The Baker's Wife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andhiswife) wrote2017-05-29 04:35 pm
andhiswife) wrote2017-05-29 04:35 pm
Entry tags:
The greater the good, the harder the blow
June 11th, 2017:
It's been over half a year in Darrow, now, and she's trying not to think of her current, relative comfort as settling. She has a job that still feels too good to be true, and both her wardrobe and her social circle are more expansive than what she had back home. It's not enough to make up for the absence of her family, of course. But she has to admit, if only to herself, that it's a relief to no longer be aching for them all the time, or even most of the time. It's a relief to have other things on her mind, to have business to attend to.
Not that this is business, per se. She's just exploring the boardwalk. Now that the shops are all officially unshuttered, she's trying to get a sense of what's there -- easier done without Saoirse or Jordan or anyone else in tow, though it's ultimately as much for their benefit as hers. She'd like to have some ideas of what might appeal to them ahead of time, instead of just wandering the length of the place with a child in tow and hoping something might catch their eye.
It's a pleasant afternoon, and there's a decent crowd. It's easy to let herself get carried along at an ambling pace; she's in no hurry, and it's not so packed she can't step around people if she needs to. And when she does find herself held up, it's behind a young man who has a rather adorable baby, peering wide-eyed at her from over his shoulder.
Another silver lining for all the time she's spent here is that the sight of other people's babies doesn't pain her anymore. She gives the child a smile and a little wave, and after a moment of nonplussed consideration, the baby rewards her with a broad grin and a shriek. Greta chuckles a bit ruefully. "That's on me, I'm afraid," she tells the child's father when he glances back at her. "I didn't mean to wind her up."
It's been over half a year in Darrow, now, and she's trying not to think of her current, relative comfort as settling. She has a job that still feels too good to be true, and both her wardrobe and her social circle are more expansive than what she had back home. It's not enough to make up for the absence of her family, of course. But she has to admit, if only to herself, that it's a relief to no longer be aching for them all the time, or even most of the time. It's a relief to have other things on her mind, to have business to attend to.
Not that this is business, per se. She's just exploring the boardwalk. Now that the shops are all officially unshuttered, she's trying to get a sense of what's there -- easier done without Saoirse or Jordan or anyone else in tow, though it's ultimately as much for their benefit as hers. She'd like to have some ideas of what might appeal to them ahead of time, instead of just wandering the length of the place with a child in tow and hoping something might catch their eye.
It's a pleasant afternoon, and there's a decent crowd. It's easy to let herself get carried along at an ambling pace; she's in no hurry, and it's not so packed she can't step around people if she needs to. And when she does find herself held up, it's behind a young man who has a rather adorable baby, peering wide-eyed at her from over his shoulder.
Another silver lining for all the time she's spent here is that the sight of other people's babies doesn't pain her anymore. She gives the child a smile and a little wave, and after a moment of nonplussed consideration, the baby rewards her with a broad grin and a shriek. Greta chuckles a bit ruefully. "That's on me, I'm afraid," she tells the child's father when he glances back at her. "I didn't mean to wind her up."
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That last point is driven home when he asks her what happened last, and she ducks her head, cheeks prickling. She doesn't regret what happened in the Woods, but she's not so oblivious or self-righteous as to think that no one else would take issue with her behavior. Some of what she did would be frowned upon in polite society -- perhaps even more so here, where the importance of marital fidelity has aged far better than the extent of a Prince's authority. She doesn't expect 'I cheated on my husband with a married man' to earn her a hearty pat on the back.
"Er, yes," she continues, clearing her throat awkwardly. "We can compare notes." The prospect, if potentially embarrassing, is still rather exciting, and she starts to recover some of her enthusiasm. "I'm rather desperately curious," she admits, glancing over at him with a smile. "Everyone else's stories are so different, here."
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"Why don't I just tell you the entire story as I know it," Jesse finally said after a moment. He could just say she disappeared into the woods with the Prince as let it seem like the audience got to drew their own conclusions, which they kind of were. "And yeah... there are a ton of different versions of pretty much everyone's story ever."
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Her enthusiasm is tempered by the way Jesse's behaving. He seems rather subdued, as if the story, as he knows it, might not be exactly what she wants to hear. In a sudden burst of paranoia, she wonders if he knows about her and the Prince. It certainly isn't a detail she'd planned on sharing with anyone. Nor would she have expected the Prince to have told anyone, and not just because she got the impression that their encounter, while thrilling for her, was unremarkable (or perhaps just typical) for him. But how else could it have made it into the fabric of their tale?
If her spirits are a little dampened, they're not entirely doused, and she spends most of the short walk to Jesse's apartment amusing Ripley -- who admittedly makes the job easy.
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It had been clearly been child proofed, everything that could be pulled off of a shelf by a curious, crawling baby had been moved higher. There was a giant TV opposite the couch one wall and a bunch of random, sentimental knick-knacks here and there. It was definitely a home and not just a house.
"If you're thirsty help yourself to anything in the fridge," he added. There was water, beer, wine, juice, and pretty much anything in between.
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She fetches a cup out of the dish drainer and helps herself to some juice, then takes in the apartment while she waits. It's not that it's less tidy than hers -- she can see the work that's been put into making sure the baby can't get into anything dangerous, even if she tries -- but it's clearly more lived-in, with a greater accumulation of stuff. She's been avoiding that, a little. She has everything she needs, of course, but hasn't much extra. Her apartment still has an inn-like feel to it, a space she keeps in good order but hasn't really made homey. Doing so would've felt presumptuous. Or like giving up.
Not that she'd ever say as much. When Jesse reemerges, she instead offers a wry, "You've certainly made the place safe for babies."
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"Okay, so, your story," he said, grabbing a beer from the fridge before gesturing for them to both sit down at the table. "I'm going to tell you everything I remember from the story..."
And for the next while Jesse laid out the entire first act of the musical as well as he could remember it.
"That all sound correct so far?"
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"Yes," she says, eyes wide. "It's... closer than I thought it would be." She fiddles with her glass, now empty. "I suppose you know about the second Giant, then. Did that part make it in?" They ought to tread carefully, though part of her is so desperately curious that she wants to just ask for everything, even the parts she hasn't lived through, yet. Which is probably cheating, or something, but who knows how Darrow works? Maybe she won't remember any of this, once she's back.
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"Your husband worries about being a good dad, the witch lost her powers, you and the Prince, uh... disappear into the forest," Jesse said, taking another drink of his beer and definitely NOT looking at Greta while he said that. "Cinderella isn't exactly happy with the Prince's wandering eye... and the second giant comes down. That's when people start to die."
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The news that the Princess found out is enough to have Greta burying her face in her hands, utterly mortified. But any thoughts of how she might ever face the woman are quickly brushed aside when Jesse starts speaking of deaths -- of multiple deaths. Her hands drop, and the color drains from her face.
"Besides Jack's mother?" She leans forward, knowing she shouldn't ask this, but not letting that stop her. "Who else? Is--my husband, my son, do they...?"
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Jesse would have completely glossed over what happened between Greta and the Prince only he wouldn't be doing her any favors with other people who might know the story. It would be ten times worse if she thought no one knew when in fact people did. At least that's what Jesse figured.
"Your husband and son were fine," Jesse reassured her. He could at least give her that much even though it what he had to say next was going to crush her. But he knew that if he was dead he'd at least want to know that Ripley was safe. "Jack, the Princess, and Red all move in with your husband after they kill the second giant. After... after Jack's mother, Red's mother, Rapunzel, the Witch, and... and you all die. I'm sorry, Greta."
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At least he starts with the reassurance that her husband and son are all right. Even the thought of Jack and Red moving in with them afterwards is easy to accept. They'd promised to look after the boy, and if the girl's mother hadn't turned up, of course they would have taken her in, too. Her husband might have needed some persuading, but she wouldn't have thought twice.
But the Princess... how does she fit into it? Greta's given just enough time to wonder how that could work without it being unbearably awkward. Then Jesse tells her, book-ended by clear reluctance and an apology, that she's among the dead.
She stares at him, as if trying to catch him in a lie. He has no reason to lie about such a thing, but she can't just accept it. She's survived the Woods before. Why shouldn't she make it through a second time?
"What?" Her brow furrows, and she gives her head a brisk little shake, as if a gnat had flown into it. "I don't--that can't be right."
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"You were in the forest and the giant... she stepped on you. Jack found your body in the woods."
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"No," she insists. "That's--I'd remember if..." if the last thing she saw was an ominous shadow, or the shape of an enormous shoe descending towards her. No amount of pride or denial could erase an image that bizarre.
And she doesn't remember that. She remembers... the earth rumbling. The groan and snap of branches being bent and broken. The rush of displaced air. A ledge, and a long drop, and reaching for a handhold and missing, and you know what, she doesn't want to remember anymore.
Greta stands, her chair scuffing across the floor. "I think I ought to go," she says, the strain of remaining calm and polite evident in her tone. She can't listen to any more of this, she needs to get somewhere else.
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"But yeah. I- yeah if you need to go you should go," he said, hanging his head. This was definitely his fault. Well, not the murder part, that was the giant, but her finding all of this out was definitely his fault.
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But how can she? The thought of trying to comfort him is as absurd as it is appealing. She might try, but neither of them would be able to stand the attempt.
Better to just leave, quickly, now, before she falls apart.
She steps back, pulling in a breath as if she intends to say something. But no words present themselves, so she turns on her heel and heads for the door, resisting the urge to bolt until she's shut the door quietly behind her.