Free The World Before Us by Aislinn Hunter

to wander off on our own, to move toward the longcase clock, the Victorian photographs, the Bedford cabinet.
    “Stay together!” one of us snaps.
    “This way,” demands another.
    We try to get our bearings, find each other, round up the stragglers.
    “Where’s the girl?” Cat asks.
    “Here I am!” the girl calls from somewhere near the botanical gallery.
    “I’ll get her,” the poet says, heading off in the girl’s direction—bowing at the stuffed cassowary when he passes it, and lifting a hand in benediction at the stacked bones of the moa.
    Those of us who turn to follow Jane stop when the boy cuts across our path. “Aaarrrrrrr, aarrrrrrgh,” he moans, waggling his arms over his head, because last month he wandered down into the cinema and a film about zombies—and now he thinks it’s fun to pretend he’s dead.

    The staff room across from Jane’s office is an aggrandized cubby with a kettle, fridge and a microwave. When Jane sticks her head in to look for Gareth she finds Duncan sitting on the counter next to the sink eating takeaway noodles with her chopsticks. He’d been packing the Murchison trilobites all morning, so knee-deep in crates that his sandy hair and T-shirt are covered in bits of cardboard. Duncan is Australian, and although he’s been interning at the Chester for six months he still looks like he wandered in off the beach.
    “Have you seen Gareth?”
    “Nope, I’ve been with the creepy crawlies all day.”
    “Where’s the Murch going again?”
    “Auction. It’ll probably end up in a law office in Japan.”
    “Do you know anything about the stuff that isn’t going to auction?”
    Duncan shrugs. “I dunno—eBay?” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, slides off the counter and leans in to Jane. “You still the only one with no job to go to?”
    “Har har.” She pokes his chest with her finger. When he gets to the doorway Jane says, “I broke a teacup—” and a sense of relief from the admission washes over her.
    “Which one?”
    “A Grainger.”
    Duncan lets out a low whistle. “Well, better you than me. Let’s raid the bar at the lecture to commiserate.”
    Those of us who are in the room stop skimming the newspaper on the counter, stop staring at the blinking lights on the microwave. We turn to see if she’ll confirm whether or not she’s going to the lecture. All morning we’ve sensed flight in her, a waver she pushes down by thinking about the tasks at hand: after the tea set there’s the Bedford collection, then a group of astronomical drawings to prepare, Lord Dutton’s Italian glass, a set of French and German clocks going to a buyer in India. In storage there’s a crate containing the hunting weapons and personal effects of the last of Louis the XIV’s menagerie keepers, which Gareth had asked her to re-inventory weeks ago.
    “You in there?” Duncan waves his hand in front of Jane’s face.
    “Yes. Barely.”
    “Chin up, it’ll work out.”
    “What will?”
    “Whatever it is you’re mulling over.” He pecks her on the cheek and she can smell the tang of soy sauce on his breath.
    “Hey, start washing my chopsticks or get your own.”
    Duncan glances over to the sink where he’s dropped them. “The museum’s closing , Jane, it’s not like I’ll need them again.”
    Heading back to her office Jane thinks about the day Gareth hired her, how he’d asked her to come in to sign some papers, suggesting they meet in his office at six p.m. when things wouldn’t be so busy. When all the paperwork was done he’d taken her on a tour around the museum. By then there was only a cleaning staff of two and a security guard in the building. He’d already arranged for a temporary pass and let her swipe into the old elevator at the back of the natural history hall. When the door opened on the second floor he’d handed her a pair of cotton gloves.“I’ve got all the keys and codes,” he said. “Tell me what you want to look at and we can