Every knot was once straight rope

[andhiswife]

Greta hasn't said anything to Saoirse about the misunderstanding at the hospital -- the one neither of them had bothered to correct. She'd explained it all to Baz, with no small amount of embarrassment. In that case, she hadn't had much choice. The bill would have arrived, and the paperwork would have ratted her out, and then he and Simon would have wondered why she hadn't told them.

Fortunately, they hadn't seemed to mind. She wonders if being perceived as a bit of a bumpkin (who of course wouldn't understand how hospitals work) has been to her advantage. At any rate, she's not about to argue that she knew exactly what she was doing. Better to shoulder the embarrassment of an honest mistake than delve into how dishonest the whole thing truly was.

Saoirse's kept the cast. Greta's stomach twists every time she catches a glimpse of the pink plaster, both a reminder of the day, and an unnecessary hindrance. She could have been healed in a moment; this could have been so much simpler. But there was an agreement: her coach and teammates and half of her teammates' parents had all seen the injury, and it would have been too conspicuous for her to show up to the next practice looking as if nothing had happened. There might even have been grumbles about unfair advantages.

Greta would have argued that speedy healing is perfectly fair when all the other children are twice Saoirse's size and knocking her into the dirt every other minute, but she can see the wisdom of keeping any magical influences well-hidden. She doesn't like it -- and the Greta of eight months ago would have gawped at the thought of not liking a bit of magical restraint -- but she understands it.

It's nearing the end of her shift, and she's putting the last few dishes away, making sure everything is in order. There's a spare lemon tart wrapped in a handkerchief and waiting by the door, so she won't forget it. (Despite Mad Sweeney's reassurances, she can no longer convince herself that a mouthful of bread -- even her bread -- is a sufficient offering for someone so bloody enormous.) And then there's a knock on the door, one she easily recognizes as Saoirse's. Though she knows the sight of the cast will give her a pang, Greta finds herself smiling fondly as she goes to open the door.

"Hello, sweetheart." She almost adds that Saoirse doesn't need to knock, that she can come visit whenever she likes, but then she remembers that with only one hand at her disposal, doors must be harder to handle. "Are you hungry? I could fix you something before I go."

Comments

[andhiswife]

There is so much more she could say. That she's not her mother, that she knows she can't make up for what Saoirse's lost (or never had). But when Saoirse burrows closer, she finds she can't say any of those things. She probably doesn't need to, anyway; they're the sort of things that go without saying.

More to the point, she wants to make up for it. Wishing is a habit she might be able to break herself of, but wanting, she suspects, is never going anywhere. And she wants to be... whatever Saoirse needs. Even if it ends up breaking her heart, in the end.

"If you ever need mothering," she says carefully, resisting the urge to just say a mother, instead, "you can come straight to me. All right?"

[selkiesaoirse]

Saoirse leans back so Greta can see the size of her smile, the depth of her gratitude. Greta is a great mum; she hopes she stays in Darrow with her forever, even though she's sure she must miss home sometimes, and even though she herself misses Dad and Ben. It's easier, with Cu here, and she does still miss them. But having Greta makes it feel smaller, and Jordan is much nicer to her than Ben is.

[andhiswife]

For a moment, she wonders if she said too much -- if Saoirse isn't leaning back so much as recoiling. But the enormous smile on the girl's face puts an end to those fears, as well as any lingering anxieties over whether she's making a mistake. Saoirse wouldn't be beaming like that if she'd said the wrong thing.

Granted, this could all still end in tears. Trusting Darrow to let them remain together might be an exercise in futility. But for as long as they're both here -- for as long as she's allowed -- she's more than willing to be a sort of surrogate mother for the girl. It's what she was doing anyway, more or less. Maybe there's no harm in being open about it.

Greta retrieves the thank-you note from where she'd set it on the floor. "Can I take this home with me?" she asks. The refrigerators in the Gardens' kitchen already sport artwork by some of the younger children, Saoirse included. But this one... she thinks she'd rather keep it close than display it someplace as highly trafficked as this. She doesn't want it to come to harm by accident.

[selkiesaoirse]

Saoirse nods solemnly, touched that she would even want to. She hugs her again, careful of the note, then stretches up to kiss her cheek. That's what Dad always did to her, with his scratchy beard. Saoirse doesn't have a beard, of course, and neither does Greta. But she feels like it's the right thing to do, anyway, and she sort of nuzzles her nose against Greta's cheek.

[andhiswife]

There's something bittersweet about the little arms wrapping around her, the kiss to her cheek. It's what she wished for, and wanted, and worked for -- everything that happened in the Woods (the first time, anyway) was so she could have moments like this one. She's still not quite sure how to feel about getting them here, from a child who isn't her own.

She misses her son with a sudden ferocity. She misses the way he was simply and unquestionably hers.

But she smiles, because it's a sweet gesture, and because she's already worried the poor girl enough. "Thank you," she says, brushing her free hand over Saoirse's hair, then cupping her cheek for a moment. "I think I'll put it up on my fridge."

And this, she thinks, is about all the tenderness she can stand. Any more, and she'll end up carrying Saoirse home with her, too. "All right," she says bracingly, more for her own benefit than Saoirse's. She gently shepherds the girl off of her lap so she can get back to her feet. "Now, are you sure you don't want a snack?" she asks, smiling down at her.

[selkiesaoirse]

She giggles a little bit, but nods again. Yes, she's sure. Her tummy is quite full from dinner, still, and even though she kind of wants dessert, her coach has been talking to them about the importance of a healthy diet and how it can affect their ability to play footie. She doesn't want to be bad at footie, or get worse, or stop wanting to play, the way that Coach says lots of sugar can make someone feel. So she's going to be careful, she's decided, and that means no more after-dinner snacks or desserts except on very special occasions, like Christmas and birthdays.