(no subject)

[andhiswife]

Greta spends most of the morning in the kitchen.

Sort of absurd, really, given the preparations being made across the city. But they've been working on the cottage for weeks, now — fortifying both magical and physical deterrents, getting Aggie's animals settled and comfortable, stocking up on whatever they might need based on every miserable eventuality she could envision — and it's belatedly occurred to her that if all goes according to plan, what she'll mostly be doing is just... hosting. She's told everyone she can think of that the cottage should be a safe harbor, and while she doesn't expect all of them to come by, or to stay for the whole evening, she imagines the ones that do might be wanting more than just a brief rest and some first aid.

So she bakes, wanting to get it done early enough that the wind will have time to dispel any tempting scents well before the siren sounds. Wanting to give herself something to do besides wringing her hands, or checking and re-checking everything like a madwoman, or lecturing Saoirse about the importance of not doing anything foolish.

Later, as people begin to arrive, she focuses on making sure they're comfortable (or as comfortable as circumstances allow). There's a large pot of soup on the stove and fresh-baked goods for anyone who's managed to keep their appetite, and plenty of tea in the cupboard. By the time 6PM rolls around, she's half-tempted to bring out something stronger, for all that this seems like a terrible time to impair her own judgment. The heavier stuff can wait, she decides, until they've all made it through this, ideally unscathed.

When the siren sounds, she's standing on her front stoop, brow furrowed at the city skyline, windows tightly shuttered behind her and arms folded tightly across her chest. What a stupid bloody excuse for a holiday.


[ A gathering post for anyone who might be riding out the Purge at the cottage, either temporarily or for the whole evening. If Greta knows your pup, it's a safe bet you've been invited or otherwise made aware, but anyone without evil intentions should be able to safely bypass Magnus' wards and make it onto the property for a respite. Open forever! ]

Comments

[ghost_holder]

The siren sounds and Aggie wishes it sounds more distant, as if it were something that happened only after crossing properly into the city. Instead, it's loud and clear in the skies above her here too. Someone's on the porch still, whether to get one last gasp of fresh air or arriving at the very cusp of safety, but theirs looks to be a familiar face rather than a threatening stranger.

"You should come inside now," Aggie says, even though she's only a few feet away, dithering right at the threshold. Greta's nervous energy probably found no calm harbors with Aggie, who spent all of the daylight hours pacing the property line and going over every bit of magic with a fine-toothed comb. It's as safe as she can make it and Aggie knows there's very little else she can realistically do, but she's still fighting with the pent up energy that she's been unable to siphon off.

And now, here she is, standing at Greta's door and telling someone to get inside as if Aggie's the grown up. It's not as if the front door will change everything else, nor are people practically at their doors with pitchforks by any means. It just feels especially vulnerable out here, somehow.

[andhiswife]

Greta lets out a short hum of acknowledgment, her eyes still scanning the quiet street and the skyline beyond it. She doesn't know what she's looking for, really. A more decisive sign that things are underway? A peace that lingers long enough to suggest that perhaps nothing will happen, that everyone has decided to be sensible and carry on as if it's a normal evening?

Either of those things might take a while to reach them here. She wants to imagine that it will begin in the city proper. That everyone will be drawn to where there are more windows to smash and shopfronts to loot and people to torment, and only when those easier options have been exhausted will people venture into the countryside to seek further sport.

But there's no reason to presume that. Aggie's right to remind her, and Greta moves back into the doorway with one last disapproving huff over the whole bloody business.

"What about you?" she asks, keeping her voice low. Regan has set up enough cameras they no one strictly needs to keep watch the old-fashioned way (not yet, at any rate). But should trouble arrive, it might be just as well to have Aggie able to act quickly.

[ghost_holder]

"I keep waiting for the sky to turn red or for lightning to strike. Except, well, that'd just be a sign that I'm here." Not that she remembers the last time she did that particularly well. Aggie hadn't quite come unmoored that night but it had been close. Hopefully, she won't have any reason to even start in that direction tonight.

She doesn't dare hope that it'll be boring, because to verbalize the thought is to tempt fate.

[andhiswife]

"I'd like to think that anyone with that sort of power is only intending to use it defensively." It's bad enough that the city at large is endorsing this without imagining that any of her magically-inclined fellow immigrants might be taking advantage of the opportunity to be flagrantly antisocial. If they're not looking out for one another, then what on earth are they doing?

She'd also like to think that no one's been lying in wait to target the cottage, specifically. And that, at least, seems to be bearing out as the seconds tick by; no one has come charging forward to take advantage of the fact that two harmless-looking women haven't locked themselves indoors, yet. But that doesn't mean they should linger.

"Come on, then," she says, taking Aggie's hand to draw her back inside as well. "The wards should hold." 'Should' because she doesn't want to tempt fate, not because she's faithless. If Magnus' wards saw the cottage unharmed through the last Purge, they should be able to repeat the performance.

[ghost_holder]

"I'd like to think that," she agrees. Most of the powered types who arrive in Darrow seem to be mostly peaceable, or at least willing to restrain themselves in the face of having nowhere else to go. On dark nights, it occurs to her to worry about what might happen if a day ever comes that someone with a less retiring nature ends up here. Those nights usually end with her drifting off to sleep with the vow that she'll do whatever it takes to keep people safe, the same as she's trying to now.

Aggie takes Greta's hand and lets them both retreat further into the safety of the house. "The wards should hold." She wants to say that they will hold, but tonight doesn't feel like the night for stubborn, blind optimism. Not when, only a few miles away, she has every reason not to feel optimistic about people at all.

[auctionofinnocence]

The Downs are as secured as she could afford, her house is boarded up, and she and Poppy have been at the cottage for most of the day. Poppy is getting along famously with the animals that Greta's friend Aggie's brought along, but Lari knew she would — the concern had always been anyone else that would come by, but apparently, Larita is the only person that Poppy outright hated on sight. Thank goodness that's over.

Greta is a nervous baker, Larita's learned. Perhaps 'nervous' isn't the right word, but there's a certain sort of ceaseless energy that suggests she isn't sure what else to do with herself, and if it weren't for this ghastly Purge business, Larita would find it even more charming. They're never both keyed up at the same time — Larita, for her part, has felt very still and quiet as the day wore on. She feels, she realizes, like she had before her trial, so many years ago now. She's done what she could do, what she'd needed to do, and that's all that she can do, until something happens.

It isn't until later, the sun long down and the Purge well underway in the city proper, that the itch for a cigarette rises, and Larita's fingers drum against her knee where she's been curled on the couch. Her heels have been traded out for slippers, and she'd been hoping for a nap, but between the tension in the air and the keen awareness that despite all of their preparations, something could still happen, she hasn't been able to sleep. Now, she uncurls herself from the sofa and stands, hugging herself as she paces on quiet feet over to the window like she'll be able to see out of it, shuttered as it is.

"You know, of all the things to forget to prepare for tonight, I wasn't expecting 'no smoking' to be one of them," she notes, her tone wry and amused. "I suppose stepping onto the porch would be awfully foolish of me."

[andhiswife]

The gratitude that she feels for Lari's presence — her steady, miraculously calm presence, no less — has been tinged with more guilt than Greta wants to admit. The defenses she's gathered around the cottage are considerable, but they're also localized in a manner that could feel a bit selfish, especially when measured against the mere physical deterrents that Lari's had to fall back upon for her townhouse and Eider Downs. And she knows there's no helping it. Magnus isn't here to lay new wards, and asking Aggie to strengthen them felt like a risk in its own right; the idea of attempting to shift any of them was completely out of the question. But it still feels a bit awful, knowing that hunkering down here means that Lari can't really keep an eye on her own properties.

Even if the thought of Lari riding this out at the Downs, all the way across town, is awful in its own right.

So perhaps she's a little too eager to tend to this one minor inconvenience that has suddenly revealed itself. "The porch might not be wise," Greta agrees, gently shifting Poppy off her lap so she can rise to her feet as well. "But..." Greta touches Lari's arm, then inclines her head towards the side entrance.

It's one they barely used before the cow arrived, and haven't used too often since. But when they'd constructed Milky White's barn, she'd had the foresight to build it parallel to that side of the cottage, leaving a narrow courtyard between the two buildings. The barn is still distant enough that the smell doesn't creep into the house (especially if the side door remains shut), but the yard is narrow enough that she can dart across quickly in inclement weather.

With the cottage on one side, the barn on the other, and a tall, sturdy fence blocking the courtyard from the street... well, it might not be wise, but there are far more exposed places to nip out for a cigarette.

Greta undoes the additional deadbolts on the side door as quietly as she can before easing the door open a crack and listening carefully. Close by, she can hear the shifting and occasional, restive snorts of her and Aggie's livestock; more distantly, faint shouts or the muffled report of what could just be fireworks.

"If we're quiet," she whispers over her shoulder, "I think we'll be all right for a few minutes."

[auctionofinnocence]

"You're an angel," Lari all but coos at her, pitching her voice down like there could be someone just outside who'll hear her. There isn't, and they can't, but it feels right to do her part to avoid drawing attention to them both.

The cool night air whispers in through the door as Greta draws it wider to let them both step out, and Larita draws it closed behind her, careful not to let it slam or let the handle jangle too loudly in the quiet around them. Then she draws out her cigarette case and lighter, cupping her hand around the flame as she lights one up. That first, dizzying hit of nicotine has Lari closing her eyes, and she sighs the smoke out through her nose on a long, relieved exhale.

"This whole thing is so ridiculous," she whispers, not for the first time since it was announced so many months ago. "I hate that you've had to do this twice, now."

[andhiswife]

Greta arches an eyebrow slightly — there are many words for what sort of choice this is, and she doesn't think 'angelic' ranks among the most apropos — but she can't help a smile as they slip outside.

All things considered, the courtyard only feels marginally less stifling than the cottage did. But it's still nice to breathe in the cooler air, which smells faintly of animals but doesn't carry any sign of smoke (of the non-cigarette variety, that is). Greta leans back against the cottage wall, her arms curled loosely around herself, as Larita lights up and takes a slow, grateful drag.

"Awful, isn't it?" Greta agrees in a low tone. "I could've done without you having to go through it once." She knows better to presume anything regarding how Darrow might operate, and goodness knows that it's repeated itself before. But this one is so... specific. It really does seem unfair that it's just happening again, like bloody clockwork.

[auctionofinnocence]

"So could I," Larita admits, and she exhales the smoke away from Greta before moving closer and leaning against the wall beside her. "But we're here, and we'll get through this, won't we." She looks over at Greta, taking in the set of her shoulders and the way she sort of holds herself like that. "The waiting is awful," she adds, and takes another drag that she exhales through her nostrils. "It feels like I'm holding my breath."

But waiting isn't really new to Lari, in the scheme of her life. She'd waited through her first husband's illness. She'd waited through her second husband's waffling. She'd waited for plenty of things in Darrow, some good and some bad. She can wait for this, too, even if it's awful to watch Greta and the girls look so uncomfortable and frustrated and lost. In the end, she'd gotten through all of the things she'd waited through, and she knows they'll get through this, too.

"Do you think we can trust that this will truly be over in the morning?" she asks.

[negative_feedback]

The windows are shuttered and the wards are in place; the cameras Regan has set up on the roof and a couple of trees are readily in night vision. She has an alert set up on her phone for each one of them, so if any movement gets by, she'll know immediately. They're in night vision mode, so the screen is eerie white-and-gray as she looks at her screen. She's got a two-monitor setup in her room right now, and she feels like a real hacker, checking cams for any sign of suspicious activity.

And for the first time in a long time, she's glad that she can't hear how loud or quiet it is in the cottage. The air feels like home: that quiet tension, expecting every sound to be the one that dooms them. That's enough for her. She doesn't need to hear the silence, too.

Her eyes are tired, dry and in need of a screen break, so she turns off her monitors and tucks her phone into her pocket, then heads down for soup or tea — or both. Both would get her away from her screens for longer, and while the thought makes her anxious, she knows it's still a good thing. Besides, she's got her phone. It'll buzz in her pocket if one of the cameras is triggered.

Saoirse's in the kitchen, picking at a scone and getting crumbs all over the floor, but Regan just nudges by her and grabs a bowl to fill with soup. There are a million animals here tonight; one of them can sweep up.

"Anything?" Saoirse asks one-handed, sending a shower of scone crumbs to the floor like snow. Regan shakes her head.

"Nothing." She pauses, then adds, "That's a good thing, though. 'No news is good news,' right?"

Saoirse rolls her eyes, but nods, and Regan smiles more reassuringly than she actually feels. She brings her soup to the table and settles in, phone face down on the tabletop beside her.

[ghost_holder]

Aggie recognizes Regan's smile and comes over with her own bowl as an offer of company. It's easy to see a reflection of her constant magical checking in Regan's phone system. "I hope..." she starts. Then Agatha shakes her head. She might be a powerful witch but she's not stupid enough to tempt fate by saying she hopes that the cameras and wards are overkill. Instead, she lifts up her soup like she's proposing a toast. "Here's to being prepared."

[negative_feedback]

Regan nods, lifting her spoon in answering toast. She doesn't want to jinx it any more than Aggie obviously does, so instead she says, "How're you holding up? You've been doing a lot of work." They all have, she knows, but she has no idea how it feels to use the kind of magical energy that Aggie's been using.

[ghost_holder]

"Holding up," Aggie agrees. Neither bad nor good, really, but certainly here. She feels steady, somewhere beneath the anxiety, but that almost feels normal under the circumstances.

"It feels different from last time. I don't know how, exactly, but it does."

[onlythebranch]

Mad Sweeney is here more to patrol than to keep himself safe. The night doesn't frighten him much, most of the idiots taking part either wanting nothing more than some mischief, broken glass and stolen televisions, or are far too fucking pathetic for him to really be concerned with. His safety isn't at the forefront of his mind.

There aren't many willing to take on a seven foot mountain of a man who can pull a spear out of thin air.

There are those who'd be willing to attack this cottage, however, and he sure as fuck isn't going to let anyone lay a hand on Greta, Saoirse, or anyone either of them cares about. So he's pacing the property, keeping a keen eye out, attuned to the shadows of the night even with the nips of alcohol he's taking from his flask.

When he nears the front door, he calls out, "All's well so far." Greta and Saoirse will both recognize his voice, maybe one of them will come out to say hi and he can give them shit for opening the door.

[andhiswife]

Greta had expected Sweeney to stop by, at the very least — she'd put out an offering the same as any other night, old habits and a wealth of surplus baked goods ensuring that she didn't forget (though, all things considered, she imagines he would have forgiven her if she had) — but she hadn't wanted to presume anything about how long he might stay, and the patrolling he's doing is an added relief. Their luck has held so far, but she knows how fickle luck can be, and she's been wielding her worry like a talisman all night. Any additional defense is more than welcome, and with so many of said defenses being invisible, the kind of visual deterrent an enormous bloody leprechaun might provide is better still.

But part of her is still sitting on worst case scenarios like a broody hen... which is why, when she first spots him on one of Regan's cameras, she about jumps out of her skin. In her defense, the night vision setting and the high angle distort what would otherwise be familiar, his hair color impossible to discern and his height, while obviously considerable, hard to measure. But then she recognizes him, and lets out a breath in a great whoosh.

Her heart is still pounding a bit as she makes her way, ill-advisedly, to the front door. She's not entirely sure if she wants to thank him, scold him for startling her (ridiculous), or beg him for whatever scraps of miserable information he might have gathered from any wandering he's done already. Regardless, she brings another offering: a freshly-opened bottle of beer, which she reasons could be drafted into a more violent sort of service if needs must.

She slips out onto the darkened front porch, closing the door softly behind her. "I should hope so," she murmurs, setting the beer on the railing for him.

[onlythebranch]

"Oi, the fuck're you opening the door for on a night like this?" he asks, but he's grinning at her in the dark. It's as good to see her as it always is and the beer is welcome, as it always is.

He takes the bottle from the railing with a nod of thanks, then gestures toward the cottage with his chin. "Everyone doin' alright in there?"

If they weren't, he's sure she would have said as much by now. She knows what Saoirse means to him, the bond they share, both of them born, in one way or another, to the lineage of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

[andhiswife]

"Trusting to luck," she fires back with an arched eyebrow and the wry suggestion of a smile. Not to tempt fate, but between the wards and Sweeney's presence, she thinks the front porch is about as safe as it could be. Safe enough to risk a bit of fresh air and a bit of intelligence.

The smile manages to hold as she glances back towards the cottage, which currently guards everyone she cares for (or the ones who could be persuaded, at any rate). "They're as well as can be expected," she says, which is as optimistic as she dares to be. "We're all just... waiting for it to be over."

She turns back to Sweeney, her gaze sharpening in the dark. "What about out there?" she asks, waving a hand out at the city. "How bad is it?"

[selkiesaoirse]

Saoirse hears the voice and, for the first time almost all day, she smiles. It's been hard not to feel a little angry that Darrow's ruined her birthday — well, her birthday was yesterday, and it's not like anyone forgot so much as it felt a little overshadowed by today — but hearing Sweeney's voice pushes that away, just a bit, just enough.

It's probably stupid, but she does open the door and slip out, closing it behind her again to keep up the semblance of secrecy and safety they've been trying to maintain all evening.

"Checking up on us?" she asks, pitching her voice low; with her dark clothes and dark hair, standing on the dark porch, the pale of her face is almost bright.

[onlythebranch]

"Yeah, Christ knows you and Greta can't be trusted," Sweeney answers with a grin in the dark. "Kinda surprise you two ain't out there, livin' it up, spray painting the whole city with your graffiti."

He knows they won't, they're not the sort, out here protecting their home instead, their people. That might not be Sweeney's preferred method of spending this night, but he's glad they're staying safe. He's out here doing the stuff they shouldn't, not that he's much on bothering with crime, but he's keeping people safe while getting to do what he likes. A bit of blood, a bit of a fight. All in the name of keeping people from harm.

[selkiesaoirse]

Saoirse rolls her eyes at him. "Yeah, well, only because I haven't really pinned down my tag of choice," she says, grinning. "D'you want to come inside? Mum's made... everything. Soup and scones and literally everything, I think." She giggles. "Poppy might bark at you, but Lari says she barks at everyone at least once, so don't take it personally."

[selkiesaoirse]

Maybe she's being dramatic, but Saoirse's kind of angry with Darrow.

The cottage smells amazing, and everyone she cares about is here, and if they're not, she knows they can take care of themselves, like Sweeney. They've set up traps and cameras, and Aggie's strengthened the wards that Magnus set ages ago — wards that, Saoirse knows firsthand, are still holding strong despite his leaving the city so long ago. If they weren't, her coat wouldn't still be in its pendant, safe and protected from the outside world. They've done all they can do to keep their home and loved ones safe.

But the city has still stepped all over her birthday, again, reminding her with a bruise to the ego that she isn't as important to it as it is to her. It's true, nobody's forgotten about her, nobody had forgotten to give her gifts or wish her a happy birthday, and there's a bit of leftover cake somewhere amidst all of the other goods Greta's nervously put together over the course of the day. But if she isn't wrong, if she isn't just being totally selfish and dramatic, then the day before had felt tense and awkward as everyone waited for today, instead, because today is more important to think about than her birthday.

It feels uncharitable as soon as she's thought it. It isn't that her birthday was less important, she knows. It's certainly a lot less stressful and absolutely less dangerous, but not less important, not to Greta or Regan or even Larita now. But it still stings, to be reminded that the city she loves, because it gave her a mum and a sister and a whole slew of friends that she'd never have had in Ireland... It's still just a city, without feelings, without care for the people inside of it after all.

And she can't even sit and stare broodily out the window, because all the windows are shuttered up tight to protect the glass, and so they don't have to sit in the dark, probably. Which is great for Larita, who's quietly reading a book with Poppy curled up against her ankles like the city isn't in chaos, and for Regan, who's up in her room staring at her monitor setup and watching the cameras, but Saoirse can't even do the 'How Many Layers of Polish is TOO MUCH - 100+ layers of nail polish challenge' livestream she'd planned to pass the night by, because the internet went out an hour ago and now her phone's almost dead, and—

"Ugh," she declares to the glass she can't see through, storming away from the window she can't stare broodily through and throwing herself dramatically into the armchair instead. It feels at least a little satisfying, like she's a throw pillow that's just had some dust shaken out of it, only the dust is her fourteen-year-old dramatic, selfish feelings.

[andhiswife]

One of the ongoing tragedies of Darrow's calendar is that Saoirse's birthday is almost always some kind of disaster, and there's no good way to deal with it. Celebrating on a different day, while simpler, always feels like a concession they shouldn't have to make. But the day itself always has a Darrow-made storm cloud hanging over it, and with every passing year, that seems less likely to ever change.

Not that any of them would be capable of appreciating it if it did. At this point, Darrow could hand them a perfectly uneventful Halloween, and Greta would still spend the entire duration waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Having the Purge actually underway is almost a relief, at least in the sense that it's no longer something to actively prepare for. All there is to do now is make it through the night unscathed. The cottage has held up, a stalwart little oasis, and while Greta can't quite claim to be relaxed, she's focused enough to both notice the girl's angst and give it the bulk of her attention.

"I know," she says from the other end of the couch. She considers Saoirse for a moment, then drops one of the larger cushions onto the floor in front of her. "Here, come sit. I could braid your hair. Something properly fancy." It will give her something else to focus on — and something to do with her hands.

[selkiesaoirse]

Saoirse glances at her from the awkward L-shape her neck has bent into, her chin pinned to her chest because of the way she's flopped into the chair. It makes the pout she is definitely pouting look even more like a pout than it already did, and she grips the arms of the chair to haul herself up.

"Properly fancy?" she echoes, like she has no idea what Greta might mean by that. She moves over to the cushion and sits down on it, though. Poppy immediately abandons Larita's ankles and jumps off the couch to curl up in the cradle of Saoirse's crossed legs.

"Traitor," Larita murmurs, sounding utterly unoffended as she turns a page in her book.

[andhiswife]

"Properly fancy," Greta insists. "Like a crown. Ooh, I'll need a brush and some pins — hang on." She scoots sideways along the cushions to avoid upsetting Saoirse or Poppy as she gets to her feet, and gives Larita's shoulder a fond touch in passing as she goes to fetch the equipment she needs.

Distantly, this feels like an absurd use of her time. But knowing that Saoirse needs the distraction as well makes it feel a bit less frivolous than it otherwise might. She finds a brush and some bobby pins easily enough, then grabs a hand mirror for good measure before returning to the living room. The pins and mirror get set on the end table, and she resettles herself behind Saoirse and begins brushing out her hair. Best to start with a clean canvas, so to speak.

"I'll try not to tug too hard," she says as she works the brush thought Saoirse's straight locks, "but let me know if anything pinches."