andhiswife | Bread when I'm hungry, fire when I'm cold

Dated December 31st, 2017 / January 1st, 2018:

Attending the New Year festivities up at Kagura is out of the question, for several reasons. Firstly, Greta just doesn't want to chance it after last year's mess, especially with Saoirse in tow. Nor does she want to leave Saoirse with a sitter, in case whatever madness the new year unleashes ends up terrorizing the countryside while Greta's away. No, after all the busyness of the holiday, she thinks a quiet night in sounds far better than a mountaintop soiree that may or may not go horribly wrong at the stroke of twelve.

After a bit of waffling, she'd also invited Thomas over. Holiday preparations had become so all-consuming since the party that she hadn't seen much of him since then. She had stopped by his shop to give him a small gift: some high quality Earl Grey tea. Busy as they both might be, she wasn't about to drop off the face of the earth after their date had ended so agreeably. But while she'd been tempted to invite him for Christmas, she had also worried it would seem like a bit... much. Casually entertaining a pair of wayward near-strangers had been easier to contemplate than the thought of having Thomas over.

Perhaps she was worried about impressing him, after he'd all but literally swept her off her feet. Or perhaps she just didn't want to spend Christmas constantly squashing the urge to haul her guest off and do something Too Forward to him.

But as New Year's approached, there was no getting around the fact that she simply missed his company. Surely, she thinks, she can handle a quiet night in without embarrassing herself.

The preparations are far less overwhelming than they could have been. The cottage still looks charming; all the decorations she'd been scrambling to finish before Christmas are still up. She's got plenty of wood to keep the fireplace going throughout the evening (for the atmosphere, if not out of any real necessity). Even cooking doesn't manage to intimidate her; she's spent far too many months trying to please a manor full of fussy children to quail at the thought of making dinner for three. If anything, she's rather excited to make something that doesn't have to involve peanut butter or ketchup in some form. There's a fresh loaf of bread sitting out on the counter, and beef, potatoes, and vegetables in varying states of completion.

By the time Thomas arrives, the scents of roast beef and rosemary are already permeating the cottage. The dogs have been watching the proceedings with such rapt intensity that she half-wonders if a knock will even draw them from their posts, but they do end up scrambling towards the door.

"Saoirse, love, could you go welcome our guest?" Greta asks, glancing over her shoulder at the lass. Saoirse had been so keen to see Greta all dressed up for the party that Greta had spent the last week-and-change before Christmas frantically putting together a fancy little dress for her, so she could get in on the fun. For her own part, Greta has kept things rather casual, unwilling to wear anything that couldn't handle the rigors of the kitchen. She's in one of her nicer dresses -- just nice enough that she questions whether she ought to be wearing it to cook at all -- but there's an apron slung over it, and her hands are... rather a mess, actually. She wipes them off on a spare dishcloth, backing out towards the hall until the front door is in sight.

"Hello," she calls out, grinning at Thomas once he appears. "Sorry, I'm just a bit of a mess, but I'm fairly certain it'll be worth it. Saoirse can take care of you, in the meantime."

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Saoirse adores her dress. It makes her think of sea foam during a storm, and it's very pretty. She has a hair bow that matches the flower, and when she opens the door for Thomas, she curtsies for him with a big smile. She makes to take his coat, pulling out her step stool so she can hang it on the hook inside the door. Tonight is going to be special — it's her first New Year's eve staying up late! — so she's going to be careful to be a good hostess.

"I don't mind a bit of a mess," Thomas said, smiling Greta's way as Saoirse insisted on taking his coat. He handed it to her, very cordial. "Thank you, Saoirse. You look absolutely lovely in that dress. Just as fetching as you were at the holiday party. I feel a bit under-dressed, now. I hope you'll forgive me."

His eyes were bright with amusement and he gave Saoirse a little wink. He was certainly dressed more casually than he'd been at the party; more on par with their early tea date. He'd thought a a nice sweater would do him well for a quiet evening at home.

"Greta, are you sure there isn't something I could help you with?"

As she watches their little exchange, the dogs milling around them, part of her wonders if this is too much -- too domestic, too soon, as if they've skipped some vital step between 'attend a fancy party' and 'invite him over for dinner.' She doesn't know how this sort of thing is done anymore, not where Thomas comes from, and certainly not here. Is this normal?

Would she even recognize normal if she saw it? Probably not. If she's being wholly honest, her invitation might have had something like a dare hidden in it, or a challenge. Here is what you're getting, if you mean to pursue this: a more humble existence than you'd hang a Baronet upon. Here's your chance to decide it's not enough for you.

But he smiles at her, and there's far more in it than a polite refusal to let on that he's desperately underwhelmed. She returns it automatically, then gives the kitchen a more considering look. The roast can come out of the oven in a minute or so, and it'll need to sit for a little while, but it would be helpful to have him deal with that so she can focus on the potatoes and vegetables.

"There will be in about fifteen minutes," she tells him, absently smoothing her hands over her apron. "Oh -- or you could help Saoirse set the table." The lass knows where everything's kept -- including the cloth napkins, which are still the only kind Greta can bring herself to buy. She doesn't think any amount of time in Darrow will get her accustomed to the utter madness of using paper to clean up minor messes, and then throwing it away afterwards. The irony of cloth napkins being perceived as an indulgence isn't lost on her, but there are some trivial little lines that she nevertheless refuses to cross.

Saoirse scampers over to the napkins and pulls three of them close. She's very careful, because they're already folded neatly from the wash and she wants them to stay that way. It always feels a bit fancy to use them, but she knows that Greta is more used to these than paper napkins.

She glances at Thomas as she puts the napkins in their right places to see if he'll help her with the rest of the table.

While Saoirse collected the napkins, Thomas found silverware to set out. He let Saoirse set the napkins and followed her with the silverware, carefully setting each piece in its proper place. "You know when I was your age, the tables were set with no less than three forks and two spoons," he teased the little girl. "I think I much prefer this."

He glanced toward the kitchen, trying to keep his attention split so he wouldn't miss Greta's call when she was ready for help. He didn't mind at all - since coming to Darrow he'd gotten quiet comfortable in the kitchen.

"Here, find me another napkin and we'll see if we can make a swan out of it," he said to Saoirse as he headed for the kitchen to do whatever Greta set him to.

Greta keeps an ear on their conversation, and feels a brief stab of anxiety when he mentions the extra silverware. It hadn't even occurred to her that there would be more than one sort of fork and so on, and that of course Thomas would know these things, and she wonders for a moment if he's about to go digging for implements she doesn't even possess (because why would she?). But the fear doesn't even have time to fully coalesce before his next words banish it, and she lets out a quiet breath and rolls her eyes heavenward before taking out the roast.

Actually, there's something rather comforting in his insistence that he much prefers things this way. If the invitation was part challenge, he does seem to be meeting it.

"How would you feel about carving that?" she asks, nodding towards the roast when he steps into the kitchen. "It should still sit for a few more minutes, though. Perhaps once you've made that napkin swan." She annunciates the last two words with playful doubt, as if she isn't convinced such a thing will actually come to pass. It seems too much in the realm of what the help would handle. She can imagine a Baronet being taught which fork to use of whatever myriad options, but surely setting the table would have been someone else's job.

Edited Date: 2017-12-28 11:21 pm (UTC)

Saoirse is utterly delighted at the prospect of making a napkin swan. It takes some hunting to find another (and, in her opinion, suitable) napkin for the occasion. But eventually she tracks one down, and brings it to the kitchen for Thomas to inspect.

"I can manage," he assured Greta. He and Lucille had needed to get along on their own for quite some time, with no one to cook dinner but themselves. Granted, Lucille had always been more handy with the cutlery than Thomas.

Saoirse appeared with a proper napkin and Thomas makes a small show of inspecting it, making sure it will be adequate for their task.

"Here now, let's see to it." He laid the napkin out on the counter and explained each step as he did it so that Saoirse could follow. More than once he solicited her help with holding one part still or pinching here or there. And when they were done, there was indeed a swan-shaped napkin to sit on the table.

"There, why don't you find a good place to put that while I carve the roast."

Saoirse's napkin hunt gives Greta enough time to pull out the potatoes and set them on the stovetop to cool down a little. The vegetables still need a few minutes, but that's all right; they should come out last, anyway.

Since she now has a few minutes to spare, she leans her hip against the counter and watches Thomas and Saoirse assemble the napkin swan. Perhaps she shouldn't be surprised -- he does like making things, and he's clearly clever with his hands (an observation she deliberately refuses to consider in any kind of depth). But more notable is the care he takes to explain it to Saoirse, and to include her in the whole process.

"Very nice," she says approvingly once the swan is complete, giving Thomas's arm a light, grateful touch before turning back to the stove.

While Thomas carves the roast, Greta, with a little help from Saoirse, gets the sides transferred into serving dishes and set on the table. "What would everyone like to drink?" she asks. "I do have some wine, Thomas, if you're interested. Though you," she adds, playfully arching an eyebrow at Saoirse, "will have to pick something else. Milk or juice?"

Saoirse is utterly fascinated by the folding of the napkin. It feels a bit like magic, even though she knows it's not. But to fold something and create a whole new thing out of it, just by doing that, is incredible to her. She carries it like it's a delicate jewel as she looks for the absolute perfect spit for it.

She ends up choosing the center of the table, where they'll all be able to see it. Proud of herself, she turns to Greta to answer her question. It isn't a yes or no, but they're learning each other. Saoirse knows that if she holds up one finger, Greta will know she means milk, and if she holds up two, Greta will know she means juice.

She holds on three, because she wants to try wine with the grownups.

"A glass of wine would be lovely, thank you." Thomas found the utensils he needed to start carving the roast. He was careful with it, pausing once or twice to ask Greta if a piece was too thin or too thick, sorting out what might be to her liking as he went along.

He glanced to Saoirse, a bit perplexed when she held up three fingers to Greta. He was sure it meant something between the two of them; he'd have to start paying attention to the way the little girl answered questions that couldn't be sufficiently done with a nod or shake of her head.

For a moment, the three fingers bewilder Greta as much as they do Thomas, but it doesn't take long for her to translate the gesture. "That wasn't one of the choices," she reminds the lass, her tone dry. She's tempted to add that she wouldn't even like it, but that might just make her even more curious to give it a try.

Not that a tiny sip of wine would kill her. It might even lead her to drop the subject once and for all. But it'd be bad form to go straight from 'you can't have this' to 'never mind, here's a taste,' so she keeps that option in her back pocket, for now.

"Though I suppose you could have water," she adds as she pours wine for herself and Thomas. "Is that what you meant?" She raises her eyebrows innocuously, knowing full well that isn't what Saoirse meant at all.

Saoirse crosses her arms and looks up at Greta stubbornly. That isn't what she meant at all, and she's certain Greta knows that. She turns an imploring look to Thomas, hoping he might be on her side and sway Greta.

Thomas tried, very hard he might add, to resist the look Saoirse gave him. He finished cutting the roast and turned toward Greta while the girl tried to stare her down.

"A taste won't hurt," he said carefully. He was treading on uncertain ground here - he certainly had no intention of undermining Greta's parenting, especially since he had so little experience being one. But he could remember getting tastes of alcohol when he was Saoirse's age, possibly younger.

"She hardly needs a glass, and if I remember my first taste..." Thomas lifted his eyebrows pointedly at Greta, wondering if she had any similar experiences. He didn't recall actually liking his first taste of wine.

God, look at her: already trying to play the two of them off each other. Greta has to work hard to bite back a smile as she looks to Thomas, her expression carefully neutral, waiting to see if he'll crumble under that pleading look Saoirse's fixed him with.

She isn't all that disappointed when he does. Being a soft touch isn't so terrible a thing, and it's certainly worth knowing (not least of all because it might apply to her, as well). Besides, he's not suggesting anything she hasn't already considered, and she tips him a wink before turning back to Saoirse.

Giving the girl a look of exaggerated consideration, she says, "We-ell... I suppose one little sip might be all right. If you really, really want to try some." She fetches down a little glass and pours a tiny amount of wine into it, no more than a mouthful or two, even Saoirse actually likes it enough to drink all of it down. "Here you are," she says, passing it down to her.

Triumphantly, Saoirse takes the wine. It smells very grownup, and a weird mix of bitter and sweet that she's not sure she's ever smelled before.

She holds it for a time, not even drinking it right off. A part of it is just the ability to feel adult, to feel special enough to have it. It's New Years, after all. She ought to have something special for the special occasion!

Eventually, though, she takes a sip. The flavor is absolutely unlike anything she's ever had. It's lovely!

And terrible at the same time. But at this point, she doesn't want to be wrong, so she cringes through a swallow and looks up at Greta with a pinched sort of smile.

Greta's wink brought a very faint bit of color to his cheeks. It'd been quite some time since Thomas had flirted with anyone in earnest, and it was rather nice. He managed to compose himself as Greta gave Saoise a little bit of wine.

Thomas tried not to laugh at the look on the little girl's face as she tried to drink the rest of the wine. She didn't look particularly enthused by the taste, which was probably a good thing.

Finally, he can't quite hold in a quiet laugh. "That was a good attempt," he teased Saoirse gently, giving her a kind look. "Far better than my first try at tasting wine."

He looked to Greta. "Shall I start getting things on the table? Is there anything else we can help you with while we're in here?"

For a split second, Greta worries that Saoirse might actually like the taste of it, but the girl's triumphant expression quickly turns into a wince as the taste fully hits her. She does force it down, probably out of stubbornness, which Greta can understand (she's done some silly things out of stubborn pride, too, especially when she was that age). It's not a terribly convincing smile Saoirse gives her, though, and Greta takes back the empty glass with a sympathetic, "Here, you can chase it down with something a bit sweeter." At this point, she doesn't think Saoirse's likely to object to glass of juice, instead.

"I think bringing over the roast is all that's left," Greta says as she brings over their wine glasses. She considers bringing the bottle over, too, but she doesn't want to make it easier for Saoirse to ask for seconds, if she gets it in her head to try it again.

She feels a faint thrill of apprehension as they all get settled. Not that she anticipates disaster; it's just that Thomas has never eaten anything she's made, before. Goodness knows the sort of meals he's had in the past, or where he sets the bar as far as quality is concerned.

And she knows he's been living differently in Darrow, and that his own situation was more humble than his title might suggest. But he was also perfectly comfortable at Magnus's party, and he must have traveled in circles where everyone was accustomed to the finer things. Besides, this is what she does for a living. She ought to be better than average, and it's hard not to worry that she won't measure up.

So while she manages not to stare outright as Thomas digs in, she does watch carefully to see how he reacts. He's so well-mannered that she doubts he'd breathe a word if he was unimpressed, but his expression still might betray something.

Thomas quite enjoyed dinner, to the point where he was a bit embarrassed by his failure to maintain consistent conversation - it was just so good, and he'd focused on eating rather than following up on comments in a timely manner. He was a bit ashamed, really, and he gave Greta a shy sort of apology once they had all sat back from the table. When he did speak, it was usually a compliment, or he asked Greta how she achieved a certain taste.

"I'm sorry I wasn't much for conversation. You're a far better cook than I am."

He'd learned, of course, because it was frivolous to eat out every night, but Greta had a finer command of seasoning than he did.

"I think since you did all the cooking, it would be best if Saoirse and I cleared the table, at least."

It is impossible to take offense at Thomas's inability to maintain much of a conversation. In part, that's because she doesn't expect much in the way of dinnertime conversation to begin with. The most she can usually do is ask Saoirse yes or no questions, and she's such a little thing that Greta doesn't want to distract her from eating, so meals are usually quiet affairs. But more to the point: if her cooking is so good that it interferes with Thomas's otherwise unassailable good manners, that's really the highest compliment she could receive.

"It is my job," she reminds him with a pleased, bashful smile. "I spend more time on it than most. But thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it." More than she can say, really; she would've died of mortification if he hadn't liked it.

As Thomas and Saoirse clear the table, Greta takes the dogs out for a minute -- better to do it now, before they get distracted, and before it gets even colder -- then turns on the television and finds a channel covering the festivities at City Hall. She keeps the volume low enough to be unobtrusive, not wanting to actively watch it as much as she just wants to keep half an eye on the proceedings. She doesn't expect anything noteworthy to happen until midnight, if anything happens at all. But if something does go awry, she'd like to see it on the television before it ends up on her doorstep.

"Nothing so far," she informs them both as she goes back to the kitchen to check their progress. Her tone suggests to Saoirse that she's not missing anything exciting on the television; her slightly arched eyebrow tells Thomas that it'll be a minor miracle if things stay that way. "What would you like to do next?" she asks Saoirse. She doesn't really expect her to make it all the way to midnight, still some hours off, but that's all the more reason to do something she enjoys while she's still chipper. "We could read a story, or play a game...?"

Saoirse nods at the mention of a game. She heads over to where they're kept so she can pick one out they'll all enjoy.

Dinner had been lovely, and like Thomas, her focus had been on the food. Greta is a wonderful cook. She'd known that, of course, but each meal sort of surprises her, because there's a part of her still used to Granny giving her things like nettle tea and nettle cupcakes.

Although she doesn't mean to, Saoirse picks a long-winded board game for them to play, and she sets it up on the floor in front of the television.

"A game sounds lovely. Shall we keep the New Year's coverage on in the background?"

Some local celebrity was likely covering the festivities in town, and Thomas didn't see any harm in keeping up with it. If things got a bit dicey, they could just turn it off to spare Saoirse any trauma.

"You'll have to explain how to play to me," he said rather seriously to Saoirse. "No taking advantage of me just because I'm new to the game." Then he broke into a smile and winked at her before he looked toward Greta. "The same goes for you."

"Might be wise," Greta says, a bit drily, though not enough to worry Saoirse. At any rate, there's nothing much happening now; the evening hasn't even progressed enough for people to be carousing or anything. It's mostly footage of well-bundled but cheerful people milling about and listening to local bands.

It doesn't escape Greta's notice that Saoirse's chosen a game that'll have them in it for the long haul. Then again, that might be no bad thing: they have time to kill, and there are fewer diversions here than there were at Magnus Bane's party. If she lets herself think about it too much, she knows she might end up fretting over how domestic this is, compared to their last outing. And 'domestic' could easily translate to 'boring,' or even 'presumptuous,' as if they're skipping past all the more traditional stages of courtship and settling right into... well, settling.

Of course, it's impossible to explore some of the more exciting aspects of a new relationship when there's a seven-year-old sitting between them. That doesn't preclude flirting, though, and Greta raises her eyebrows. "I would never," she says loftily. "Honestly, what do you take us for?"

She sustains the mock offense for a beat, then smiles as she helps Saoirse set up the pieces. "It's all rather straightforward, don't worry. And if either of us did take advantage, I'm sure you could devise an appropriate consequence." She keeps her tone carefully neutral, though there's a sly smile lurking in the corners of her eyes.

Saoirse imagines that the appropriate consequence would be tickling or the like, so she giggles silently as she makes sure her various cards and pieces are where they're meant to be.

She finds the instructions at the bottom of the box, and she can make out most of the words, but it's far easier to just give them to Thomas, so she does so with a helpful smile, then returns to her seat.

"Something very appropriate," Thomas confirms as somberly as he can. But soon enough he broke into a smile and winked at Saoirse as she got the instructions and handed them to him. "Am I to read these out loud? Or is this strictly for my benefit?"

Thomas looked side-long at Greta, and she just looked so-- she looked wonderful. She seemed happy, and he couldn't remember the last time that he had felt so content. Maybe it was a terribly domestic way to spend an evening, but he was rather overjoyed to be doing it at all. It didn't hurt that Saoirse was delightful.

"I think you're conspiring to stay up late, you know. I'm on to you," he said gesturing from his eyes to her face.

"Oh, they're just for you," Greta says as she neatens a stack of cards. "Saoirse and I know exactly what we're doing, don't we?" She gives the lass a conspiratorial grin, even though truthfully, there's enough of an element of chance to the game that familiarity isn't much of an advantage. Besides, she has every intention of explaining things as they go -- both for Thomas's benefit and for Saoirse's, in case she's forgotten any of the rules since the last time they played.

If this is a conspiracy to stay up late, Greta isn't particularly worried. She still half-expects Saoirse to drop off around her usual time -- or, at most, hold out for an extra hour or two. But as long as she's awake, so much the better. Once Saoirse drops off, there are only a few ways Greta can imagine the evening progressing: something Too Forward will happen, or Thomas will feel compelled to excuse himself before something Too Forward can happen, or they'll just sit politely, as if under the eye of an invisible chaperone, and it'll finally occur to him that this is all rather boring.

She's probably being unfair. Thomas doesn't seem bored. She has no doubt that he could feign polite interest in a pinch, but this is different; he's not merely humoring Saoirse, and she doesn't think he's pretending to be relaxed. Maybe this really is enough.

Saoirse seems fully engaged as the game progresses, though by the time they near the end, she's starting to look a little bit flushed. Cu, fully aware of when bedtime ought to be, is sprawled beside her and appears to be patiently waiting the end of this odd charade.

"Bit tired?" Greta asks, fondly brushing back Saoirse's hair. "Maybe we should get you into your pajamas."

She leans into the touch with a yawn, then nods. It's still not time to watch the festivities, so she pops to her feet and runs to the stairs. Her coach always says if she gets the blood flowing right, she won't feel so tired — she never said that to her, but rather to the other little kids that complain of being tired sometimes. So she even does some jumping jacks while she looks in her wardrobe for something to wear.

Properly energized, she changes, all by herself, and puts the clothes she'd been wearing into her laundry basket. Then she returns to Greta and Thomas for inspection.

Thomas ended up rather engaged with the game, and a sly smile appeared when Greta, so very casually, noted that Saoirse was looking rather tired. She was, and Thomas realized they must but rapidly approaching her proper bedtime.

He can't help but laugh when the girl pops up and hurries upstairs. "Is she... jumping up there? Does she do that often? Should we clean up the game or do you think she'll be up for going on?"

When Saoirse returned in her pajamas, Thomas gives her an approving thumbs up. "Are you warm and cozy, at least?"

Greta's not expecting Saoirse to dash off with quite that much enthusiasm. If anything, she would have expected some sort of objection, if not an outright tantrum. Being overtired and being asked to do something she'd rather not is a volatile combination.

But there are some tell-tale thuds from upstairs, and Greta chuckles quietly as she realizes what she's up to. "I think so, yes. Trying to perk herself back up, no doubt. We'll see how well it works." She starts to straighten things up a bit, though she doesn't actually put anything away, in case Saoirse really does mean to go till the bitter end. Besides, having everything cleared away when she comes back would make it seem like they really were trying to usher her off, and Greta doubts she'd appreciate that.

"I'm not sure if she'll want to carry on, though. Maybe we could persuade her towards something a bit more relaxing." She throws Thomas a conspiratorial grin as an option occurs to her: "Would you be willing to read her a story? She'd probably love it." It doesn't hurt that Thomas's voice is pleasant to listen to. Greta wouldn't mind hearing him read a story, either.

Saoirse bounces back down the stairs, looking far fresher than she was five minutes ago, and Greta smiles approvingly. "Well done. Now, do you want to finish up the game? Or we could read a story or something."

Saoirse points at the game, resolved to finish it. She can stay up just as late as they can, she's sure of it.

She barely makes it to the end of the game, though. Her eyes droop heavily, and eventually even she has to admit defeat. But she refuses to go to bed. A nap on the couch is all she needs. She wants to see all the midnight stuff on TV!