(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! ]

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[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."