andhiswife | (no subject)

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! ]

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"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.

"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.

"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.

Greta gives Aggie's hand a squeeze as she shuts (and bolts) the door behind them. If any friends should arrive late, she'll be quick to let them in — and honestly, if anyone with ill intent makes it as far as the door, they'll have bigger problems — but it still feels a little too foolhardy to leave any entrance unlocked.

"Let's make some tea," she says, releasing Aggie's hand as she heads into the kitchen. "It'll be a long night, and I don't expect I'd get much sleep even if I wanted to." She might regret it when the next siren sounds, but she can sleep once things have calmed down. As long as they're able to make it through the night unscathed, and she's satisfied that everyone she knows and cares for is safe, she doesn't mind the idea of putting off the post-disaster gawking.

"I'm not planning to sleep at all," she admits. It's easy to follow Greta, especially into her kitchen, which has always been closely linked to safety in her mind. The kitchen, and all that comes from it, feels like an extension of Greta herself, with all the safety and stability that it entails.

"Tea would be great."

"Might as well start strong, then." The kettle is already on the stove (beside a large pot of soup that's set to a low simmer), and Greta gives it an assessing heft to make sure it's full enough before setting it back down and turning on the burner. She pulls down one of her medium-sized pots — big enough to make three generous cups of tea — and tips in a generous portion of earl grey.

Even though Greta didn't really expect Aggie to announce, at any point, that she intended to take a quick nap, it's still a relief to hear that she's planning to keep watch through the night. Which means the least Greta can do is ply her with socially acceptable stimulants and keep her company.

Fortunately, brewing them tea is something she's done often enough now that she can manage it even while driven to distraction by the city's machinations. She slides Aggie her mug, then lifts her own and leans back against the counter with a sigh. "Well..." she starts, struggling to come up with something encouraging to say, and eventually settling on, "at least it's not raining." She hopes that jinxes it, honestly. It would be fine with her if all the merrymakers out there got soaked to the bone.

Aggie takes the mug in both hands and tips her head down to breathe in the steam and, for a moment, the world shrinks down to the scent of black tea with bergamot. For the space of one inhale and exhale, everything is normal and this is a night like any other. The feeling doesn't last but Aggie can still hang on to that brief anchor.

"At least it's not raining," she agrees soberly before looking skyward, like some higher power will take a hint and start up on the thunder.

They both pause, as if waiting for a peal of thunder to announce itself, and a wry smile spreads across Greta's face. "Would've been nice," she says ruefully once the moment has passed. Granted, she knows better than to entertain the idea that a spot of rain would've thwarted anyone who intends to take advantage of tonight's lawlessness... but it's still nice to imagine the discomfort and inconvenience a proper downpour might have provided. A nice fire suppressant, too.

And if some of the nastier pieces of work were struck by lightning — or struck down by pneumonia after the fact — so much the better.

"It was worth a try," she agrees, risking a little smile. Of course it would be too easy. Besides, knowing Darrow, it'd take her little temptation of fate and turn it into a way to strike a loved one with lightning or some other monkey's paw logic.

"I did make it storm once. Here and, well, before. But I wasn't really...in control of myself." Tonight is not the night to recreate such events.