2022-07-22 - The Bookshop: Say Hello to the Daisies

Della finds herself mid-pour of... is that tea? It's not only green, but bright green when she spills it onto the saucer in surprise. "Oops! Pass a napkin?" Her hair's in corkscrew curls, and tonight she has a particularly long and elegant nose, and brows adorned with -- unless they're growing -- tiny feathers.

All these quiet, Dreamless weeks, and so it is with a start that Una finds herself here, hands clutching at skirts with their layers of petticoats beneath, her part-blinkered vision forcing her head to sweep around more actively than she might otherwise. She takes it in: the books, the chairs, the ceiling, the clothes, the tea, and that's when she properly seems to register Della— and both what she's said and what she looks like.

"Oh!" she says, grasping immediately for one of the conveniently-provided napkins to offer it over. "You look—" Una's hair is bound up in an elaborate concoction threaded with flowers that seem to move of their own volition, like daisies making their own chains, just for fun.

"And that tea!"

"Thank you," and Della might ordinarily just wipe it up, swipe and done, but with a sideways glance at Una -- and it is just the two of them, for now, unless the daisies count, and they just might think they do -- she daintily dabs. "Dressup day?" At least it hasn't gotten (yet) on the white lace at her wrists.

"Apparently so," says Una, who hesitates and then removes the bonnet so that more of the daisies are visible, not just clustered about her forehead but extending all the way around (and much, much happier for the release). If the redhead has properly registered them or not is less easy to discern right at this particular moment: for now, she seems happy to drape the bonnet over her knees and give the room another thoughtful glance-round.

"I've woken up in worse places, at any rate," she admits. "And so far, this is charming... charming? Is that the best way to put it? Ladies taking tea."

"Would you like to try the tea?" inquires Della, one brow up. She poises the pot (cream-colored, striped in gilt) above another cup (light blue, with fluted edges), a fresh one so Una won't have to deal with the assured trauma of a sullied saucer (even wiped up). "'Charming' seems pleasant, when it's not to an extreme."

The room looks back at Una: eyes of circles within pointed ovals in the ceiling, only part of the extensive decoration; the centers of flowers growing out from behind -- from within? -- the shelves; the OO of 'yearbook' on one of those same shelves. The spine looks familiar, as though it came from Una's school, even if she never had one herself.

The eyes have it, as it were, and Una gives them all a thoughtful glance, albeit one that is far less uneasy than it could be— this could, after all, so easily fall over the edge from 'charming' to 'creepy', and if she's honest, Una will never put it past a Dream to do just that... or to simply lurk about the edges, never quite letting one relax.

"I'll try it," she decides, turning her attention firmly back towards Della. "Although it really is very green."

One of the flowers blinks long lashes at her, but otherwise, they're all pretty settled at the moment. No salacious glances, no whispering. "It is," agrees Della, and..."There you go." She trades the teapot for her own cup, and when she does, a basket becomes visible (had it been there all along?) holding a variety of crystallized... sweeteners, presumably, but also a little bottle of what might be honey, and two pots that ordinarily would contain cream. With some amusement, and widened long lashes of her own, "Did you know you have flowers growing out of... your hair?" Her head? "They're really quite pretty."

Una accepts the tea with a gracious smile and then leans in to sniff at it: its flavour will clearly influence what she adulterates it with. In this case— honey, yes, but just a little. She hesitates, though, hovering over her tea cup as one hand lifts towards her hair, though not to touch.

"I... did not," she admits. "No."

One of them arches towards her fingertips, brushing against them, and that sets Una's expression to ever so slightly more quizzical. "How... peculiar. You have feathers. Are they decorative, or... part of you?"

"Do they tickle? Do they... have a scent?" Della finds herself asking near-simultaneously, only to laugh. "Do I." She lets her tea be in favor of loosening her own bonnet's ribbons and lifting it carefully off her head; there are indeed feathers there too, nestled into her hairline but quite small, nearly as small as those of her brows, possibly as though they'd been carefully trimmed. "I wish I had my phone, to see. I feel something. Here."

A little tug later, "Ow!" Just a little tug, but the feathers all bristle (even the brow-feathers) in perturbation -- like the hair on one's neck rising, but even more opinionated. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Una lifts one hand (and had she noticed, before now, that she's wearing little white gloves?) towards her mouth, holding back a giggle that is not quite amused, but also not quite not amused. "It's a bit like... Medusa and her snakes, I think. All having minds of their own. At least, that's how I've always imagined it."

She considers Della's feathers, and then shakes her head. "You have feathers, and I have flowers. And here we are, taking tea. How utterly peculiar. Though— the feathers suit you, somehow."

There's a glimmer in Della's eyes that isn't quite tears of laughter. "Medusa and her snakes, Una and her daisies who turn people to... to something. And thank you, mademoiselle." She pats her feathers down, gently both for their sake and for her curls, and ventures the tea.

Bottoms up? No, just a sip.

"Interesting," she says. "Do you morph in Dreams, much? I should have asked." She has gloves, too, only the right forefinger on hers is missing. (Not the finger itself, though.) "Sometimes I don't notice until after."

"Fertiliser? Sunlight? Hopefully we don't work that one out," says Una, mostly grinning. She finally doctors her tea with the honey, then sets it down again, so that she can follow Della's lead and take a sip; she's quizzical, testing the flavour on her tongue. "Mint and... something else," she concludes, in a murmur.

"But no, not usually. I'm usually just me. Dressed differently, maybe, but otherwise... still me. I have this vague odd feeling, though, that flowers have been appearing more often in my Dreams of late. Is it because it always just feels right, in the moment, for you?"

"Hopefully! I'm not sure whether sunlight's better or just less messy." Now that Della's had a sip of the drink on its own, she follows suit with the honey, though not before peeking under the other lids. The crystals are white, golden brown... and dusty blue. She leaves the lid off that last one.

"Have they, the flowers. Not just any old plants? Any cacti?" She might ask more, but Una's asked a question too. "When I don't notice... I'd guess it's because it does feel right in the moment, yes. Not that it always feels right. Or when there are overriding concerns like someone trying to get us or whatever." She doesn't seem to have noticed her nose, yet, nor the points to her ears, nor whatever might be less immediately visible. (Those chandelier earrings are sparkly.) "It's like how sometimes we know how to ride and sometimes we don't? In the Dream with Ariadne and Ava way, way back when, the Lewis Carroll, I couldn't ride particularly well, but then I was perhaps halfway myself. But in another," she doesn't say the name Paul Revere, "I could ride really well. I was also packing something, though I never did check what," this with a wry uptwist to her mouth.

"In stories, you'd be blossoming around springtime, but it's summer."

Blue. Una can't help but stare at those, though she's clearly not going to get too close to the blue crystals, just in case. How unexpected.

She shakes her head to answer Della: no, just the flowers, though she seems hesitant over that, as if she's not fully sure what she's remembering. "Dreams are so strange that way," she allows in answer, eventually. "Being you, or not you, or some combination thereof. Do you feel like yourself, now? Flowers aside, I do, I think. I'm just— me."

With flowers.

"Maybe the faerie garden messed up my internal calendar," she adds, with a laugh. "And now I'm destined to bloom out of season."

As long as they aren't dilithium crystals. For tea.

"They are," Della agrees with the strangeness of Dreams. "I... hm." She shuts her eyes and moves her fingers, joint by joint; her arms; the rest of her, perhaps, though most of it's hidden by the little round table and its cloth. She wiggles. "Pretty sure I don't have a tail," she reports in the end, teasing up a grin. And, after a glance under the cloth, "Apparently we have sparkly slippers?"

Anyway, "'Blooming out of season, and all the rarer for it,'" and this tease is gentler, without teeth showing in her smile. "Those business cards of yours could certainly be seeds."

That grin makes Una grin— even laugh outright. No tail: well, good!

"Ruby slippers?" she wonders. "I wouldn't put it past this place, for it to be Oz. Your ears are pointy, too. And your nose—"

Not that she seems to find either of these things to be problematic.

"Planting seeds in a garden you never get to see— well, I hope that's not true. You're right, though: they are seeds, in their way. Sent out on their way, by wind and by bird, to grow where they can. I'm pleased. I don't think I'll be making a proper living with them for a long time, if ever, but the response has been gratifying. I do want this to work."

And that laugh, from Una, means that much more pleasure for Della, bright in her eyes. "That could be! You know, they do look red -- " did they before? but -- "Pointy? Really?" Her expression goes all focused, wondering, as she reaches up... and then puffs a breath through her nose. (No fire.) "Look at that. I wish I had my phone." That's twice now.

"I want it to, too. Wherever you decide to take it." Della's decidedly earnest, though it's undercut a bit by how she's peering at Una, and then suggesting, "Lift your chin?"

"Poor Della, lost without her phone," is a tease that comes before Una's properly digested the rest of what her housemate has to say, though she does drop her own gaze, and stick out a foot, to examine her own feet. Hers are emerald rather than ruby, but absolutely sparkly.

"Wait, what?" Clearly she's heard enough to comply, though she's busy frowning now... not to mention lifting her fingers to her own neck to feel.

"Tell me about it." Della sniffs.

Not that that stops her from looking. "Do you feel anything on your neck, sort of angled -- no, a little lower?" Maybe they're leaves.

Leaves would surely make more sense: all plants need their chlorophyll (though leaves at the neck seem somewhat less helpful, if they're not going to be properly angled to the sun). Una squeaks as her fingers do finally touch, and those gills? They move, just slightly.

"So," she says, after a moment of contemplation. "I'm part plant and part... fish?"

"Seriously. Seriously?"

Della sinks back in her seat, looking far too pleased. "Something about that's fishy."

Una makes a face at Della, then admits, "Now I'm wondering if this means I can breathe underwater. I mean... why else would I have gills of all things, right? This Dream is weird."

Says everyone, of every Dream, ever.

"I hope so. Though you're much prettier than the seals. Mer-seals? Whatever." -- "Turn? Other side?" Just so Della can check.

She even picks up her tea for another sip, curling her other hand around it as well: look, she's not going to go examining all on her own.

Other side: oh look, more gills.

Una looks more and more unnerved by the moment (and the flowers? she may not be able to see them right now, but perhaps she can feel them, because it's all distinctly unnerving, and—), and abruptly lets out a gasping breath, quite as if she's forgotten how breathing normally works.

Della has her tea in hand, and maybe that helps, because the redhead grabs for her own, drinking quick.

It... seems to help.

She still gasps, at the end of it.

That gasp -- Della's leaning, looking all worried --

"Are you okay? What was that?"

Then, all of a sudden, an inch-thick manual plonks right there on the table, rattling the cups, in a shower of multicolored sparks -- well, no. But there is an envelope.

(Translucent white, wrong-side-up, with a bright emerald seal.)

Una coughs. Una splutters. Una takes a few, careful breaths. "My... oxygen got lost," is her explanation, interrupted as it is, by the arrival of the envelope.

She blinks. "Uh," she says.

Della's lips move -- oxygen got lost -- but then she nods because, well. Gills.

"Um," says Della in much the same tone.

Eventually, "Green is for you, I think." At least, it matches the slippers.

The envelope sits there, innocuously.

Una focuses, first, on getting her breathing back in order (and probably on reassuring herself that she hasn't burnt her mouth with the gulp of tea that saved the day). She makes a face, though. "Do I really care to know?"

She does, of course— otherwise she wouldn't reach forward with hesitant fingers, flipping the envelope over.

"Yes, yes, of course we do." Della puts down her cup somewhere safe (somewhere, anywhere) and cranes to see.

"'Open me,'" reads Una, whose fingers have already twitched towards picking the envelope up to do exactly that, only; "Oh-- 'when you want to go home'. Well that's... new. I've never had a Dream that offered that before. Now I feel like we're half in Oz, and maybe half in Wonderland, too: 'drink me', 'eat me', 'open me'."

Her fingers flutter away from the envelope, as she glances back at Della. "Curiouser and curiouser."

Della's fingertips flicker like they'd take up the slack -- but no. She murmurs back, "Red pill, blue pill, Alice."

Her eyes are bright. And look, she's not touching the envelope. Sitting back, the side of her arm bumps... a small serving plate. Is that baklava?

To Una, "Are you hungry? Or is it just guessing? Speaking of a Turkish delight."

"A hundred and one children's stories," murmurs Una, picking up that reference with a glint of humour, though she hesitates over the baklava. "I wasn't especially hungry, though— tea always makes me think of sweets to go with, and here they are. I prefer baklava to Turkish delight anyway."

A pause. A long one. "Well, pass some here, I suppose. It would be rude not to."

Della obliges, her cheeks risen high in the smile her lips don't permit. "We wouldn't want to be rude."

At least it looks lovely: nutty and crispy, with no green sheen involved. "I admit, I never can remember which version is which, made with rosewater or honey or pistachios or whatever. All the variables."

"Not my speciality," admits Una, acknowledging that she, too, comes up short where it comes to those variables. Except— she takes a piece of baklava and eats it, and her expression is more curious than satisfied.

"It's good," she says. "But... mm, I'm not sure. There's something missing. Try one, and see if you can work it out for me? Otherwise I'm going to spend hours in the kitchen experimenting."

"For science," Della teases. And then, once she's gotten a piece and lifted up in toast, aiming to meet Una's eyes and flutter her lashes, "For you -- "

A ceremonial bite.

Once that's gone, another.

"There might be something... but really, all I can say is, it's good," Della has to admit in the end. "But then, I'm a fan of the whole not-tooth-hurting," so no quote-unquote 'real' Turkish Delight, "nuts and spices and crackly bits, so please, let me contribute to the Baklava Mission. Bring on the variations. What does it inspire you to do first?"

Una takes another nibble of her piece, as if attempting to properly narrow down what it is that isn't working for her. She ends up shaking her head. "I'm not sure," she admits. "It just— I'm going to have to start from basics and work my way up from there. It may even just be the way it was baked? I can't tell. This is harder than the hamantashen, somehow, and at least baklava I know what it is supposed to taste like."

Life is so hard.

"Basics. Like, from scratch? Or with storebought phyllo-or-whatever to get the filling, and then move on from there?"

"Hamantashen, though. I don't remember which those were," Della admits apologetically. There are so many treats.

"From scratch," Una insists, firmly. "None of that store-bought stuff, no. It's got to be the whole thing, properly, or not at all."

Why do the hamantashen make her blush? They just do. "Oh, those were a gift, and I don't think I liked any of the rejected batches enough to share," she admits, apologetically in her own way. "Pastry without butter is hard. They're— to do them properly, they can't have butter, because it's not kosher, if you want to serve meat."

Della tilts her head, lips parting like she'd speak -- though when she does, it's a long while later: no cross-examining the baker just now.

Instead, more open-ended, "Do people always need to be able to serve meat? What did you do instead of butter, oil or something?"

Blush, what blush. She pours to top up them both, then sips her tea.

"Not always," says Una. "Sometimes you serve something different, and then it's okay to bring in the cream and cheese and butter. I used margarine— that's not something I anticipated baking with, but it works, if you get it right."

She wipes her hands on one of the napkins, then reaches for her refreshed tea, too. "It's a fun challenge. Like... well, I guess it's like vegan baking, except you can still use eggs. Lateral thinking, except of course that I just used someone else's recipe, this time around."

"Oh, right, of course." Margarine. It really does have its purposes. (Not that Della had thought twice about its showing up when it did; now she just looks bemused.)

"I rather like that, its being a fun challenge. Like vegan baking," not that this is, "being the goal, and not just 'a no-animal-product version that tries but almost-inevitably fails to match up.'"

This time around.

"Right," agrees Una, airily (indeed, with the air of someone who is really just experimenting for the sake of experimenting, obviously). "I don't mind vegan baking, as long as you approach it right: intentionally, and not just 'and then we'll substitute all the critical ingredients with something else'. It's like gluten-free baking, too. You need to start from the ground and work your way up, rather than trying to work backwards. But," and she grins.

"It's a good challenge. I like a good challenge. The baklava— that should be one too."

Della's nodding, eyes alight: this. Exactly this. "I'm sure it will." Although. "That brings up the question, do you have so very many others in the queue," and here she has to side-eye her friend (with only the briefest glance at one of the flowers that's bending to peer upside-down at Una). "Will it have to wait. How are you planning to tweak the hamantashen?" It could be a sly, fond allusion -- except that Della doesn't know.

That flower may well be seeking to get a better look of those cheeks of Una's, which have taken on a certain amount of heightened brightness: not an outright flush, and yet... "There are always more things to work on," she admits. "Particularly now that I have paid commissions. My own experiments, well, those tend to come down to what I'm in the mood for on any given day."

Of then hamantashen, then: "I think I over-worked the dough, last time. Noticeable to me, at least, if not anyone else. And of course, there are different fillings to experiment with."

Perfectly innocent!

Della nods ruefully: overworking, yes. She sips her tea, starts to put an elbow on the table, stops. "Mmm, fillings." Tasty, tasty fillings. "I hope the paid commissions aren't too... well, boring. 'Chocolate, chocolate and more chocolate'? Not to discount the value in paid work, mind. Or chocolate."

"Speaking of, how's the clinic these days?"

Una admits, with a sigh, "Most people really do just want chocolate chip cookies, or chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. And it's fine, but— I really prefer the more interesting commissions. The 'my daughter doesn't like anything too sweet, what do you suggest?' ones. Or— well, anything along those lines. Still, it's all important work."

She's slower to answer about the clinic, her expression a little restless. "I'd give it up, if I thought I could sustain things without it. It was fine, back when it was— well, when it was 'this is so much better than working retail'. But things never did go back to normal with Ava, after everything, and it's just... not the same. And I'm not the same, maybe."

"Blackberries," Della half-teases as that suggestion, the word coming out of nowhere, and drifting off as easily. The flowers are bending to watch Una with interest; there might even be eyes amongst Della's feathers, like tiny drupelet jewels. "I'm sure they love it, regardless. And some people find comfort in... same-ness."

The clinic, though; she's nodding. Not the same. "At least the faerie circle's gone... but still. I can see that. Would you want something similar? What did you like most about it, beyond not-retail? Or -- is it too soon to wonder about next steps?"

There are still nibbles. And, with them, tiny jars of jam (fillings?).

Una's nod acknowledges that first: the customers are happy, even if she is not, and that's the important thing.

The nibbles, the tiny jars of jam— the redhead has noted them, but seems disinclined to engage, just yet. Instead, she considers first her tea cup, and then Della herself. "Too soon, I think," she says. "I don't know. And, for now, it works, I think? It's fine. I've had far worse jobs, right?"

She sips. Then: "How about you, Della? How are things with you?"

Della's nod acknowledges the acknowledging, and the fine-for-now, and -- and all the things.

Including the return question. She sighs, but quietly; she doesn't appear to notice the feathers gently fanning her temples. "Fine? Seriously -- fine. Good, even. The drives into town are getting old, but if that's the worst of it... it's worth it to keep being remembered. Some days I just want to open the drapes to the sunshine and settle down with the cats and you all wandering by and rest. It's not that I miss being chased by wolves, but... I don't know."

"It was odd, walking through the houses."

Una settles back, tea cup in hand, and acknowledges Della's answer with a slow nod. It's at the end that her expression turns first quizzical, and then intent. "Oh," she says. "How peculiar: I'd forgotten about that altogether. It was odd, wasn't it?" There's more, more to remember, but— she shakes her head.

(One hand has relinquished its grasp on the cup and wandered up towards her hairline, tracing idly at those daisies.)

"The being forgotten, if you don't, is unnerving. I can't argue with the desire to— I both like and don't like how quiet things are."

"It was. But -- " Della doesn't continue, just turns it into a smidge of a shrug. (The daisies have begun to grow green hair. Which is to say grass. Or possibly leaves; it's hard to tell just yet.) More immediately, "What would you like to have happen? If you could design it any way you want. Like The Good Place, except without the demons and running and doom."

That reference to The Good Place makes Una grin, her hand, having brushed past the daisies thoughtfully, sliding back towards her lap, where it fiddles with her abandoned bonnet.

The answer, however, is slower to come. "I'm not certain," she admits. "I don't know that I want things to go back to the way they were, as crazy as they were for a bit. I suppose a happy medium is better, isn't it? And Dreams like this one— this is lovely, really. Unnerving, because I never expect them to be lovely, but still, lovely nonetheless."

"I don't think I've ever had a proper fantasy like that. My ideal world."

The bonnet shivers happily but, after that instant -- and maybe it was just a Newton thing anyway? -- manages not to move. It's just an innocent bit of cloth, abandoned by the wayside~

"You've had other lovely ones, then? I don't recall any for me. They've seemed so... goal-oriented."

"And for what it's worth, I don't think I've had a fantasy like that either. Even if it were just me. There have been elements -- wanting to get to get married, wanting to get out of the Middle East -- but it's not like... designing one, you know? 'No more ants going after the kitchen' is one thing, but... I could be well pleased by so many different avenues."

Does Una note the bonnet? It's hard to tell. She's distracted. Maybe she's half imagining that she's stroking one of the kittens.

"Mexico," she says, promptly. "Perdita, Ravn, and I ended up there once, and then a second time with Ariadne, too. Just— sun and cocktails and food, by the pool. Both lovely, though we hypothesised that it was the Veil's way of getting information out of us out of sheer relaxation. I'm not sure; I mean, if it worked, it worked. It's fine. It felt nice."

More thoughtful is the slowness of her nod for the rest. "Ye-es," she agrees, elongating the word. "Yes, exactly. I'm not sure there is one true path that would make me happy. Lots of things make me happy, and honestly... anything I came up with would probably pale in comparison to how things actually happen. We don't anticipate a lot of things, before they happen. Good and bad."

The bonnett resists the urge to rub up as though it were one of those kittens (or whatever). Somehow. No, this is just idyllic, pastoral time in the sunshine. (Under the tablecloth.)

"Really! Wonder if any of you had been there before, to that particular place, I mean. That sounds restful. I mean, we haven't gotten cocktails yet..."

Della peeks out of the corner of her eye. No, cocktails haven't miraculously sprung into being. It's not that kind of place. Oh well. Regarding anticipation, wryly, smilingly, "We can only try."

(Since Della looked away and all, there are a few more little... flavor... bottles than there used to be.)

"I rather like that there's no 'One True Way,'" she adds, giving it capitalization-worthy emphasis as well as air quotes. "We don't have to thread that needle. It's not... 'one step off track and it's all over.'"

"I think Dita, maybe," says Una, though with a furrow of her brow as if the details of that particular memory are fading away. "It was restful, though. And the second time— I had this amazing silk jumpsuit. I can't pretend I don't enjoy it when Dreams put me in clothes I like."

Not that she dislikes today's outfit, though it is not, perhaps, something she would choose to wear in her own time.

"I like that too. I like... different paths will happen, and that's fine. Perhaps we're even living in a multiverse and there are an infinite number of us, each living out our best lives in different ways, because there is no... best. We're all the product of the decisions that came before."

Naturally. Though the gown is, were someone to pay attention, gradually a little softer, a little more supple, with a little more sheen. It's amazing how much better something one can feel once one gets used to it. Like the chair: it's so comfortable, so unlike that easy-to-forget other one.

"Mmm, yes. Like branching trees, branching roots..." Della illustrates the upward version with a lift of her arms before pouring, sipping. "As long as we do get to live our best lives, instead of what's thrust upon us. Like certain politicians. Maybe there's no one, absolute best, but there are probably some 'better' versions that we'd choose if we could."

Una's nod is small, and after a moment, turns abruptly shy. "I like this one," she admits. "I think it's one of the better ones. I can't know for sure, of course, because I don't have any idea of what else might be out there, but— I'm still happy."

She leans back in her chair, nursing her tea cup. She's happy here, too: the clothes, the chair, the room itself.

"Me, too." Happy for; but also... happy. Happy enough. Happy, certainly, in the now.

The room's at peace, in a timeless sort of way. Even the bonnett is quiescent, and the daisies, relaxed. Not that they don't tilt their heads, ever so gradually, as though tracking some unseen sun.

The envelope doesn't rustle.

But after a while, there's a shifting sound, too gentle to be a proper throat-clearing, but still attention-getting in its way: a book, pushing itself further out onto the shelf.

Una could so easily be convinced to simply sit: to drink her tea, to eat a few more tasty morsels, and to chatter about inconsequential things. There's nothing wrong with a Dream that allows for that, especially when life has a way of keeping that kind of quiet repose from happening.

But. But.

The shifting sound draws her attention, turns her head so that she's glancing over her shoulder and up, and— she lifts her hand from the quiescent bonnet and simply draws the book in question towards her: if it wants out, let it be out.

"Oh," she says, surprised. "Poetry?"

"Poetry?" Della leans to look.

Its leather binding is soft in her hand, worn as though from loving care -- and green, a dark green, because of course it is. It's apt to fall easily open in several possible places, and not just where the silk ribbons have marked stories: stories of women with red ribbons plaited in their hair, of a certain jabberwock (not the poem Della encountered, because just about everyone loses track of which is which, and this book's no different). The Light Brigade. Goblin fruit. (No ribbons for them, yet.) It's the greatest hits of some year or another, people's favorites, schoolchildren's manuals for recitation.

(The bonnet's gone flat, abandoned again but at least not squirming. Its ribbons are limp, but dramatically limp.)

"Huh," says Una, setting the book down carefully so that Della can see, and letting the pages flip as they will. "'Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, volleyed and thundered'— I remember that one. It was fun to recite out loud, except for the whole most people dying thing; that's less fun." The ribbons, though, give her longer pause. "I read 'The Highwayman' after that Dream," she admits. "It— mmm. You've had a number of poetry-related Dreams, haven't you?"

(The poor bonnet. It must be entirely instinctual, the way she lets her hand drop back towards it, once the book is on the table, her tea cup abandoned: one hand for book, one for bonnet, and surely that means everyone can be happy.)

"Except for that," Della agrees with a wry upturn to her mouth. She runs a finger under the cuff of her blouse with its lace, with its first of five pearl buttons. "I'm still... bothered that we couldn't make it better. Or if we could have, I don't know how. It's different, right there in the innyard, not up high to watch the armies charge."

(Book, bonnet and candle? The bonnet's certainly better, less limp than languorous in an artistic sort of way: the consumptive, languishing prettily atop her chaise.)

"Did you? Other poetry? That you recognized, anyway. For all I know, we could be in part of one ourselves."

"Me too," Una acknowledges, with a moue of— frustration? Hesitation? Distaste? "I still don't know if they're real people or just constructs, but it doesn't much matter in the end. They feel real. It still felt like we should have been able to make things better."

She drops her attention back towards the book, shaking her head. "Not that I noticed. But— maybe there were things I just missed. The whole goblin market concept sounds like Ava's veil fruit, in a sense. 'Sweeter than honey from the rock, stronger than man-rejoicing wine, clearer than water flow’d that juice.' If that's not veil fruit, I'm not sure what is."

"'Man-rejoicing wine,'" comes out with lifted brows, a near-chortle. "I suppose not."

Della angles to try and look, reading back. "Bought with a golden curl. And all that sucking! Can't imagine why we never had to read this out loud in class."

"'And they all lived happily, and then they all lived happily some more,' doesn't make for the most memorable poetry. At least for fifth-graders." Speaking of 'better.'

Della's lifted brows, her chortle? They make Una flush, and then laugh, though maybe that's the sucking, too. "'She suck’d until her lips were sore'," she reads, giggling. "No, I can't possibly imagine why we didn't read this one in class. It's an odd poem, but oddly lyrical, too. Like— 'Cat-like and rat-like, ratel- and wombat-like, snail-paced in a hurry, parrot-voiced and whistler, helter skelter, hurry skurry, chattering like magpies, fluttering like pigeons.' Such... lyrical language. But it feels structurally odd, too."

The redhead seems oddly fond of it, for all of this, letting her fingers trace down the page. "No," she adds, in agreement. "Poetry where everyone lives happily ever after doesn't make for terribly interesting reading. I suppose that's true of most stories, though, isn't it? And life's more complicated than that anyway."

All right, now Della's giggling too. "I wonder what they used for lip balm back then," she murmurs before quieting for the rhythm of it all. "It is. And it does. And what's a ratel, anyway? She just said rat..."

"And it is more complicated." She hesitates over a sip of tea. "A couple of my aunts read what they call 'cozy' mysteries... do you know them? Where you have a small town and someone keels over but usually it's a stranger or someone nobody liked much anyway, and they're all doing stitchwork -- all right, that's how they got me to read a couple -- or baking or what have you. So there isn't the save-the-world part, but it's also... for me, it was also facile. Not because of the stichery or baking, and I'm not saying to go for endless angst, but..." she wiggles her shoulders. The feathers wave, helpfully.

"A honey-badger," says Una quite without thinking— though she immediately seems surprised by having remembered that insignificant piece of trivia. It's just a musing thought, though, and one promptly abandoned in lieu of focusing on the rest of Della's comments.

She nods, hesitantly at first and then with more determination. "Ye-es," she agrees. "No, that makes sense. I do know the ones you mean. I used to pick them up at the thrift store— that's the kind of thing that comes through a lot, those and romance novels— and read them overnight, then bring them back. So yes, you're right: not everything needs to be doom and gloom and terribly dramatic. I do like reading, sometimes, about just normal people having normal lives... and when it comes down to it, I suppose our lives don't really fit in that anyway, do they?"

"Don't care!" Della follows up with a half-laugh before, yes, they get back. Still, her dark gaze remains on Una, delighted: she knew.

She nods for reading those books overnight, reading and reading and reading -- "What's normal anyway? Are we the new normal, or just the normal that never got screentime before, except as sidekicks or warnings? I hope we have less of a formula than some of them."

"Though... at least with the romance novels, we're guaranteed a happy ending, right? Not just coupledom," she holds up crossed fingers even as she makes a face, "but nobody ends the book out on the streets or with horrible diseases; the world isn't crashing down around them."

Una's abrupt grin is clearly in recollection of that particular meme, and perhaps, too, in pride at having retained that trivia to pull out at this most opportune moment.

"That's true," she adds, picking up her tea cup again, though the book is still there, and so's the bonnet (the latter, at least, gets to keep its hand). "And with romance novels... it's a happily-ever-after, maybe, but I always read it with the knowledge and understanding that that doesn't mean things are perfect, or that there's never any sadness or strife or unrelated drama. Just that— yes, the world isn't crashing down around them. I figure normal gets to be what we make of it, and happily-ever-after just gets to be... we end up where we're supposed to be, doing what we're supposed to do. It's comforting, in a way."

Happy bonnet -- possibly even smug bonnet? With the motion of picking up the cup, the book's pages ripple enticingly, just a little flutter at the very edge.

"That's true. There definitely has to be drama, if only for sequel bait... though maybe that counts as related? Well, whatever. 'Supposed to do,' though... 'supposed to do' in a good way?" Della asks with tilted brows. "Satisfaction, doing positive things for ourselves and our community, not just lockstep good little girls Workin' for The Man." She has to laugh. "Sorry if I'm overanalyzing." Given that she still has her hands, she samples some shortbread, and in the next bite tops it with a touch of blackberry jam.

Even though it's a Dream, she's still careful with the crumbs.

"Supposed to do... I don't know. Do you get the impression you were supposed to come to Gray Harbor? It's not that I think we're predestined to anything, per se. I do believe in free will... um, I think I do, anyway, though really, how could we ever know?" Una hesitates over that, clearly working her way through her thoughts out loud, and perhaps a little frustrated by the slowness of her brain to get to the point.

She needs another hand. How consciously aware of this she is— that's impossible to tell. She sips at her tea to try and give her brain a moment, wrapping the bonnet's ribbons about her hand idly. "But yes: 'supposed to do' in a good way, I think. I think. How's the shortbread?"

"No, I don't." Della's frank about that. "I won't say I might not have been influenced to come -- did I tell you how it came about? it was early days back then -- but, like you, I can't think it's all predestined. And even if it were, I have to live as though it isn't, can't be passive and just float wherever the waves are going until I sink."

Her voice hasn't risen but, after a glance at her tea, she eases it. "Good." But then, it would be; it knows what (it thinks) Della likes. Even if it isn't Una's. "The butteriness reminds me of yours. And," here she smiles, "someone got all the seeds out of the jam," so that's half a miracle right there.

Una's sharp little laugh is exhale as much as it is anything else, timed for just after that final comment of Della's. "Someone spent a lot of time straining, then," she supposes. "There's a reason I don't usually make jam: it's tedious work. But—" the bonnet is going to have to deal with going untouched for a moment or two, because the shortbread, with this assessment, is calling. She adds some lemon curd to hers, and nibbles daintily.

It's then that she adds, "I don't think you did mention the influencing, though. It doesn't surprise me, though."

The bonnet sighs a little sigh. But at least it isn't being used as a napkin, yet.

"How is it?" Della asks, with a little nod towards Una's own choices. "My aunties would make jam, but straining was too much of a... you know. So they didn't do much with strawberries or blackberries or anything else all over seeds." But that's incidental.

"It was odd. It... brought itself to my attention, perhaps?" She peers up at her feathers, though only a few drift low enough to see, and touches one with a smile. "I was just fiddling with my tablet, and it came up. No chants, no dangling pins from strings, just a random -- 'random' -- tap. And I remembered summer camp, way back when."

"Which reminds me. Any luck finding letters from your grandmother? I'd have thought she'd have left something. To go along with your house, and all it holds."

"The curd is that perfect balance between sweet and tart," Una reports back, pleased. "And works really well with the shortbread— which is good, and if I didn't know better, would swear blind uses my recipe. I love lemon curd. I'm going to have to make some, now— ohnoes, and so on."

She pops the remainder of the shortbread into her mouth, and uses a napkin to wipe her fingers (see, bonnet? things could definitely be worse!). "It called to you," she adds, then. "Like it called me, but differently. I could have just sold the property and gone on with my life, but... it's like it knew I was curious. Though," she shakes her head. "No. Nothing from my grandmother. It's so weird, like there are no traces of her left in the house. Perhaps it's all hidden away somewhere, but... I don't know where, and surely— it's odd."

"So many ohnoes," Della teases, and of course she'll have to try the lemon curd on the shortbread too, now.

(The bonnet is undoubtedly relieved. And the creator of shortbread, gratified.)

But Della doesn't actually nibble in her turn, just yet. She's speculating. "Hidden. Erased. Off-site?" Then, "You've talked to the executor?"

"I know," says Una, grinning. "Life's so hard."

Her hand slides idly back towards the bonnet, and having taken another sip of her tea, the other returns to the book, just tracing idly down the pages. Della's speculation draws a more hesitant glance and then a shake of her head. "I mean, yes, I've spoken to the executor, and he knew almost nothing. I wonder if she destroyed a lot of things, first. Or, yes, somewhere off-site, perhaps. I don't know. Perhaps I'm not meant to know anything. My family is... one mystery after another, I think."

Good hand. Nice hand. The bonnet is pleased: perhaps no active attention is being paid it, but in a way that might be better, deep enough to be remembered. To be incorporated, maybe, the thinnest bit of muslin at a time.

"So strange. No computers, I take it. I think you deserve to know, but then, my family wouldn't take no for an answer." Which might be all the more reason to hide.

After a thoughtful moment, "What would you want your family to be able to know?" Now Della gets the shortbread-with-lemon, gets to visibly enjoy it. "Would you ever see yourself raising children one day?" Raising, not having.

That question draws a lengthy pause from Una, during which time she fiddles with the ribbons on the bonnet, and turns her head so that the daisies growing out of her hairline bobble gently— not quite so smoothly as if by a breeze, but perhaps something akin to it anyway.

"I'd like a family," she confirms. "I'd leave behind... oh, my recipe cards, I suppose, and probably boxes of dresses even if they just end up being for dressing up in. But I'd want them to know me, more importantly, if it were at all possible. In person, not as a memory. I'd want a proper family." Beat. "I know a couple without children can be a family, or a single parent and a child, but..."

If Della's, "Nuclear family?" comes with a hint of teasing, it's for the old phrase, not for Una or Una's intentions. "Parents, children, sharing each other. Grandchildren, eventually. Cousins. A whole team."

She sits back with a smile. "I like that. Knowing you, in person, even if the recipes -- and recipes are wonderful! -- and dresses live on. I hope you get to." Are the daisies listening? Is the room?

"Not that we wouldn't be wonderful aunties, if Jules catches one."

There's a hint of teasing, sure, but Una's smile is acknowledgement in turn: a little rueful, perhaps, but also wistful.

"We would be wonderful aunties," she confirms, a little more lightly. "I've always thought... well, I don't know that I'll end up with biological children, but if it comes to it, I'll foster or adopt. Families can be made, too, after all: it doesn't need to be the traditional nuclear family for it to be family."

There's something in her expression that suggests a question, but if so, it's not verbalised as such. "I'd like the house to end up with layers of memories. 'Here's a piece of auntie Della's embroidery' and 'Auntie Jules drew this', even once— inevitably, I know— you've both moved out and moved on."

And that confirmation widens Della's smile, for all that it turns more thoughtful; she hesitates, then says, "That's more straightforward than it used to be, I imagine." As though she hadn't had to look into it herself. "But yes. Of course. Though there's something to be said for the directness, for blending oneself and one's loved one -- that reminds me! Did you ever play with those sliders on a web page, morphing one picture into another? That was fun."

"Perhaps we should collaborate. Jules draws and I stitch it out. But," Della's melted, after all, she gets to give herself a little pause to just smile and smile at her friend-- "I hope that will be a long time from now, Una. The leaving part."

"It would be interesting to see how Jules'd draw you, not just a sketch but a portrait. What she'd share."

Una's got a tiny, minute little nod for the directness of it, of turning an act of love into a family, though it comes with a pinkening of her cheeks and a ducked glance back at the book in front of her. "I did," she agrees, with a wry little laugh. "And it was fun. I— well, it doesn't matter. I'm going to have my family, one way or another. Not yet, but when the time comes. And you two, you're my family too."

There's a napkin to play with, not to mention bonnet strings. "I'd like that collaboration. And I— I know you're not going to rush off and leave. And I know you will, and that's okay, too. When the time comes. But my house, it will always have an open door for you."

She glances up, a little shy, but also thoughtful. "I don't know. Maybe it would be. I'd say the same of you, of course. Of all of us."

That blush, that shyness, that straightforwardness, Della's still beaming; the daisies seem quite happy too, and a few more have budded. "Likewise, I imagine. And you'll let me know," this is an reinstruction if not reinscription, "when you need something, even if it's just lending a hand with paperwork. Or dishes." More dishes. There are always dishes.

"What would you think of my asking her to draw us? The three of us. Together, I think, not a triptych. Though that brings up ideas of attributes, like Athena and her owl..."

Una's no Disney princess, though perhaps there's an element of that: the daisies, the nicely settled not-quite-animal companion in the form of that bonnet. She's blossoming, though, and not just when it comes to actual flowers. "I will," she promises, all smiles despite that lingering blush. "I promise."

Della's question has drawn an eagerness to her smile, followed promptly by, "I'd like that, I think. Together, yes— though the triptych is an interesting thought. Three women, with three kinds of power and three— I don't know, how would you represent us? The symbology is interesting."

Good.

"This is where I want to pull out my phone," Della sighs, but doesn't even pat for it. She leans back, thinks, her feathers tilting at the same angle as her brows. "So, all right. Backgrounds. Jules gets -- what she wants, of course, but for starters, maybe mountains and water and salmon. Her birds, maybe, or feathers in the framing. Would you want the house in your background? Or the kitchen more specifically? Rolling pin, butter? Cats?"

"I just don't want to be the crone, thanks."

"I don't want to be the maiden," counters Una, with a shy little laugh (not to mention the blush that goes with it). "And I'm not quite ready to be the mother. We're going to have to avoid that particular trio. None of that, just... us. I think— the kitchen, for me. Rolling pin and a cat twined about my legs. A plant on the window ledge. It all sounds a little 'pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen' without the pregnant part, but it fits, doesn't it? I like Jules and the mountains and the water and the salmon."

Some of her daisies twine together, crown-like.

"What about you?"

Della, leaning forward: "What kind of plant? That matters. I'd do more plants curling around like the birds in the framing. Oh, this is so good." The shortbread again.

"I'd say sitting on the counter, if it weren't for the twining cat, though I suppose he could be tickling your toes," she teases before she ever gets back to herself. "I wonder if the lighting would be similar for all of us, or have different times of day... Wouldn't it be funny if I were the maiden, these days?"

"Me. Hmm. Embroidery around the outside would be the obvious, though I don't know yet what. Formulae, maybe. Maybe framed by a window? Cat on shoulder, phone in my hand, a candle here and there just because. That's what leaps to mind. What do you see?"

'Sitting on the counter' makes Una suddenly, abruptly, turn scarlet, though she manages otherwise to maintain her composure over... well, whatever the reason is. "Herbs," is what she says, bypassing all of that to focus on the rest. "Or vegetables, but I think herbs would work better as a motif. I don't see you as the maiden either. You're..."

She hesitates, studying Della (she's still blushing, but she's valiantly ignoring it) thoughtfully. "Formulae would work, or... puzzle pieces, things that fit together. Cogs and gears and tiny connections. And you'd need to be touching something, maybe." 'In that way that you do' is implied, but not said outright.

Della peers at Una in wonderment -- then around, to check for any observer that might have incited the reaction -- "I like that, the cogs and gears. They're more tactile. And, all right, maybe a scroll or something, though balancing it with the phone..."

"I haven't seen you blush that much in a long time," she adds good-humoredly, and lets that sit. Had Una sat in something wet and left an embarrassing mark on her skirt? Had she sat on a pastry? ...Had she been feeding the cats cream and butter and all the tasty things they aren't allowed?

Una opens her mouth, as if she wants to explain, will explain, but then... can't, or at least, doesn't. She just shakes her head, a little shy, shoulders shrugging. "I like the kitchen counters," she says, firmly, moving on from it. "They're a good height to sit at, the ones that don't have cupboards above them. You're right, though, balancing things with the phone— that's more difficult. I have increasing amounts of sympathy for portrait painters from the, what, 1800s or so? Who had to try and capture the essence of people with a few little props."

"It's true," supports Della, who doesn't (sit on them, at least).

"At least they didn't need to have actual props and could just paint in whatever they liked. I imagine the people they painted knew what they meant, or were told what they supposedly meant, and so did their confederates; the people who did the dusting... do you imagine they had much of an idea, or cared?"

She still has that little, fond half-smile, even if that blush is by now only a memory (of a memory).

"Probably not," is immediate and blunt: Una makes a face. "I keep thinking back to the Highwayman Dream, and what it was like having to do all that work. It wasn't even so bad for us, because we knew it was temporary and that we were there to do something other than scrub floors really, but... why would you care? There was no conceivable way, despite what novels like to tell us, that you'd go from being a parlour maid or whatever to being part of the family. It just..."

She breaks off, reaching for another piece of the shortbread (this piece gets some strawberry and lavender jam by way of accompaniment), and sighs. "Maybe that's an over-simplification. Maybe you would still care and be curious and... I don't know, feel some kind of loyalty for the family, or whatever. It just— I suppose I'm hyper-aware of it, now."

Della lifts her teacup to Una as though it were champagne: "Definitely. If it were only floors, forever..." She nods for novels, too, and makes a face.

"Depends on how the family treated people, maybe? Whether it was as worthwhile contributors, or if the smallest misstep means someone's out on their ear? No health insurance back then, no nothing. Maybe the church," though the lift of her tone questions that too, or the worth of that.

Una has to jam the rest of her shortbread into her mouth so that she can lift her own teacup in answer, chewing thickly. "The workhouse," she supposes, once she's swallowed. "Which sounded awful, let's be honest. And if you were let go without a reference... I mean, it's hard enough here and now, if you don't get one. But back then?"

She shakes her head.

"I hope there were more good families than not, but I imagine it was culturally ingrained in them, to a degree. Classism sucks. It's like racism, except no one should want to be born a race other than the one they were, but class? I guess a lot of people would prefer not to be born working poor."

"I don't know much about that," Della admits, "but the name alone sounds dreadful. But then, I don't have the trust in the system that would make it a house where one could take refuge and work productively and be appreciated in one's turn."

"Is it classist of me to say, I don't imagine anyone would want to be born poor? Barring the very rare exception, anyway. It decreases all the options. It isn't safe. There are people who romanticize it, oh no, it's so difficult keeping track of all their money, they'd rather work an honest day's job," but her feathers have flattened.

The face Una makes, and the way she shakes her head goes a long way to confirming Della's supposition of workhouses, though now is not the time for a history lesson.

"Well— no, not classist, because... yes, exactly. It isn't safe, and it does decrease the options, and— nothing good comes of being poor that couldn't come from being solidly middle class. Mom and I were poor, and if I look back, there's nothing that I gained from that that outweighs the downsides. Yes, I learned how to be independent, and how to make money stretch, and— all those things. But I could have learned that without the experience, and... I missed out on things, too. And we weren't as poor as plenty of people."

Her expression sharpens. "Anyone who thinks it would be easier to not have money is welcome to donate it all. I'm sure we could come up with some amazing projects to use their unwanted wealth for."

"Yes. Yes." She could have learned those so many other ways.

As Una's expression sharpens, Della's turns haughty and, somehow, simultaneously condescending: something about the slant of her nose, the tilt of her so-dark lashes, the archness of her voice. "Don't you know, dear, it's so much more worthwhile to earn for one's self. Good for one's soul." Then comes the eyeroll.

No less seriously, but a lot less sarcastically, "What do you think of people who do give large chunks of money away, but who want to keep their hands on it and decide where it goes?"

Una's snort is dark and sharp and comes with the glitter of eyes that are far more determined and bitter than these eyes usually get; it's a sore spot.

"Those people suck," is her answer to the question. "I want... I want people to give away their money, no strings attached, except that it needs to go to projects. Like... boring-but-important things. Sanitation and infrastructure. They all want the showy 'I cured cancer' badge, and I'm not saying that's a bad thing at all, except... if we're talking third world countries, we need to talk about clean water and sanitation. The American poor are a different story, I guess; a lot of that has to come down to government policy, too. I want them to just give the money to the smart people who know how to make an impact."

In response, the daisies' petals droop a little, curling at their tips -- but then brighten, perking up as though they're listening as intently as Della is.

"Those are incredibly important," she agrees with Una. "Critical. Baseline. They make such a difference, and if only Congress would -- " Della stops herself just in time, with a bzzt backing-up noise and momentarily-wide eyes.

"Sorry. Right. Back to the entitled people. Some of them," and this is wry too, perhaps the more so given the knowledge of how her 'well off' likely comes across to many people, "would promptly say that they are the smart ones, that's how they made it. Luck and cronyism and uneven playing fields aside."

Can Una feel what the daisies are doing? She must be able to, because her hand— she has to set down her tea cup again to do this— lifts towards her hair, hovering there for several long moments before it drops again.

She studies Della, too: her expression gone thoughtful and curious, especially when Della stops herself with those wide eyes. Her nod, though, is just a shallow one, accompanied by a pressing together of her lips, lips that make a faint sound when she parts them again in order to speak. "Yes— it's always the 'I was smart and did this myself, and they could too if they weren't so lazy' and that's just wrong. It's all so complicated. I know I don't have all the answers, but it's pretty clear the current 'answers' aren't enough."

It's her turn to look wry. "That conversation took a turn, didn't it? But it's important."

The daisies are drawn towards her fingers while they last, some of their stems lengthening; if they could breathe, they'd tickle.

"That's the thing, the 'if they weren't so lazy.'" Della doesn't make a face, quite, but Una's known her long enough -- and well enough -- to see the ghost of a grimace in her muscles' micromovements. She sighs, leaning back. "I wish it were as easy to come up with those good answers, solutions without hidden agendas or failure points or, for that matter, that work at cross-purposes, as it is to poke holes in things. And I wish people wouldn't game the system at so many others' expense."

"At least it seems -- unless it's just rose-colored glasses talking or a small, skewed sample size -- there's less of it with the Gray Harbor crowd."

The daisies will never stop being a thing, will they? But Una seems content with them.

"Me too," she agrees, apparently content to let her answer be as simple as that: of course she agrees. Of course, too, she could elaborate and make further commentary, but what would be the point?

Instead, she adds, "It feels that way, doesn't it? I know it's not perfect, and people still have blind spots, but... we're such an interesting collection of people from all walks of life. It helps people to stop and think and listen. I think, anyway. Maybe you're right, and there are rose-coloured glasses involved. But I like the way it feels."

The daisies do what they do, and meanwhile, the bonnet rests contentedly: it ranks the teacup, yes it does.

As for the humans... Della nods one more time, ruefully, and moves past that too; Una's right.

"Me too," is her turn to say. "People care, I think. And a lot of them... also care about what we do, and share, and I like that too." She glances briefly at the envelope; then, "More tea?"

"It's a community," confirms Una. "It's important."

She considers her tea cup, not to mention the shortbread, the pots of jam, the book— and the envelope too.

"I don't need any, but help yourself. And then... do we head home? I'm not complaining; this has been nice."

"We might. Would you like to look around at all?" Della offers, with a half-smile for their politeness. "Peek through the books?" They aren't supposed to thank fairies, traditionally, but surely this is different: "Thank you, room."

Yes, of course Una wants to peek through the books, and weirdly, she carries the bonnet in her hand throughout the excursion, even when it ends up being inconvenient with the books and the needing both hands and— well, so be it.

That questionnaire? It just makes her laugh, though she's diligent in its completion.

Come again? "I promise," she murmurs.

As long as her bonnet and daisies are awaiting her.