Philippa Gordon is supposed to be in class, but who is she to argue when the door to the lecture hall opens into Milliways instead. She's heading over to a small table where she can actually get some studying done, but on her way she happens to pass behind Hannah's table. She also happens to catch a glimpse of one of the pictures in the book.
"I say, honey," she says, stopping dead in her tracks, "what on earth are you reading about?"
"Forensic anthopology," says Hannah, cheerfully. "Identifying corpses from their bones and the like."
The twenty-two bones comprising the skull are neatly labeled on the diagram on the page in front of her. She's been debating memorizing them. You know, just to know them.
Hannah has issues with medical doctors (which has nothing at all to do with Phil's mun, of course), but she finds anatomy fascinating, and this is a good way to find a compromise.
"Well, yeah. I mean the stuff they can tell, by looking at skeletons? It's really interesting. Whether or not bones got broken, and when, and if people were florists . . . It's just plain cool."
Hannah may look like a pretty little blonde social butterfly, but she has an inner science geek. It's getting out more and more these days.
Together, Hannah's inner science geek and Phil's inner math nerd, combined with their outer charm, would rule the world. Quite wisely.
"Yeah. Something called 'florist's fingertips,'" she says, flipping back to that part of the book. "'An arthritic condition that affects the bones in the fingers.' It doesn't say just how."
"That's right. Brennan. I believe we've met before," says Phil.
"I had no idea you could tell a person's profession from their finger bones. From their fingertips, perhaps, but from the bones? That's extraordinary."
She grins. "My name is Philippa Gordon, by the way. Phil for short. Do call me Phil, won't you?
"Well, honey, you have to give someone your heart to let them break it, and I assure you, I'm not giving mine to anybody, let alone Mr. Echolls. He's just a chum, nothing more. Almost more of an acquaintance, really. But if he's the sort of person who makes perfectly nice girls like you say such things, well, then he's an unpleasant topic of conversation for today, and we shan't discuss him any more."
So there. She grins, and sits down at the table without an invitation. Because when has Philippa Gordon ever needed an invitation.
"And so, as we steer clear of unpleasant subjects, tell me something pleasant, Hannah."
An easy shrug. "There isn't much more to discuss anyway," says Hannah. "He lied to me and he broke my heart. It's kind of the whole story. Cliffs' Notes version, anyway."
It really doesn't bother her the way it might have, say, forty hours ago.
"Something pleasant to talk about? Well, it's almost Christmas. Which means a break from school, and presents, and decorations. No snow, because I live in Southern California, but maybe there'll be some here."
"Pleasant indeed, though I can't possibly imagine a Christmas without snow. Why, it's been snowing for months now in Nova Scotia, though we're a good bit further north than you are. My winter holidays from school begin in just a week, though, and I am looking forward to being home again and away from these."
She shows Hannah her textbooks before dropping them rather unceremoniously to the floor.
"With the help of lots of very warm and fuzzy clothing, warm fires, and plenty of tea," explains Phil with a grin. "Christmas punch doesn't hurt either."
She frowns at her books, "They are heavy. It's an awful lot of knowledge to cram into an awfully small space."
"I don't entirely understand the appeal of tea,," she confesses. She is, after all, an American who cannot remember a time B. S. (Before Starbucks). "But Christmas punch sounds good."
She frowns at the books.
"I wonder if the authors get paid by the word. Or the pound."
"I say, honey," she says, stopping dead in her tracks, "what on earth are you reading about?"
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The twenty-two bones comprising the skull are neatly labeled on the diagram on the page in front of her. She's been debating memorizing them. You know, just to know them.
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Phil raises an eyebrow.
"For fun? That seems dreadfully grim, though you seem to be terribly happy about it. Are they really that exciting?"
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"Well, yeah. I mean the stuff they can tell, by looking at skeletons? It's really interesting. Whether or not bones got broken, and when, and if people were florists . . . It's just plain cool."
Hannah may look like a pretty little blonde social butterfly, but she has an inner science geek. It's getting out more and more these days.
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Hannah's inner science geek should meet Phil's inner math nerd. They'd probably get along.
"Wait....florists?"
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Together, Hannah's inner science geek and Phil's inner math nerd, combined with their outer charm, would rule the world. Quite wisely.
"Yeah. Something called 'florist's fingertips,'" she says, flipping back to that part of the book. "'An arthritic condition that affects the bones in the fingers.' It doesn't say just how."
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"I had no idea you could tell a person's profession from their finger bones. From their fingertips, perhaps, but from the bones? That's extraordinary."
She grins. "My name is Philippa Gordon, by the way. Phil for short. Do call me Phil, won't you?
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She grins back. "Of course. And I'm Hannah. Hannah Griffith. Neptune, California, 2006."
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She beams, "Oh! Neptune! Do you know Logan?"
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"Watch out for him, Phil. He's a liar and he'll break your heart." It's said without rancor or emotion. Matter-of-fact.
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"Well, honey, you have to give someone your heart to let them break it, and I assure you, I'm not giving mine to anybody, let alone Mr. Echolls. He's just a chum, nothing more. Almost more of an acquaintance, really. But if he's the sort of person who makes perfectly nice girls like you say such things, well, then he's an unpleasant topic of conversation for today, and we shan't discuss him any more."
So there. She grins, and sits down at the table without an invitation. Because when has Philippa Gordon ever needed an invitation.
"And so, as we steer clear of unpleasant subjects, tell me something pleasant, Hannah."
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It really doesn't bother her the way it might have, say, forty hours ago.
"Something pleasant to talk about? Well, it's almost Christmas. Which means a break from school, and presents, and decorations. No snow, because I live in Southern California, but maybe there'll be some here."
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She shows Hannah her textbooks before dropping them rather unceremoniously to the floor.
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Hannah looks at the text books.
"Best place for them," she agrees. "I don't always mind studying, but the books are so dry. And they're heavy."
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She frowns at her books, "They are heavy. It's an awful lot of knowledge to cram into an awfully small space."
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She frowns at the books.
"I wonder if the authors get paid by the word. Or the pound."
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