More than anything

For Regan and Larita

Tue, 30 Dec 2025 21:44:05 GMT

Despite only having been stuck in the barn for a day, she still approaches the cottage as if she isn't entirely sure what she might find there. Guilt and embarrassment both gnaw at her, as if, with this long a tenure in the city, there's something shameful about succumbing to one of Darrow's escapades so completely. And without even noticing, which might be the worst part. She can't even tell herself she went down fighting.

Given all that, the indignity of ending up as a cow's scratching post feels a little too apropos. A not-so-small part of her wishes she could have a bath before she had to actually face anyone, though she's aware of what a silly, selfish arrangement that would be.

So it would have been with a rather subdued air that she actually crossed the threshold, except that the dogs heard her voice through the back door and are waiting to swarm her with a great deal of whining, tail wagging, and shoving her about with their noses. "Yes, yes," she says as Cú winds around the back of her legs and Sadie actually heaves herself up to put her paws on Greta's shoulders and sniff at her chin. "Oh, for goodness' sake. I'm all right, I promise."

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Fri, 01 Nov 2024 00:29:52 GMT

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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Just a Little Bent

Sun, 11 Jul 2021 02:01:55 GMT

As far as Darrow antics go, this one might top the list for bloody eeriness. At the cottage, they can almost pretend nothing's happened. Between the garden, the chickens, and the staples she always keeps well-stocked, there's no immediate threat of starvation. The power hasn't failed yet, but even if it does, she thinks they'll be able to work around it — neither she nor Anne are exactly accustomed to being without it anymore, but that doesn't mean they've forgotten how to get by.

And surely things will go back to normal sooner or later. They always do, and she refuses to believe that—that whatever this is might be special in that regard.

But it's still unsettling. Even though it only seems to be the locals who have vanished, there were always far more of them than anyone else, and never has she felt the difference so keenly. Whole blocks are abandoned, shops either permanently shuttered or, more often, left unmanned mid-shift: the lights still on, but no one at home. But what she hates most are the littler signs of lives abruptly interrupted. A lone briefcase sitting at a bus stop; half-drunk beverages glued to their coasters by dried condensation; shopping carts left idle halfway down an aisle.

Regan is taking it especially hard, and no wonder.

It would be easier to avoid town entirely, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted. But she can't abide the thought of hiding out in the countryside when there are still plenty of people who need help. Not when her hands still remember how to feed a Village.

So she's stolen a bakery. Or, well... borrowed. She's borrowing a bakery.

It hadn't been hard to find. Even cleaning it up hadn't been too much of a challenge: people had already made off with the displays' contents, so there was little rotten food to be dealt with. Obviously there were no fresh ingredients worth salvaging, but things like flour, baking soda, and spices don't go bad overnight. There's plenty to start with, at least.

Getting the word out had been the bigger challenge. She's texted everyone she can, and Saoirse has made some very colorful signage to post in the bakery windows and in other places around the city, letting people know that there are fresh-baked goods available. She can't imagine charging for any of it, but after the first few hours (and some discussion with Anne), she'd added some signage suggesting that she wouldn't question where any raw ingredients might have come from, if people wanted to bring some.

It's mid-afternoon when she slides two more trays of muffins into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then steps out of the kitchen for some slightly cooler air. Her hair is falling out of its bun and she's probably a mess, but it's satisfying to see people eating something she made: something fresh and good that hasn't come from a bloody can.

[ooc: a mini-gathering for the vanishing NPC plot! If your pup knows Greta, you can assume they've received a text; otherwise, there's plenty of signage letting people know there's still one functioning bakery in town.]

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NFWMB

Mon, 22 Mar 2021 01:12:15 GMT

September 15, 2020

One of the nice things about being friends with Anne (besides the persistent, quiet thrill of having an honest-to-goodness pirate favor you with their company) is that they're from similar enough times that it's easy to make an outing out of something that most might find a bit simple or boring, like browsing the outdoor farmer's markets. If she has to shop anyway, she might as well make it more fun than the average grocery run, and indulge herself with a bit of company.

Honestly, she's a little suspicious of some of what's on offer — Darrow has a long enough growing season, but that doesn't mean everything is in season now, so the same mystery of where the grocers get their produce might just as easily be applied to the people selling heaps of blueberries in mid-September. But the weather is nice, the prices are decent, and there's a variety of things you don't find as easily at a typical grocer's, like freshly roasted nuts or beeswax candles.

More than that, there's just the comforting familiarity of an open-air market, stalls run by individuals instead everything stacked impersonally on shelves. It feels like a bit of home, and she fancies that for Anne, it might be much the same.

Greta's just hefted something apparently called dragon fruit and is midway through asking Anne if she has any idea what it's like when she's interrupted by a pair of strange voices: "Greta?" and "Oh my god, Greta?" hitting her with enough unanticipated force that she starts with a quiet squawk, mindlessly clutching the strange fruit to her chest and nearly bumping Anne's shoulder as she pivots to face the speakers: a man and a woman rushing over from a neighboring stall.

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Wed, 01 Apr 2020 02:25:04 GMT

Things have been relatively quiet for the past few weeks, and Greta's feeling... good, in a broad sort of way. Saoirse still has the occasional nightmare, and Regan still has the sort of moods you'd get with any teenager, of course. But things have settled to the point where she no longer feels as if her primary occupation is recovering, or like all she has to offer are bracingly delivered progress reports.

So, naturally, it seems like a fine time for company. God, she's missed being able to talk to people without some small part of her, with or without real cause, just dreading their eventual, inevitable sympathy.

It's been some time since she's seen Julia, and the weather's warming enough that the deck is actually a pleasant place to sit. After a few exchanged texts, the arrangements are made, and Greta spends the morning making biscuits and muffins (she doubts Julia and herself will polish off that many between them, but Saoirse and Regan can make a whole tray disappear while her back is turned, so she's not worried about leftovers).

She's just put the kettle on when the knock comes, and Greta heads for the door in the wake of the dogs, who sniff preemptively at the jamb, tails wagging. "Right, budge up, you two," she mutters, wading through them to open the door for Julia. "Hello," she says with a wide, easy smile. "Here, come in. Just nudge them aside if you need to."

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Late June, 2019

Sun, 16 Jun 2019 16:34:59 GMT

It takes longer than Greta would like to get Regan settled: to make sure she hasn't truly hurt herself out in the snow, and to reassure herself that she's going to stay put. The latter might be a little too easy, making her feel horrible all over again for how she'd snapped at the lass. But she can work on repairing that damage once she knows that Saoirse's safe.

She has a spare set of winter gear at the Gardens, and as she hauls it out of a closet and piles it in the entryway, she considers who to call. Magnus could probably magic her out of here, that might be the quickest way (presuming he's not already up to his ears in trouble of his own), but the thought of being actively bespelled still turns her stomach. And if this is more fae mischief... Sweeney might already know something.

She sets down her armful of scarf, hat, and mittens, then pulls out her phone to send him a text.

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Late June, 2019

Sun, 09 Jun 2019 00:23:21 GMT

Greta's second worry is that something awful has happened to Elsa -- or perhaps Jessica -- but a few hurried texts are enough to put that fear to bed. Whatever this is, it's Darrow's doing, which means it probably won't last more than a few days. A week, at most.

Her first worry is for Regan and Saoirse, who are alone at the cottage (aside from the dogs, of course). There's no reason they should be unsafe there, especially since they're so much closer to town -- and therefore any potential rescue -- than Greta is here at the Gardens. But she hates being apart from Saoirse, in particular, while there's some sort of Darrow nonsense afoot. Even if it only takes the form of weather so poor that she, the children, and the staff who happened to be working when the skies opened are all thoroughly stuck.

She supposes there are worse things. The children are clearly relieved to have her here, and if she'd been snowed in away from the Gardens, she would have spent the whole time fretting over them and feeling awful that she wasn't here.

But the few days of ridiculousness that she was anticipating stretch into a full week, and then beyond. She's received some increasingly restive texts from Regan that she's done her best to mitigate. They'll be safe enough at the cottage, and the snow in the countryside has drifted so deep that frequent shoveling is the only reason they can open the front door at all. Going much beyond the stoop is a fool's errand.

Still, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't considering it. It's only a combination of pride and her lingering unease with being directly bespelled that's kept her from calling Magnus and asking if he might magically fetch her, somehow.

The absolute last thing she's expecting, then, is a knock at the door. More of a frantic pounding, actually, and she hurries over to pull it open. Who on earth would be out in all this?

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Telling the bees

Sun, 05 May 2019 20:51:34 GMT

It's warm enough that, under different circumstances, she might describe the night air as pleasant. A little cool, perhaps, but nothing a shawl won't fix. Of course, most of the more positive adjectives -- 'pleasant' or 'enjoyable' or 'nice' -- are still rather out of her reach, and what passes for a 'good' day anymore is one in which she can feel her way into a sort of resigned neutrality.

Today has been one such good day, though it's still left her feeling vaguely impatient with herself. Losing Thomas wasn't like losing her husband, but the grief is just similar enough to edge toward redundancy. It's like dreaming of completing one of your usual chores, and then waking to find out it still needs to be done, and that all that dream-work was for nothing. Surely she shouldn't have to retread this miserable path again.

But she does, because this is Darrow, and because apparently the price she pays for not being lost is being the one who does the losing.

Maybe it's because she isn't feeling particularly tender towards herself that she's out here, waiting up for Sweeney. Not that she expects him to be unsympathetic -- it's more that she trusts him not to dole out the sort of horrified, weepy commiseration that she wouldn't be able to bear. There's a point where other people's horror on your behalf just reminds you that you have something to be horrified about, and she doesn't need that sort of confirmation at the moment. Numbness is preferable.

That, and she thinks he ought to know. Presuming he hasn't already figured it out: that he doesn't have some fae sense that informs him of such things, that he couldn't taste it in the offerings she left on the windowsill. It's like the way beekeepers would deliver bad news to their hives, back in the Village. Someone ought to tell the leprechaun.

She isn't sure how leprechaun senses work -- if the exact 'where' of the offering matters more than the intention behind it -- but she's willing to guess the intention matters more, and at any rate, she's not going to precariously balance a glass of whiskey on the windowsill and risk it falling. Instead, it's sitting across from her on the patio table. Her own glass has been doctored into a hot toddy, less on account of the slight chill and more because drinking whiskey by herself (for as long as that lasts) is a little less depressing under the thin pretense of it being medicinal.

Meanwhile, she hadn't fully considered the optics of an expectant glass on the other side of an empty table, and she pulls her shawl a little closer around herself and frowns, looking out across the yard. He'd bloody well better show up soon.

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Sun, 10 Mar 2019 21:33:36 GMT

It's not a very good day for sitting outside, chilly and overcast and rather on the damp side. But being indoors felt stifling, and Greta's bundled enough to be comfortable. She's one of the only people in the courtyard, a to-go cup of tea warming her fingers as she considers her options.

A small, selfish part of her wants to just refuse this unanticipated responsibility that's been heaped upon her shoulders. She has enough experience running a business to not miss it one jot, and she liked her job as it was. It had been easier to agree to the idea of taking over ownership of the Gardens when it was strictly hypothetical, before her employers joined the bloody exodus and made it all terribly real.

But she had agreed, and her complaints sound petulant even to her own ears. Baz and Simon may have disappeared, but the children haven't. It wouldn't feel right to simply shutter the place. Not without at least making a go of it.

Greta takes a rather morose sip of her tea, letting herself look as tired as she feels.

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for Regan

Sun, 10 Mar 2019 03:29:30 GMT

It takes a few visits before Greta starts to suspect that something is a bit, well... off.

Regan has spent several afternoons doing homework at the cottage, ostensibly because it's more peaceful. Greta had briefly doubted that explanation on the grounds that quiet might be found literally anywhere, from Regan's perspective, but then she'd caught herself. There are plenty of ways for a space to be busy, and she knows the Home is a crowded place these days -- and short on privacy, doubtless. Maybe, too, Regan simply wanted to be somewhere a bit more, well, homey. It's hard to match the atmosphere created by a fire in the hearth and a few shaggy dogs on the floor, and all the tea and snacks you could ask for.

But Greta still has a hard time shaking the conviction that there's something else at work. That Regan's smile is a little too eager and her eye contact too brief. That there's something unbalanced between the effort she makes to be here and how deliberately casual she is once she's arrived.

It is entirely possible that she's simply being a teenager. But given her wealth of options when it comes to studying -- cafés, libraries, coffeeshops -- Greta can't help but wonder how much her resemblance to Regan's mother is playing into all this. They've never really talked about it, beyond that initial, jarring pronouncement (and her subsequent pet over Thomas). She doesn't really know what Regan thinks of it all.

The girl is currently bent over her homework, so Greta has to drum her fingers on the table to get her attention. "Everything okay?" she signs, the furrow between her brows suggesting that she doesn't mean it in a casual, would-you-like-more-tea sense.

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February 18th

Fri, 22 Feb 2019 02:37:21 GMT

Greta and Saoirse spend the week or so leading up to Thomas's birthday quietly, carefully scheming. No great fuss had been made of the occasion last year. In fact, no fuss had been made at all, except for a rather small one after the fact, as Greta realized -- with slowly increasing dismay -- not just that they'd missed it, but that he hadn't mentioned it because he hadn't remembered it, because it had never been a celebrated occasion for him, ever. Not even as a child. She'd known his history was rather bleak, but she hadn't imagined the tragedy extended to 'no birthdays worth speaking of.'

In retrospect, maybe she should have. There was no reason to think his categorically awful parents would have indulged him one day per year while leaving him in the nursery for all the rest. Nor does she expect Lucille ever managed much, due to either the limits of their situation or a more personal shortage of warmth.

Regardless, she decides that they're going to make up for all those missed opportunities this year. And Saoirse, once brought into the loop, makes for a very enthusiastic co-conspirator. There are secret shopping trips for gifts and decorations and silly paper hats, which are squirreled away in places he won't be likely to find them. Greta plans something special for every meal -- nothing so complex that she'll have to spend half the day in the kitchen, but things she knows have become favorites of his -- and gathers all the ingredients for what is sure to be an excellent cake.

Sunday afternoon, while Thomas is out working in the little shed he's built for himself in the backyard, Greta and Saoirse wrap all his presents and stash them under the girl's bed.

And when she rises early the following morning, even though she doesn't technically have to, because she's surreptitiously called off work, he of course thinks nothing of it. A brief kiss and a murmured insistence that he stay in bed is enough to settle him back to sleep for a little while, which leaves her free to creep downstairs to her hidden stash of crepe paper streamers, birthday-themed glitter, and a large 'Happy Birthday, Thomas!' banner that Saoirse spent a good few hours rendering in colored marker.

Not long after, Saoirse quietly rises and comes down to help. By the time the smell of waffles starts to waft upstairs, the streamers and banners have all been hung, and there's a respectable pile of gifts on the dining room table.

Sharing a grin with her daughter, Greta says, "Right. If this doesn't have him down here in five minutes, you can go jump on him."

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for Jyn

Wed, 06 Feb 2019 03:14:24 GMT

It's meant to be a relatively quick trip to Bardolf's. Greta's looking at cufflinks -- for herself, this time, though no one needs to know that -- and trying to resist the easy temptation of just buying a second pair of the ones she most recently got for Thomas. They'd be sure to match that way. But she doesn't want to diminish what had been a gift by simply copying it; nor is she certain she even wants to match perfectly as much as she wants to compliment.

She's beginning to wonder if they have a women's cufflinks selection, and if she has the nerve to ask a salesperson about it, when she spots a familiar face a little ways off. She hasn't seen Jyn since New Year's, when they were both a mess and coming off the tail end of a party that had ended in crumb-covered ruins. It would be nice, she thinks, to say hello now that she's feeling refreshingly presentable. And now that the nearest party is on the horizon and not likely to end in any sort of disaster. The city can't be trusted, but Magnus at least likes to make sure his guests enjoy themselves.

Abandoning her hunt for accessories, she makes her way over until she's close enough for a polite speaking voice to carry. "Hello, Jyn. You're looking well." 'Clean' might be the more operative term -- she'd looked well at New Year's, too -- but she can hardly greet someone like that.

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Thu, 24 Jan 2019 17:48:29 GMT

Greta triple-checks her reflection, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she bites back a nervous grin. Krem has finished her bespoke suit, which turned out to be a little more than just a suit in the end. There are two blouses, one with looser sleeves that pairs well with just a waistcoat, and one for wearing beneath a jacket. This is her first time trying any of it on at home, and she turns, craning her neck to make sure everything is as it should be without Nina or Krem there to make minor adjustments.

She looks good -- or she thinks she does. It's a sentiment that's already been echoed by several other parties (Krem and Nina have been downright effusive), so she's inclined to believe it. It's just that... well, this isn't entirely about her own opinion. It's about whether Thomas thinks she's possessed.

That's partly why she's started with just the waistcoat. The blouse itself, with its wide sleeves that gather at the wrists, isn't so different from the others she already has hanging in their closet. She can sort of... ease him into it.

As if there's any 'easing into' the sight of her in trousers.

It may or may not be helping that she's felt compelled to send a steady stream of vague, preparatory warnings through the locked bathroom door as she readies herself -- a lot of 'it's very different's and 'sort of a lark, really's and 'you might think it's... odd's and so on, until she's run out of both warnings and excuses to dally.

Still, she hesitates with her hand on the doorknob. "You have to promise not to laugh at me," she says, a faint quaver in her voice, as if he hasn't already promised twice.

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Tue, 08 Jan 2019 18:11:25 GMT

This is probably a terrible idea.

It's just that ever since Sweeney, of all people, put the idea into her head, she's had a hard time getting rid of it. Maybe it's because she saw a few women in suits up at Kagura over New Year's -- a reminder that such things are done, if not in large numbers. Or maybe it's because slightly looser formal wear seems, incongruously, like an easier stepping stone to manage than the unsettling normalcy of tight denim. Or maybe it's simply because there's no one to say she shouldn't, which is near enough to should that she can't help but consider it.

Consider it enough to want to try it. Maybe. Just to... to see what it would be like.

But she needs help, is the thing, and no idea who to ask. Thomas is entirely out of the question; she doesn't even want him to know she's thinking about this until she has her own thoughts in order. She considers Sweeney for a few seconds longer than she probably should, if only because he's the one who started this, but she can't imagine he'd be very, er... patient. And she needs someone who will be patient, and supportive, and kind enough not to tell her outright that she's being completely ridiculous, and reasonable enough to convince her she's not walking a bloody cliff's edge.

Which is how she ends up texting Nina to see if she's available for an outing, and shortly thereafter finding herself fidgeting on her doorstep like a first-time petty criminal. God, this is mortifying. She's already blushing, though hopefully that could be mistaken as a result of the chill, or the walk.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, then knocks.

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Fri, 21 Dec 2018 00:23:55 GMT

Greta's done her best not to feel guilty for how focused she was on her Bake Off appearance, especially in retrospect. It was what it was, and she knows that in the grand scheme of things, a couple of months isn't that much of a commitment.

But Saoirse's growing so quickly, a fact that becomes all the more apparent when Greta finally regains the wherewithal to focus on her properly. She's a long way from being a beanpole, but she's still grown out of last year's winter coats by a shocking margin, necessitating a shopping trip (the necklace Magnus enchanted for her might still qualify as 'wearing' her coat -- enough for her own magic to not know the difference -- but she still needs a coat that can ward off the chill). And she's eight. It's hard not to wonder how close they might be to Saoirse deciding she's too old to cuddle on the couch, or that the games and stories they've enjoyed thusfar are for children, which she is not.

So, both as an implicit apology for being so distracted over the past few months and as a means of taking advantage of the time they've got, Greta suggests a mother-daughter outing. Saoirse seems to enjoy any excuse to dress a bit more sharply than normal, and Greta just wants to give the lass her undivided attention for an afternoon. Things at the cottage may have returned to normal, but a little outright spoiling is overdue, she thinks.

Three o'clock sees them stepping into the café that has the best hot chocolate, by Saoirse's decree (and when Greta sees just how many options there are in the toppings department, she can understand the girl's reasoning).

"Goodness, that's an awful lot of options," Greta observes as she looks over the chalkboard menu. "What do you think? Any ideas?"

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Sun, 18 Nov 2018 02:13:45 GMT

Greta hesitates outside her own front door, apprehension stilling her hand. It's stupid, really. She didn't do poorly, or embarrass herself, or any of the other things she feared might happen. She'd actually done well. They all had; the judges and the hosts had gone on about what a difficult decision it was.

Part of her is relieved, even. She'd been wanting to get her life back, and now she has it -- minus next weekend, of course, when they'll all be gathering to watch the grand finale. Things can finally start getting back to normal. She can think about Christmas, and their upcoming anniversary, and other things that are more about them and not just her.

But it was the hosts who delivered the bad news back in the tent, and now she has to be the one to share it. However she feels about being out of the running, it seems vaguely unfair that it's suddenly her job to tell people. There's no cheerful way to spin I lost.

There's a quiet snuffling on the other side of the door, followed by an impatient, canine groan. Well, there's no use hiding out here; the dogs know she's home, which means Thomas does, too. She shakes her head, then lets herself inside.

Sadie and Cú mob her immediately, and she seizes the excuse to focus on them, letting them sniff her hands and then ruffling their ears. "Yes, yes," she murmurs. "I'm home."

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Sat, 17 Nov 2018 22:16:01 GMT

Greta isn't normally up this late, but she also isn't normally perfecting a recipe under severe time constraints. She's beginning to think this bloody contest will be the death of her. She's beginning to think she might win.

She doesn't want any fae help in that regard, so she's asked Sweeney not to apply his luck to her efforts in the tent. (Well, she'd asked after a few of the early episodes, after it occurred to her to wonder if other bakers' nervous mistakes and her own fortunate guesses were entirely coincidental.) But she's still leaving out offerings for him. She's not a fool. He might respectfully refrain from giving her good luck in the tent, but she suspects he'd apply bad luck wherever he pleased.

So there's a chocolate-dipped biscotti pinning a napkin to the windowsill. It's only open a few inches, dispelling the heat and moisture from both baking and scrubbing up. She's wiping down the counters when she sees a small, pale hand pluck the offering from its resting place, and she stiffens in surprise. Squinting past the kitchen's reflections, she sees a flash of red hair a good foot or so lower than she'd expect it to be, and a smirking, female face.

"Wh--!" She doesn't stop to consider that there might be two leprechauns in the city. All she can think is that someone who isn't Sweeney has just helped themselves to his offering, and her indignation has her flying out the back door with a broom in hand before common sense can catch up with her. "I beg your pardon!" she snaps, her tone suggesting she shouldn't be the one begging.

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Bullet in the Waxwing

Sun, 16 Sep 2018 17:34:02 GMT

September 9th, 2018:

Greta knows she's lucky the damage wasn't worse. Everyone's been telling her as much, though she could have figured it out without their help. The bullet could have gone into her arm and stuck there, or hit a vital organ. She could have dropped dead on the spot.

Now, standing in her kitchen the day after, she's beginning to wonder just how much her luck has spared her. The wound is mostly a shallow one, only requiring a few stitches. But that means it rests squarely on the boundary between 'too bad to allow her to continue on as normal' and 'too mild to justify the trouble it's causing.'

The sling the hospital gave her is upstairs in a bag; wearing it feels absurd, because her arm isn't useless. As long as she holds it the right way, it doesn't even hurt that much -- more like a dull ache she can push to the background and soldier through than a sharp, demanding sort of pain. But she's not used to accommodating this new limitation, and she keeps forgetting herself and doing things she shouldn't.

Like lifting her arm to reach something from a high shelf, for example. The wound flares in protest, and Greta hisses through her teeth in mingled pain and exasperation (for, admittedly, the third or fourth time since she started to make lunch). "For goodness sake," she mutters, bracing her left elbow with her right hand and biting down on her lower lip as she waits for the pain to subside.

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Apologize for Collateral Damage

Wed, 05 Sep 2018 01:54:31 GMT

September 8th, 2018:

It might as well be some sort of magic, the way it happens.

Greta's out shopping on a Saturday morning, Saoirse in tow. Window-shopping more than anything else; people are starting to put out their autumnal displays. It's a little premature, but after the long, sticky summer they've had, she really can't begrudge anyone a little wishful thinking. And Saoirse is understandably excited for the season that includes her birthday.

(With any luck, she'll actually have able to have it on the day, this year. If there's to be another Purge, no one's whispered of it, yet.)

Not that she has any business invoking luck. Her own has been in rather short supply for the past few weeks. Nothing dramatic, just a steady trickle of inconveniences and little accidents. Things she could brush off if they spaced themselves out more, or if she still wasn't leaving out offerings for Sweeney, as if they might do any sort of good.

So she's a little on guard, though there's really no guarding against what happens. They're headed down the sidewalk, Saoirse's hand in hers, when Greta registers a few odd, metallic pinging sounds, like a pebble tossed into a tin cup, and then a hiss not far from her left ear, as if a fast-flying insect had gone past. She turns toward the sound with a reflexive start, frowning. Then she registers the tear in her sleeve -- when did that happen? -- and as she frowns at it, bewildered, the blue of her dress begins to slowly bloom with crimson.

She's bleeding.

Only then does the pain kick in, as if her nerves were waiting for her to work out what had happened before sounding the alarm, and she stops short with a little squawk of dismay. Her grip on Saoirse's hand tightens. Without thinking, she tries to shift her arm to get a better look at the injury. The pain flares. "Wh--?!" she squeaks, appalled. What happened?

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In Sickness

Thu, 16 Aug 2018 00:11:27 GMT

This is absurd. Greta's always been a hardy sort, and none of the children at the Gardens have been ill enough for her to notice. But she's picked up a cold from somewhere.

'A cold' feels like too simple a diagnosis for the riotous state of her body, though. She feels as if she has at least three different illnesses at once: feverish, joints aching, throat scratchy, sinuses a stuffy, drippy mess. The doctor had referred to it, in that deliberately unflappable manner that doctors have about them, as an 'unusually robust immune response' and sent her home with antibiotics that don't seem to be doing a bloody thing.

It's bad enough that she's given in and started using tissues. Well, they're far enough removed from actual paper that she can pretend they're something else, and she doesn't possess enough handkerchiefs to otherwise cope with the onslaught.

Ugh.

Thomas has been a godsend, of course. And though she feels a bit bad that he's missing work at the shop to tend to her, she also can't deny that it's a small comfort to be fussed over.

So long as it doesn't get too fussy. When one of her coughing jags causes a stricken look to flicker across his features, she feels obliged to give the poor man an out. "You could go to the shop, you know," she tries to insist. It's admittedly hard to sound insistent when you sound a bit like you're dying. "I'm not going anywhere." She gestures vaguely at the bed she's in no condition to leave, then plucks a fresh tissue from the box.

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Tue, 07 Aug 2018 03:03:55 GMT

Greta knows better than to wish for things. At the very least, she knows to be careful of what you wish for, having been burned so many times on that particular crucible. So it had been almost a point of pride when her sphere of most immediate concern managed to escape that most recent bout of Darrow nonsense. Life in the cottage remained mercifully normal.

Life at work, however, had not. She'd watched the Gardens empty, their charges carried off by a sudden flood of public interest. While it had been wonderful to see the children adopted, part of her had wondered if she'd be out of a job with only one or two mouths to feed. But Baz and Simon had (somewhat sheepishly) insisted that things would turn around, so she'd taken the opportunity to do some deep cleaning and a bit of reorganizing.

(Magic could have probably helped on both fronts, but while she's grown far more blase about magic since she arrived here, she still can't quite bring herself to encourage its use in the kitchen. Some things just shouldn't be mixed with food.)

True to their prediction, children have started to trickle back in, to Greta's relief. And though they aren't explicitly encouraged to invade the kitchen, Greta doesn't mind visitors. Her current company is an eight-year-old named Elizabeth, and after a few minutes of conversation, Greta deemed her responsible enough to know where the snacks are kept. She's midway through showing off the reorganized pantry when she spots Baz's familiar silhouette in the doorway, and then she straightens.

"Oh, hello, Baz," she says, resting a reassuring hand on Elizabeth's shoulder, lest the girl worry that they've been caught out. "I was just showing Elizabeth this beautifully organized pantry. Which just so happens to contain the snacks." The girl looks up at her, a smile tucked behind her hand, then fixes Baz with what Greta can only imagine is the most innocent look in her arsenal.

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Summer's end around the bend

Sat, 04 Aug 2018 01:08:38 GMT

If asked, Greta would insist that Saoirse's solo shopping mission was a rousing success. The lass had made it to the store and back, obtained everything on the list, and seemed terribly pleased with herself. All good things. But Greta hadn't truly appreciated how fussy other people would become over the whole affair. Granted, Saoirse looks younger than she is, but any child old enough to go to school would've been old enough to send on an errand back home. And they didn't have phones in the Village.

But Darrow is different. And while it rankled to hear people implicitly equate allowing her daughter a bit of independence with neglecting her, this may not be a culture war she can win by attacking it head-on.

So she adapts. There are things Saoirse can do in the countryside, where there are fewer people to potentially threaten her or decide she's in need of rescuing. And Greta's found that sending her for items in a shop is generally considered unobjectionable, as long as Greta herself is there, too, within earshot of any overzealous samaritans who might take it upon themselves to 'help.'

Today, she's taking advantage of some end-of-summer sales and picking up a few things for their expanded household: an extra set of bedsheets to add to the rotation, additional bath towels, that sort of thing. Saoirse is tagging along, and Greta can tell the lass is on the verge of boredom. "Here," she says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial hush and bending to Saoirse's level, "why don't you nip over to the books section and see if they have anything good?"

It's only half a dozen rows away, and Greta's seen unaccompanied children loitering there before. No one should object to Saoirse being there, and if the lass finds a book she likes, it'll make the whole trip seem worth the bother.

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Mistress Greta, Quite Upset-a

Tue, 31 Jul 2018 16:02:37 GMT

The garden's changed.

Greta surveys it, her hands on her hips and her lower lip caught between her teeth. It's a subtle difference, and not one that even ought to bother her. In fact, complaining about it feels absurd, because it's... well, it's lovely. Everything looks beautiful. Her modest efforts to control pests have worked better here than they ever did back home. Stems and leaves are all green and lush, and she catches an exquisite, ripening tomato on her fingers so she can frown dubiously at it.

It should delight her. Except that it's Darrow, which makes it impossible to brush off any irregularity as innocent.

She draws back her hand, then unthinkingly wipes it on her skirt, as if all this loveliness might be coated in a nasty residue. Then, after giving it a few moments of consideration, she pulls out her phone and invites Amalthea over for tea. If anyone could tell if something was wrong, it's her, surely.

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Wed, 04 Jul 2018 04:23:47 GMT

If Greta was a little hesitant to have Jenny over for tea, it's only because the poor woman seems as if she might pop at any moment, and the cottage doesn't seem like the best place for that. But once she was assured that there was still time to go, it had been an easy invitation to extend. They both had an afternoon free, and circumstances dictated that it not be terribly complicated: just a few hours of peace and quiet. And snacks.

Which ought to be perfect, really. For Jenny, it'll only be a few more weeks before 'peace and quiet' is in rather short supply. Best to soak it up while she still can.

And for Greta's part, it'll be nice to spend some time with Jenny without some overarching Darrow nonsense hovering over it all. It's impossible to look back on their first meeting without it feeling sort of tainted by the circumstances -- which is something Greta doesn't like at all (not least of all because it's not as if anything terrible happened at the time). This, she thinks, might help... offset that. In some small way.

She's expecting Jenny's knock, so she's ready to shush Sadie before the dog can do more than let out an affronted cough. "It's fine," she tells her, grabbing hold of her collar so she doesn't get it in her head to jump and opening the door.

"Hello, Jenny," she says cheerfully. "Here, come inside."

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Mon, 11 Jun 2018 21:33:09 GMT

She hadn't asked him during those awful few days when Saoirse was away, though she'd come close. But some stubborn, prideful part of her had held back. It would have sounded desperate, like she was clutching at anything within reach -- as she would have been. And his answer, whatever it was, would have been too much informed by her own miserable vulnerability, coming down to whether he was too proper to take advantage or too sorry for her to refuse. (Or too miserable and fretful in his own right to make a sane decision, regardless.)

It's as well that she's waited. She's certain of that much.

What she's less certain of is how to ask him. It's not that she's worried about doing it wrong by his standards, because by his standards, no right way likely exists. She doubts the book of manners he was raised on has any chapters about the proper way for a woman to invite a man to live with her outside of wedlock; such a scenario is at least two kinds of improper to begin with.

It's more that she fears this will be a sticking point. There are plenty of things that are acceptable by Darrow's standards that she hasn't personally bought into -- like trousers, for example. This, too, might be a bridge too far.

And then again, it might not. They both know better than to take their time here for granted. And if the only thing standing in their way is the ghost of another world's societal censure... well. That doesn't seem like much of an obstacle to her.

The timing of it all is also rather up in the air; she only knows that she doesn't want to spring it on him when he can't make a quick escape, or risk ruining a whole evening over it. But one evening -- one of those as-often-as-not evenings where he comes over for dinner and lingers for as long as either one of them can come up with an excuse -- after they've put Saoirse to bed and returned to the living room, she finds herself watching him out of the corner of her eye. Noting how comfortable he looks, how completely at home. Wondering why this shouldn't be his home as much as it is hers.

"You know," she says, looking at him sidelong, not pausing in her knitting, "you could stay, if you liked."

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