks. “I should probably go,” he said, but he made no move to stand. “I have... things.”
“Of course.” I kept my tone light. “Busy doctor things, I'm sure. But if you ever want company for your Saturday museum visits...” I let the offer hang between us, unfinished but clear.
He stood slowly, gathering his coffee cup. “I'll think about it.”
“That's all I ask.” I watched him take a few steps toward the exit before adding, “Oh, and Eli?”
He turned back, eyebrows raised in question.
“Giovanni makes excellent peppermint tea too. Just in case the coffee's keeping you up at night.”
Understanding flickered across his face – he hadn't told anyone about his recent insomnia. But instead of pulling away, he just shook his head with a small smile. “Good to know,” he said softly, and then he was gone.
Movement caught my eye – Eli hadn't left after all. He stood before an ancient Greek vase, pretending to study its intricate patterns while his gaze kept drifting back to our bench. The struggle played across his face clear as gallery lights on marble, logic wrestling with something deeper and less easily explained.
“The dreams started recently, didn't they?” I kept my voice soft as museum shadows. “The ones that don't quite feel like dreams.”
His slight flinch rippled through the quiet air between us. Around us, carved heroes and gods watched our dance with ancient eyes, morning light turning every surface to liquid gold.
“Everyone has strange dreams,” he said, but uncertainty threaded through his voice like cracks in marble .
“Not like these,” I said. “Not dreams that feel more real than waking. Not memories that live in your bones.”
His fingers found his wedding ring, twisting it like an anchor to reality. Each movement precise, controlled, fighting against something he couldn't quite name. “You sound very sure about my dreams.”
“I recognize the signs.” I shifted over without making it obvious, creating space without demand. “The way you look at certain things like you're seeing double – what's there now, and what used to be. The way your hands remember movements you've never learned.”
His fingers went still on the ring. “You're very observant, Mr. Roths...Alex.”
“And observation is only part of it. Recognition is something else entirely.”
A wave of chatter crashed through the adjacent gallery, voices bouncing off ancient stone. We let the silence stretch between us until the noise faded. Eli had settled onto the bench again, maintaining a careful few inches of space that felt electric with possibility.
“Who are you?” His question hit the marble walls and multiplied, echoing off centuries of art. “Really?”
The morning light caught his profile, turning him into another masterpiece among the collection. “Someone who knows you. Someone who's known you before.”
He stood abruptly, but not with the panic I'd feared. “That's impossible.”
“Impossible is an interesting word.” I kept my voice gentle as the sunlight filtering through high windows. “Especially for a doctor. How many 'impossible' things have you seen in your ER? How many times has science had to expand to explain what seemed unexplainable?”
His pacing carried the grace of someone who had walked these halls before, even if he didn't know it. “You're talking in riddles. ”
“Would you believe straight answers?” The dust motes danced between us like stars. “If I told you why you're drawn to this place, why certain things feel familiar when they shouldn't?”
“Try me.” His voice carried equal parts challenge and fear.
“Your hands shake sometimes. Not during surgery – never then. But afterward, when you're alone. When the dreams are strongest.” The truth of it showed in his slight tremor. “You recognize places you've never visited, remember skills you've never learned. And sometimes, in the spaces between sleeping and waking, you hear voices speaking languages you shouldn't understand.”
The color drained from his face. “That's— How do you know these things?”
“Because I know you.” I let my careful control slip just enough. “Not just the Chief of Emergency Medicine, not just the brilliant surgeon. I know the healer who's lived many lives, who's carried that calling through centuries.”
He took a step back, his doctor's rationality visibly warring with deeper knowledge. “You're talking about reincarnation. Past lives. That's?—“
“Impossible?” The word hung between us like incense smoke. “Like the way you knew exactly how to modify those architectural plans without training? Like how you can read ancient Greek without studying it?”
His eyes widened. “I never told anyone about?—“
“You don't have to tell me.” The morning light painted shadows that made my chest ache. “I recognize the signs. The way you move through these galleries like you're remembering rather than discovering. The way certain pieces catch your eye – always the healing implements, always the temple artifacts.”
He pulled back like a man trying not to drown. “I have to go. This is?—“
“A lot to take in. I know. Take whatever time you need.”
Sunlight shifted through the skylights, transforming the space into something older, something that made reality feel tissue- paper thin. His voice came barely above a whisper. “The temple dreams. The ones with the marble columns and healing springs. Are they?—“
“Real?” I kept my voice soft as memory. “As real as this moment. As real as the way this gallery feels like coming home.”
His sharp breath echoed off the marble. “I really do have to go.”
“Of course.” I remained still as the statues watching us. “But Eli? When you're ready to talk about it – about any of it – I'll be here. Same time next week, if you're interested.”
Something shifted in his expression, like ice starting to crack in spring. “I'll think about it.”
“That's all I ask.”
His footsteps faded into the museum's quiet, measured but not running. Each click against marble felt like possibility, like the first notes of a familiar song starting to play again after too long a silence.
The weekend crowd drifted through the gallery like water around stones, their phones raised to capture artifacts they'd forget by dinner. My own phone buzzed like an angry hornet in my pocket – Marcus's security updates, Will's board concerns, the endless demands of a billion-dollar empire. I ignored them all, studying the weathered face of Asclepius instead.
Clouds shifted outside, throwing shadows across marble that made my head spin. The air in the gallery felt heavy with possibility and threat, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Movement caught my eye through the massive windows. Eli crossed Fifth Avenue, looking smaller somehow in his weekend clothes than in his usual surgeon's armor. Each step carried the precise control of someone trying not to run. At the crosswalk, his hand went to his temples – fighting off what I knew would be the first of many headaches as memories tried to surface.
A black Bentley slid up to the curb like a shark scenting blood. My jaw clenched as Vale emerged, his Savile Row suit and practiced smile a perfect costume for a predator. The fact that he'd broken his usual patterns to follow Eli here sent ice down my spine.
My vintage watch dug into my palm as my fingers tightened. Some hunters never lost their taste for certain prey, even if they didn't remember why.
“He's escalating faster than expected.”
Marcus materialized beside me like a particularly well-dressed ghost, his voice pitched low enough to blend with the gallery's natural acoustics.
“Vale's been increasing his research into reincarnation,” he reported, each word measured with careful precision. “Past-life regression, historical hospital records, particularly focusing on cases where patients remembered dying in previous lives. His latest grant proposal to the board requests funding for a study on near-death experiences and memory transfer.”
“He doesn't understand what he's remembering,” I watched Vale hand Eli what looked like a business card, the gesture smooth as silk and twice as deadly. “But his soul knows enough to be dangerous.”
Eli tucked the card away like it might bite, his glance back toward the museum quick but telling. Vale caught the look, his gaze rising to meet mine through layers of glass with the kind of recognition that made my blood run cold.
“The patterns are accelerating,” Marcus said, his tablet appearing in his hands like a modern shield. “All the players aligning faster than before. Vale, William, even Sofia – they're all starting to remember, whether they understand it or not.”
“We need to move faster.” The words tasted like ash, but Vale's presence changed everything. “Have you found anything in the historical society's archives?”
“Some promising leads.” His fingers danced across the screen, pulling up documents that smelled of dust and secrets even in digital form. “Hospital records from the 1890s mention a Dr. Monroe treating a Rothschild heir. The details are fragmentary, but there are references to unusual healing methods, to knowledge that seemed beyond normal medical training.”
“And Vale's connection to that lifetime?”
“Still unclear. But his father's influence at Presbyterian goes back generations. The Vale Wing wasn't just named for donations – there's something deeper there, something deliberately obscured in the records.”
I pushed up from the bench, muscles protesting hours of stillness. The corporate world beckoned, all boardrooms and billion-dollar decisions. My hand reached out almost without thought, brushing Asclepius's base in a gesture that made my fingertips tingle.
“The car's waiting,” Marcus said. “I have the latest updates from the hospital board meeting, and William's asked to see you before dinner.”
The museum's marble halls felt colder somehow as we walked out, like Eli had taken some vital warmth with him. Our driver held the car door with perfect timing, the leather interior offering its own kind of sanctuary. Marcus's tablet glowed with updates I couldn't ignore – Vale's proposals, William's discoveries, the hospital board's shifting alliances.
“You did well today,” Marcus's voice carried gentle approval. “Not pushing too hard, letting him find his way naturally. Even in the temple days, you knew when to let healing happen in its own time.”
The streets of New York blurred past the windows, but my mind kept going back to how Eli had looked at the end – questioning everything he thought he knew, but not running away. Maybe this time really would be different. Maybe this time we could break the pattern before Vale remembered enough to repeat ancient mistakes.