More than anything

Please leave letters for Greta here.

Despite only having been stuck in the barn for a day, she still approaches the cottage as if she isn't entirely sure what she might find there. Guilt and embarrassment both gnaw at her, as if, with this long a tenure in the city, there's something shameful about succumbing to one of Darrow's escapades so completely. And without even noticing, which might be the worst part. She can't even tell herself she went down fighting.

Given all that, the indignity of ending up as a cow's scratching post feels a little too apropos. A not-so-small part of her wishes she could have a bath before she had to actually face anyone, though she's aware of what a silly, selfish arrangement that would be.

So it would have been with a rather subdued air that she actually crossed the threshold, except that the dogs heard her voice through the back door and are waiting to swarm her with a great deal of whining, tail wagging, and shoving her about with their noses. "Yes, yes," she says as Cú winds around the back of her legs and Sadie actually heaves herself up to put her paws on Greta's shoulders and sniff at her chin. "Oh, for goodness' sake. I'm all right, I promise."

As far as Darrow antics go, this one might top the list for bloody eeriness. At the cottage, they can almost pretend nothing's happened. Between the garden, the chickens, and the staples she always keeps well-stocked, there's no immediate threat of starvation. The power hasn't failed yet, but even if it does, she thinks they'll be able to work around it — neither she nor Anne are exactly accustomed to being without it anymore, but that doesn't mean they've forgotten how to get by.

And surely things will go back to normal sooner or later. They always do, and she refuses to believe that—that whatever this is might be special in that regard.

But it's still unsettling. Even though it only seems to be the locals who have vanished, there were always far more of them than anyone else, and never has she felt the difference so keenly. Whole blocks are abandoned, shops either permanently shuttered or, more often, left unmanned mid-shift: the lights still on, but no one at home. But what she hates most are the littler signs of lives abruptly interrupted. A lone briefcase sitting at a bus stop; half-drunk beverages glued to their coasters by dried condensation; shopping carts left idle halfway down an aisle.

Regan is taking it especially hard, and no wonder.

It would be easier to avoid town entirely, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted. But she can't abide the thought of hiding out in the countryside when there are still plenty of people who need help. Not when her hands still remember how to feed a Village.

So she's stolen a bakery. Or, well... borrowed. She's borrowing a bakery.

It hadn't been hard to find. Even cleaning it up hadn't been too much of a challenge: people had already made off with the displays' contents, so there was little rotten food to be dealt with. Obviously there were no fresh ingredients worth salvaging, but things like flour, baking soda, and spices don't go bad overnight. There's plenty to start with, at least.

Getting the word out had been the bigger challenge. She's texted everyone she can, and Saoirse has made some very colorful signage to post in the bakery windows and in other places around the city, letting people know that there are fresh-baked goods available. She can't imagine charging for any of it, but after the first few hours (and some discussion with Anne), she'd added some signage suggesting that she wouldn't question where any raw ingredients might have come from, if people wanted to bring some.

It's mid-afternoon when she slides two more trays of muffins into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then steps out of the kitchen for some slightly cooler air. Her hair is falling out of its bun and she's probably a mess, but it's satisfying to see people eating something she made: something fresh and good that hasn't come from a bloody can.

[ooc: a mini-gathering for the vanishing NPC plot! If your pup knows Greta, you can assume they've received a text; otherwise, there's plenty of signage letting people know there's still one functioning bakery in town.]

Things have been relatively quiet for the past few weeks, and Greta's feeling... good, in a broad sort of way. Saoirse still has the occasional nightmare, and Regan still has the sort of moods you'd get with any teenager, of course. But things have settled to the point where she no longer feels as if her primary occupation is recovering, or like all she has to offer are bracingly delivered progress reports.

So, naturally, it seems like a fine time for company. God, she's missed being able to talk to people without some small part of her, with or without real cause, just dreading their eventual, inevitable sympathy.

It's been some time since she's seen Julia, and the weather's warming enough that the deck is actually a pleasant place to sit. After a few exchanged texts, the arrangements are made, and Greta spends the morning making biscuits and muffins (she doubts Julia and herself will polish off that many between them, but Saoirse and Regan can make a whole tray disappear while her back is turned, so she's not worried about leftovers).

She's just put the kettle on when the knock comes, and Greta heads for the door in the wake of the dogs, who sniff preemptively at the jamb, tails wagging. "Right, budge up, you two," she mutters, wading through them to open the door for Julia. "Hello," she says with a wide, easy smile. "Here, come in. Just nudge them aside if you need to."

Greta's second worry is that something awful has happened to Elsa -- or perhaps Jessica -- but a few hurried texts are enough to put that fear to bed. Whatever this is, it's Darrow's doing, which means it probably won't last more than a few days. A week, at most.

Her first worry is for Regan and Saoirse, who are alone at the cottage (aside from the dogs, of course). There's no reason they should be unsafe there, especially since they're so much closer to town -- and therefore any potential rescue -- than Greta is here at the Gardens. But she hates being apart from Saoirse, in particular, while there's some sort of Darrow nonsense afoot. Even if it only takes the form of weather so poor that she, the children, and the staff who happened to be working when the skies opened are all thoroughly stuck.

She supposes there are worse things. The children are clearly relieved to have her here, and if she'd been snowed in away from the Gardens, she would have spent the whole time fretting over them and feeling awful that she wasn't here.

But the few days of ridiculousness that she was anticipating stretch into a full week, and then beyond. She's received some increasingly restive texts from Regan that she's done her best to mitigate. They'll be safe enough at the cottage, and the snow in the countryside has drifted so deep that frequent shoveling is the only reason they can open the front door at all. Going much beyond the stoop is a fool's errand.

Still, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't considering it. It's only a combination of pride and her lingering unease with being directly bespelled that's kept her from calling Magnus and asking if he might magically fetch her, somehow.

The absolute last thing she's expecting, then, is a knock at the door. More of a frantic pounding, actually, and she hurries over to pull it open. Who on earth would be out in all this?

It's not a very good day for sitting outside, chilly and overcast and rather on the damp side. But being indoors felt stifling, and Greta's bundled enough to be comfortable. She's one of the only people in the courtyard, a to-go cup of tea warming her fingers as she considers her options.

A small, selfish part of her wants to just refuse this unanticipated responsibility that's been heaped upon her shoulders. She has enough experience running a business to not miss it one jot, and she liked her job as it was. It had been easier to agree to the idea of taking over ownership of the Gardens when it was strictly hypothetical, before her employers joined the bloody exodus and made it all terribly real.

But she had agreed, and her complaints sound petulant even to her own ears. Baz and Simon may have disappeared, but the children haven't. It wouldn't feel right to simply shutter the place. Not without at least making a go of it.

Greta takes a rather morose sip of her tea, letting herself look as tired as she feels.

Greta and Saoirse spend the week or so leading up to Thomas's birthday quietly, carefully scheming. No great fuss had been made of the occasion last year. In fact, no fuss had been made at all, except for a rather small one after the fact, as Greta realized -- with slowly increasing dismay -- not just that they'd missed it, but that he hadn't mentioned it because he hadn't remembered it, because it had never been a celebrated occasion for him, ever. Not even as a child. She'd known his history was rather bleak, but she hadn't imagined the tragedy extended to 'no birthdays worth speaking of.'

In retrospect, maybe she should have. There was no reason to think his categorically awful parents would have indulged him one day per year while leaving him in the nursery for all the rest. Nor does she expect Lucille ever managed much, due to either the limits of their situation or a more personal shortage of warmth.

Regardless, she decides that they're going to make up for all those missed opportunities this year. And Saoirse, once brought into the loop, makes for a very enthusiastic co-conspirator. There are secret shopping trips for gifts and decorations and silly paper hats, which are squirreled away in places he won't be likely to find them. Greta plans something special for every meal -- nothing so complex that she'll have to spend half the day in the kitchen, but things she knows have become favorites of his -- and gathers all the ingredients for what is sure to be an excellent cake.

Sunday afternoon, while Thomas is out working in the little shed he's built for himself in the backyard, Greta and Saoirse wrap all his presents and stash them under the girl's bed.

And when she rises early the following morning, even though she doesn't technically have to, because she's surreptitiously called off work, he of course thinks nothing of it. A brief kiss and a murmured insistence that he stay in bed is enough to settle him back to sleep for a little while, which leaves her free to creep downstairs to her hidden stash of crepe paper streamers, birthday-themed glitter, and a large 'Happy Birthday, Thomas!' banner that Saoirse spent a good few hours rendering in colored marker.

Not long after, Saoirse quietly rises and comes down to help. By the time the smell of waffles starts to waft upstairs, the streamers and banners have all been hung, and there's a respectable pile of gifts on the dining room table.

Sharing a grin with her daughter, Greta says, "Right. If this doesn't have him down here in five minutes, you can go jump on him."

Greta triple-checks her reflection, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she bites back a nervous grin. Krem has finished her bespoke suit, which turned out to be a little more than just a suit in the end. There are two blouses, one with looser sleeves that pairs well with just a waistcoat, and one for wearing beneath a jacket. This is her first time trying any of it on at home, and she turns, craning her neck to make sure everything is as it should be without Nina or Krem there to make minor adjustments.

She looks good -- or she thinks she does. It's a sentiment that's already been echoed by several other parties (Krem and Nina have been downright effusive), so she's inclined to believe it. It's just that... well, this isn't entirely about her own opinion. It's about whether Thomas thinks she's possessed.

That's partly why she's started with just the waistcoat. The blouse itself, with its wide sleeves that gather at the wrists, isn't so different from the others she already has hanging in their closet. She can sort of... ease him into it.

As if there's any 'easing into' the sight of her in trousers.

It may or may not be helping that she's felt compelled to send a steady stream of vague, preparatory warnings through the locked bathroom door as she readies herself -- a lot of 'it's very different's and 'sort of a lark, really's and 'you might think it's... odd's and so on, until she's run out of both warnings and excuses to dally.

Still, she hesitates with her hand on the doorknob. "You have to promise not to laugh at me," she says, a faint quaver in her voice, as if he hasn't already promised twice.

Greta's done her best not to feel guilty for how focused she was on her Bake Off appearance, especially in retrospect. It was what it was, and she knows that in the grand scheme of things, a couple of months isn't that much of a commitment.

But Saoirse's growing so quickly, a fact that becomes all the more apparent when Greta finally regains the wherewithal to focus on her properly. She's a long way from being a beanpole, but she's still grown out of last year's winter coats by a shocking margin, necessitating a shopping trip (the necklace Magnus enchanted for her might still qualify as 'wearing' her coat -- enough for her own magic to not know the difference -- but she still needs a coat that can ward off the chill). And she's eight. It's hard not to wonder how close they might be to Saoirse deciding she's too old to cuddle on the couch, or that the games and stories they've enjoyed thusfar are for children, which she is not.

So, both as an implicit apology for being so distracted over the past few months and as a means of taking advantage of the time they've got, Greta suggests a mother-daughter outing. Saoirse seems to enjoy any excuse to dress a bit more sharply than normal, and Greta just wants to give the lass her undivided attention for an afternoon. Things at the cottage may have returned to normal, but a little outright spoiling is overdue, she thinks.

Three o'clock sees them stepping into the café that has the best hot chocolate, by Saoirse's decree (and when Greta sees just how many options there are in the toppings department, she can understand the girl's reasoning).

"Goodness, that's an awful lot of options," Greta observes as she looks over the chalkboard menu. "What do you think? Any ideas?"

Greta isn't normally up this late, but she also isn't normally perfecting a recipe under severe time constraints. She's beginning to think this bloody contest will be the death of her. She's beginning to think she might win.

She doesn't want any fae help in that regard, so she's asked Sweeney not to apply his luck to her efforts in the tent. (Well, she'd asked after a few of the early episodes, after it occurred to her to wonder if other bakers' nervous mistakes and her own fortunate guesses were entirely coincidental.) But she's still leaving out offerings for him. She's not a fool. He might respectfully refrain from giving her good luck in the tent, but she suspects he'd apply bad luck wherever he pleased.

So there's a chocolate-dipped biscotti pinning a napkin to the windowsill. It's only open a few inches, dispelling the heat and moisture from both baking and scrubbing up. She's wiping down the counters when she sees a small, pale hand pluck the offering from its resting place, and she stiffens in surprise. Squinting past the kitchen's reflections, she sees a flash of red hair a good foot or so lower than she'd expect it to be, and a smirking, female face.

"Wh--!" She doesn't stop to consider that there might be two leprechauns in the city. All she can think is that someone who isn't Sweeney has just helped themselves to his offering, and her indignation has her flying out the back door with a broom in hand before common sense can catch up with her. "I beg your pardon!" she snaps, her tone suggesting she shouldn't be the one begging.