Trish had found the more she concentrated on work, the less she thought about home. Not that it really could be home, considering back there she was dead. She still wasn’t really sure how that worked, but like the rest it was best not to think about it. Better to focus on getting the museum in order (because in her mind it wasn’t), and learning as many languages as possible.
She had a book about Gaelic in her hands, and was reading it as she entered the Complex. No one really spoke Gaelic anymore, but that didn’t stop Trish from wanting to learn it. She wanted to learn as many languages as humanly possible. She already spoke French, Spanish and German fluently, and Italian enough she could easily function if she ended up in a country where it was the primary language. She was semi fluent in Latin and Greek – in other words she was a language addict. To her learning languages gave one a much deeper understanding of art, like history did. Since Trish wanted to run her own museum one day she wanted to be able to converse with people in their own language, it made things feel much more authentic.
She was dressed in baggy white trousers and a lilac top, and her hair was pulled back into a messy bun - an attempt at looking professional, but not daudy at the same time. Maybe it was the cloths the other was wearing that made her look up from her book, because no one dressed like that – at least no one from this time period. Or the fact that lack of interaction with people outside of work (and drinking) was finally starting to get to her. Either or, Trish closed her book, and offered the other a slight smile.
“You know, you won’t spontaneously combust if you step outside,” she said. Which was actually a bad example, because here, who knew what could happen. “At least it’s very unlikely that would actually happen.”