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There came a knock on the door, which was always a good sign, because only people with some shred of decency bothered to knock instead of just barging in unannounced. It wasn't anybody expected, though, or even anyone remotely familiar: the man who called out inquiringly, "Dr. Darnell?" was, from the sound of it, a complete stranger. Albeit one with good manners.

The door opened and revealed that while the voice certainly belonged to someone unfamiliar, the cluster of people outside the door didn't consist of an entirely unknown quantity. Standing there looking like a million bucks was none other than Tenebras Merroth, the closest thing Beatrix had to a prodigal son. (Prodigal daughters, now, that was a different matter.) Clean, washed, and just the slightest bit uneasy, but right below that the shimmering eagerness of someone with something to prove to the world.

The people with him were the unfamiliar components. The man, smiling lopsidedly, dressed in an atrocious mixture of business and casual, with that windblown, sunswept look you only got if you could afford to own yachts, had to be the source of the voice. There was a heavy fog of comfortable smugness that underlined his wealth. Not enough to be unbearable, just enough to let you know he had money to back his claims. With him was a woman, clinging to Merroth with a mixture of overprotection and piety, like maybe she expected Merroth to be the braver one of the two of them. Her clothes looked like hand-me-downs. The oversized shirt she was wearing as a jacket had to belong to the man. She was young enough that first glance made her out to be the man's daughter.

"Good, you're here," said the man, an earnest proclamation, taking quick stock of both Beatrix and Jacoba. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Boston. Boston Clark."

At which the female quickly went, "You're doing it again, Boston. The James Bond thing. For Pete's sake!"

Without missing a beat, Boston continued, "My wife, Emma, and I believe you've met our son already." Bit of an understatement, that, but there was a tug of laughter at the corner of Boston's lip that said he had not intended it seriously.

Merroth gave a passing smirk to Jacoba that said he had something way better than she did now, but holy s**t, had her arms looked quite that strong last time they'd met? The memory of that day was a bit foggy. Merroth avoided any actual statements. Jace was still loads bigger, and he kind of didn't want to piss off someone who looked more and more each passing day like she was just waiting to be given an excuse to display the payout from all that gym time.

So Merroth went after someone he was pretty sure wasn't going to beat him no matter what: "Beatrix." Still an arrogant little prat, despite the parental units. Perhaps even worse, neither Boston nor Emma seemed to mind this breach of student/teacher protocol, Boston pulling a chair over to where he wanted to sit without blinking an eye.

"Whatever," said Merroth as he shuffled to his favorite chair, which of course meant yes, very much so, please! He was silently dancing at his triumph in calling his tutor "Beatrix" and getting away with it. Score, he thought to himself, one of the many sports-related terms he was picking up from Boston.

Boston said diplomatically, "We're very much looking forward to encouraging Roth in any direction he wants to go." He clamped a hand on Merroth's shoulder, and Merroth didn't even squirm. Emma sat down on the floor.

"I don't see any reason why not," said Boston, shaking Merroth's shoulder in affectionate teasing. Merroth made a face. "And we were hoping you'd sign on to be Roth's academic advisor, it's a little hard to get away from the office, so it'd be good to know there's someone around here looking after Roth's interests."

"I can get away from the office, I don't even need to go in it," remarked Emma, seemingly in a different conversation.

"Yes, well, we all know that's part of your charm, dear," said Boston.

Merroth cut into the conversation suddenly, "I don't want Emma at school!"

Well, if this wasn't a new family dynamic.

Emma started to laugh, a high, tinkling sound that grew and grew until it was something wholly too large for the room. The looks on their faces said Merroth and Boston weren't in on the joke. Emma reached up and cupped Merroth's head in her hands. "That's perfect!" she laughed. "I don't have to go anywhere you don't want me to!" She kept laughing, but a bit more quietly. Merroth squirmed and made a face at her affections, mumbling petulantly under his breath.

"Here's my direct line," said Boston, stretching out a card to Beatrix. "You can call any time. Don't give that to anyone else, either. In fact, I think it would be best if you just memorized it and ate the paper." At that, Merroth started to snicker, because the mental image of Beatrix eating a piece of paper was too perfect. "That wasn't a joke!" protested Boston.

"This message will self-destruct in ten, nine," intoned Emma.

"Eight," said Merroth, though he didn't get the reference.

"I can't take you anywhere!" Boston exclaimed of them.

Emma immediately sat up, alert with warning. "Oh, no," she said, "we couldn't--" She looked at Boston for support, but he just raised an eyebrow. She turned to Merroth. She could already see that shadow of resentment, that kernel of doubt. "We don't--"

Boston leaned over and whispered something in Merroth's ear, something low and lengthy that ended in, "Okay, champ?" Merroth seemed to think it over a moment and then accept the promise or offer or whatever it was Boston had said to him, sliding from the chair. He was careful not to step on Emma, who was looking more and more alarmed by the moment.

"Muh," squeaked Emma as Merroth sulked to the door, but Boston put a hand on her head.

"Proof of theorem," said Boston, keeping her where she was and nodding to Merroth, who closed the door. Boston turned back to Beatrix. "Go ahead."