2022-07-23 - Millie

“Unaaaa!” Jules is a maelstrom of activity as she enters the house, dropping a bag near the door, kicking off sandals, and then heading for the kitchen with her arms full. She’s carrying a covered Pyrex container, meant for the counter. “Where are you? I brought cobbler!”

Imagine that: for once, Una is not in the kitchen... though the door leading out into the back yard is open, and sure enough, the redhead isn't far away, having set herself up in a shaded spot outside, with a sunhat, a lounger, her phone and now? A deep flush and an embarrassed expression, and an abrupt return to a sitting up position. The phone gets tucked away out of reach, and the answer gets called:

"Out here!"

“Cobbler!” Jules yells, like that’s the kind of announcement that should bring everyone running. To be fair, it probably is in her estimation.

She steps through to the backyard, just in time to see the flush before it fades. Jules quirks an eyebrow but makes no comment. Instead, “Want some?”

There are no blushes here. No reason for blushes, either!

"Would I ever say no to cobbler?" is pretty much a rhetorical question, especially as Una is already pulling herself up to her feet, gathering her half-empty glass and her book from the ground near her feet as well. "Welcome back."

“I would certainly hope not,” Jules replies with a grin. “That would be a very serious offense. “P.S., Grandma says hi and wanted me to pass it on that you’re welcome to visit her any time, even if I’m not around. She said to give you her number.” Ada is officially adopting this household.

Jules heads back inside, assuming Una will follow, and starts dishing up cobbler. It goes into bowls, because those berries are juicy, with one biscuit topping each. “Anything new?”

Cobbler? That's Della's text. Evidently she can hear that much from -- wherever she is.

The guilty glance Una gives her pocket turns into a laugh when she actually looks at her phone (she texts back, too: Come and have cobbler!.

For Jules: "That's adorable, I'd love to be adopted by your grandmother. I'll have to say hi... and acknowledge the cobbler, too, because yum." She does follow, eventually hoisting herself up onto a countertop so that she can watch the dishing out. "Nothing new. Just enjoying the sunshine, you know? Everything's good back home?"

“Do you want it warmed up or as-is? Ice cream or no ice cream?” All important questions, here.

“It was a good visit,” Jules confirms. She’s paused to glance at her own phone, too, and breaks into a grin as she pulls out a third bowl. “I think Grandma thinks we’re all getting into a heap of trouble down here and need elders to run stuff by. Elders are very important,” she deadpans, pausing to turn a so-serious look towards Una. “But also she just likes you guys and likes being involved.”

Footsteps, quiet as usual -- as usual for when she's not in too much of a hurry -- not long thereafter. Della has her 'inside' sneakers on, and she's followed by kittens, or rather the fuzzy trip hazards are racing ahead of her because of the prospect of, "Ice cream. Definitely. Is it still even a little warm? And what about elders being involved?

"Warmed up, and with ice cream," comes right after Della's words, and with a grin that Una aims at one housemate then the other. "That's the only way to eat cobbler, in my opinion." She can't really swing her legs properly against the cupboards, but she can wiggle her bare toes, and that's practically the same thing (and if it makes a convenient target for pouncing by small furry creatures? That's just the way it goes).

"I'm not running anything by elders unless I actively don't know what to do, and even then... but it's still sweet."

“A little,” Jules confirms as she touches the sides of the Pyrex to assess. “This one’s from this morning, so.” In any case, one bowl gets popped into the microwave as she fills in Della. “Grandma wants me to give you her number. I don’t think it’s like, a ‘run this by me’ kind of thing. More like, knowing people to contact who have a longer history with this stuff is good to have. Grandma doesn’t want to intrude.”

Jules pauses, licking the spoon she’s been using to dish out the cobbler. “Well. Maybe a little bit. But like, in the harmlessly nosy ‘who are you dating’ way and not ‘run every excursion by me first’ way.” Pause. “I asked her about the ghost forest. She says everyone knows it’s haunted.”

A very convenient target, right as Della passes by... and, in passing, aims to tickle. Then she can scamper away; then she can wash her hands.

"Sounds good to me. You know I love sources. What kinds of aside-from-dating trouble are we in these days, anyway? And 'everyone knows,' ha."

Una lets out a little squeal, legs flailing, but it doesn't last. More sedately: "Well, okay. Sources are never a bad thing to have. Though— it's true, everything's still quiet at the moment, which makes for less need there. Any word from lover-boy?"

Beat. "I guess the clue was in the name, but still. Ghost forest, ugh. I'd like to avoid haunted places, if we can."

“Well now you have more sources just a text away,” Jules teases. The microwave beeps, and out comes one toasty bowl. Jules sets it along side others in a neat little row and heads to the fridge for the ice cream. “She didn’t really say if haunting was dangerous, just—well yeah, of course you’re seeing weird things, that’s normal. Anyway, she just wants you both to know that you can contact her anytime. She likes company.”

Ice cream acquired, Jules starts scooping. “Mikaere,” she says then, giving Una a look, “was getting tested to see if he’s ready to go through a ceremony. I haven’t heard anything since then, so I’m assuming it’s a go.”

She does not say the words butt tattoo. Not yet.

A little squeal from Una, outright giggles from Della -- but that last's partly the 'lover-boy,' and she's quickly swiveling around to see Jules' reaction.

"'Tested.' What kind of testing are we talking about? Presumably not STD." Oh, right, dry her hands: she should do that. She does do that. She doesn't eye up that cobbler too much along the way. "Remind me: have both of you seen ghosts, or just Una?"

Una's expression is so innocent, so sweet. She's only met 'lover-boy' (sorry: Mikaere) on that one occasion, so... well. It just is what it is.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you've seen them even if you're not aware of it," she comments. "People do." One foot gets drawn up to rest atop the counter, her arm wrapping around her knee to secure it in place (it's a good thing she wipes down those benches both before and after cooking and baking).

“No, not for STDs, Della.” Everyone’s getting the emphasis today. Despite her guileless looks, which aren’t fooling Jules in the slightest, Una can have her bowl of cobbler. Jules slides it down the counter after putting the ice cream scoop in the sink.

“You’d have to ask him for the full explanation, but from what I understand, Māori culture involves getting tattoos at significant points of your life? So you have to be judged ready for it, you can’t just walk up and be like ‘gimme my moko.’ You remember Tui’s tattoo.” For Una’s benefit, Jules adds, “Mikaere’s mom has a tattoo here.” Her forefinger touches her lips, her chin.

Ice cream goes back to the freezer, and finally Jules can take up her own cobbler with a flourish of the spoon. “Haven’t seen any ghosts that I know of other than the ghost trees. Which absolutely count.”

"Mm, could be." For Una. Not for Jules. Definitely not for Jules. Even if Della does slide the latter an impish look, reaching over for her bowl. Not the kittens' bowl. (At least the kittens have Una-toes to play with, until the dairy-scent becomes just too hard to resist.) "I do like that, though. 'Gimme my moko,'" her alto temporarily dropped into a gruffer tenor. "Think he'd think it was funny or sacrilegious?"

She adds, "I wonder if he'll take his on the chin, too. As it were. Or -- " she breaks off, because cobbler has entered the picture and she's just going to savor that for a while, thank you. And then a nibble of ice cream. And then both together.

"On her lips?" Una's eyes go wide, her eyebrows lifting up towards the line of her hair. "Now I have to echo Della's question— Hephaestus, no!— because that would be super weird, right? A lip tattoo?"

Not that it stops her from accepting her bowl with a grin of pleasure, picking it up and savouring that first bite.

"Come winter, I'll introduce you to Cynthia. You'll like her, I think. She eats my cookies."

“He said he wasn’t doing the face.” Jules hops up on the counter alongside Una. More toes for the kittens.

“Do you have a picture of her for Una, Della? And I’m gonna go with funny, unless someone actually did it, and that totally sounds like it would be a big no-no.” Her first bite combines the berries and the ice cream, and it receives a satisfied ‘mmm.’ “Who’s Cynthia?”

The only thing more immediately appealing: toes with dairy.
"I do. I absolutely do." Della adds, tapping one-handed, "Not just the lip, but -- it gets to feel natural, on her. Here." She crosses over to show Una; only, shortly thereafter, it's overwritten by a notification and she makes that have-to-take-that face and steps back.

Una's, "Hm," is thoughtful, though there's no indication that she's disapproving of facial tattoos (or tattoos in general): it's just new and different, this particular style. "That's got to hurt, I bet. When you get it done. How do you eat?"

She wiggles her fingers in Della's direction, wrinkling her nose at the untimely interruption, but it doesn't stop her from turning back to Jules. "This is really good, thank you. Cynthia's the little girl ghost who haunts the pond. In winter only. She gets lonely, and when there are kids around she tells them all kinds of horrific things, so I try and distract her with cookies. When Ravn tried opening a door the first time, with Ava and I, she was sleeping on the Other Side's version of the pond. I left her cookies then, too."

She sounds wistful.

“Good question.” One Jules does not have an answer to. “And yeah, the whole thing sounds painful. Apparently the traditional way to do it is with bone chisels.” Jules might get a little kick out of sharing the gory details. Maybe. Just maybe.

“I think I remember you telling us about her now. The girl in the pond. I just didn’t know her name—or didn’t remember it. Speaking of little girls.” It’s not meant to be a pregnant pause; Jules is just shoveling cobbler into her mouth. “We were talking about Millie. Della touched the book she gave me. And we were wondering—what if she kept some kind of diary? I wonder if we could find it.”

Bone chisels? Una turns faintly grey, and (temporarily, surely) sets down her spoon.

It's probably a good thing, then, that Jules has moved on with the other thread of the conversation, and that it's interesting enough for Una to allow her brows to furrow in thought and what may indeed be faint surprise. "A diary? I mean... she may have? I guess that's not the kind of thing she'd keep in the library, though. Maybe in the attic? Lots of stuff up there. We never did get through more than a superficial glance at it. I kept hoping another Door would open, and we'd see her again."

Oh look, now she's wistful all over again.

From across the room: "Boner chisels? What?" Della, innocently distracted.

“I might be able to look for it,”Jules begins, only to be drawn up short by spluttering laughter.

“Oh my god, yes, and tattoos on the butt are called raperape, I shit you not.”

It was going to come up at some point.

Una had just taken another bite of her cobbler, and now? Now she needs to cover her mouth with one hand as she, too, splutters and chokes.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" is more delighted than maybe it sounds; her eyes gleam.

Hilarity sparks in Della's own gaze, but what she says is a deadpan, "Better 'on' than 'up.'"

And now Jules is just cackling away, unable to immediately answer.

Welp. There goes the conversation (at least temporarily): Una can't breathe but for laughing.

Kittens are all whiskers, as if -- as if -- that humor's contagious; all of a sudden they're chasing each other up and down and up and down the kitchen, tails fluffed, scrambling around the turns.

Della, delighted, leans back with her hand to her throat. Bring it on.

Whatever hope Jules had of recovery has flown out the window with that unexpected little push from Della. She doesn’t seem to notice it, too caught up in her laughter. She puts her bowl to the side, all the better to double over with her hands on her thighs. “Oh my God,” she gasps out, “I’m dying.”

Una can't even get the words out; the laughter is nigh-on hysteria, but the delighted kind, the kind that may as well be the release of a long-held pressure, a champagne bottle uncorked.

Give her a moment.

It's their laughter that lightens Della's, and if Una does spritz all over the kitchen, she knows how to use a mop. Eventually, though, she has to breathe; stretch her shoulders; and breathe again, deep and wide. And peek through her fingers at her friends, as though anything else might be too dangerous and bring it on again.

Jules gains control gradually, still grinning away as she composed herself with long, deep breaths. “You guys are the best,” she fondly declares once she can talk, straightening up. She dares pick up her cobbler again.

The breath Una releases, now, is a little shaky, but still: such a release. "I'm so glad we found each other," she agrees, quietly echoing Jules' words. "I don't know where I'd be without you. I— what we were saying? You wanted to try and find, um, Millie's diary?"

She'll reclaim her cobbler, too, and take a few more exploratory breaths, just to make certain she's done with the laughter. (It does still lurk there, in potential, but for now... for now, she can breathe again.)

Della, too, continues to relax. "Likewise," she affirms. "So much better this way." The kittens have calmed somewhat, too, and she watches over them without scooping either up; she has cobbler (and ice cream!) to tend, after all.

"A diary, or anything, really. Clues." Della glances at each of them in turn, making herself think back. Making herself think. "The book felt... like she was quite sad," she must know this intellectually, but it's hard to imagine, much less feel it in the wake of such laughter. She attempts: "I don't know much about how all this works," any of this, "but it seemed like... more than I would have thought our meeting would have meant. Perhaps it's the rest going on around her. Or perhaps she's one of those 'sensitive souls.'"

Jules nods to Della’s description as she spoons another bite into her mouth. “Della said she was lonely,” Jules contributes a moment later. “So I was thinking, she might be the kind of kid who kept a diary. And if it was significant, like Della says…I don’t know, but maybe she has more things to show us. I started thinking—maybe she ended up with whatever the Asshole wants us to find. He was her grandfather, right? Maybe nothing turns up, but we could try.”

She scrapes her spoon against the side of her bowl to pick up a few lingering berries mixed with runnels of melted ice cream. “One of the things I’ve figured out I can do is find things.”

Una opens her mouth to respond, but finds herself quite without words with which to actually do so. Her brow furrows, her feet still, and she hesitates, sucking in a deep breath that has nothing to do with laughter, now.

"Really?" She seems to regret her surprise a moment later, because she hastily lifts a hand to wave it away and adds, "I mean, that shouldn't surprise me. I'm not sure why it did. I just— never quite thought of it like that, as something that could be done. But, well. If you think you could try? It can't hurt."

Another pause. "There's always the Other City Hall. If we need more information."

"Did you keep a diary?" Della's gaze flicks, if only briefly, to Una from Jules.

But then -- then -- "Find things like Robin? That sounds so useful! What sorts of things have you found, how much can you control it? Do you think of something and then it twitches at you until you actually get it? Can you 'find' 'things' like good parking spots?" All these things, so much more fascinating -- and safer -- than the Other City Hall. Not that she doesn't peek at Una, one more time, and then scoop up Athena as she scampers by.

A quick shake of Jules’ head—no, she didn’t keep a diary—before she turns to her relatively newfound skill. “I’ve only done it once,” she says with a note of caution. “When I was looking my mask from the ball. I don’t know exactly how I did it, but I was looking, and then I just had a sense of where to find it, like a tug in the right direction. I seriously doubt it would work for parking spots. I think it has to be lost. Or a definite thing that you can find. But maybe I’ll give it a shot, next time I can’t find parking.”

The more she thinks through it, the more she has to say. “I might not work for Millie, because I don’t necessarily know what I’m looking for. Or if there’s something to look for. But no harm in trying, right? Before we even think about looking into the City Hall stuff.”

Una, too, shakes her head: no diaries for her, either.

Jules' explanation draws a considering glance from the redhead, who finally says, "Well, it can't hurt to try, right? I wonder... Della has that connection to how she felt, when she touched the book, and— maybe that would help? If she shared that with you, and you had the book handy, as like... like scent hounds, I guess? Working together."

Beat. "Not, uh, that I'm calling you a dog, Jules, I swear."

"No, no, we both are. Aroo." Della teases this while gentling her cat: yes, for her, on her back is just fine; it means soft kitten belly, and look, Theenie can play with her own tail. "Let us know about the parking. And -- that's a great idea. I'd just been thinking about Jules touching the book, the inscription, but this could be even more effective."

Deadpan, "Or I'll get zapped, something like that."

“I’ve definitely been called a bitch before,” Jules responds, still inclined to see the humor in it.

“I like this—working together, using our different gifts for something new. I don’t think I’ve really heard people talk about doing that before. It’s always about what you can do, you know?”

"I like it better," admits Una. "Thinking about what people can achieve together, rather than just separately. I half-wonder if that's the problem: everyone's so focused on their own abilities, and not how they work in concert. It's like music, right?"

Because Una, without a single musical bone in her body, knows all about music.

She considers her spoon for a moment, and the cobbler on it. "I'm not sure how mine fit in, but I expect that will become clear in time, too. Do you... want to try now?"

"Definitely." Della's already making a face, then has to soften it -- and her tone -- for Miss Whiskers there. Play with the tail, play with the tail... and if it soothes Della herself, that's not so bad either.

She's nodding for what Una has to say, too. "Lovely analogy." Sliding a glance at the redhead, "We're different ingredients, are we? Wanting different proportions and baking temperatures for different recipes? Whenever you two are, as long as I can finish my cobbler," which she would do just fine if she weren't cuddling a kitty-woogums, "and hopefully we won't need the healer-ing part of you."

"If it takes too long, pull us out."

"Not that I expect it to, if it works at all, especially the first time."

Jules sets her finished, berry-juice smudged bowl aside, but not in the sink. There’s a good chance she’ll want more later. “No time like the present, right? No reason not to try it now. Let me go get that book.”

And she’s off and back in no time, picture book in hand and held out to Della.

"See, that's a better analogy," Una declares, firmly. "We're all the ingredients, and it's just a matter of working out the right proportions, in order to bake the perfect dish. Cookie or cake or whatever else it is, depending on the needs of the moment at hand. I hope the heal-ing part of me is never needed... but, well. It's here if it is needed, at any point." She gives her fingers a glance, and wiggles them experimentally.

"I'll keep an eye out," she promises.

She's quiet, while Jules is gone. Quiet, too, when she returns, though she uses the time to finish her own cobbler (and, eventually, to pick up Hephaestus, so that he doesn't feel too left out.)

Athena watches those fingers wiggle, oh yes. Athena may have memorized them.

And Jules is so fast. That leads to juggling on Della's part, primarily focused on righting the cat and telling her she's a good, good girl and starting to set her down... only, first, said cat would rather climb up to her shoulder, and then Hephaestus gets to be picked up -- "But that's because Una has hands free," she tells her. "I don't need claws while we're focusing." Gently, firmly, down Athena goes. For now.

One last large tasty spoon-scoop of cobbler.

"I have to wash my hands," she says half-apologetically, even if they don't need to be: it's the spirit of the thing. Drying, too, is an intensive process. All the nooks of hands; all the details. All the details. Then the book, her lips pressed together; then leaning against the counter next to Jules. Then letting herself reach in.

Surely nobody will be too distracting.

It’s not Jules’ time, not yet. So she just waits, quiet and catless, attention fixed on Della.

Hephaestus curls himself around Una's body, and the redhead holds him there, idly stroking his fur as she waits, and watches. It's a foreign concept to her, still, this touching-of-things, this reading of things. Her breath catches.

"Oh." There might be a shiver in the air, for those who would feel it; the single word does no justice to those layers upon layers of Millie, of family, of Millie all over again. Della's sunk back against the counter, her gaze unfocused; Athena's is, intent. And then the young cat leaps onto that counter, where Della always, always shushes her away, but today she doesn't; she doesn't see. "The library. In the library." Her hideaway?

She swallows. She remembers what they're here for. She reaches out a hand, fingers splayed, for Jules.

And she projects.

At first, Jules only watches. Her expression has gone still and solemn. This is the first to change, when Della’s fingers intertwine with hers. She winces sharply, face screwed up at all that sadness that lingers into maturity, regret for the place she and the others occupy in Millie’s imagination and how this, too, reflects the loneliness of her childhood.

The hideaway, the library. Jules concentrates here as her own powers flare, reaching out like questing fingers. “Library,” she murmurs, echoing Della, and now she pushes away from the counter to lead the way without letting go of the other woman’s hand.

Una sets Hephaestus down— or rather, perhaps, the kitten demands it, curling about her ankles, instead, as she watches the silent exchange between her two housemates. Whether she feels it, the not-being-part-of-this, is more difficult to tell. Certainly, however, she draws her shoulders back and acknowledges the murmur of them both. "The library, then."

She'll lead the way, little as she may wish to.

Della shivers as she enters this place, this place that had seemed completely normal when first she visited (before she belonged, as much as anyone not Irving can). She keeps hold of Jules' hand, she keeps hold of the book, she walks in Jules' footsteps who walks in Una's while Athena prowls behind.

It's a challenge to keep hold of the connection and move at the same time. Even keeping hold this long, much less while sharing, is new. But then -- it is narrow. Her eyes narrow.

Jules doesn’t pause when her feet move past the library door and into the unnatural chill that permeates this room. Her body is a dowsing rod, tuned via the channel of memory and resonance Della diverts into her own mind.

“Here,” she breathes, though she doesn’t need to. Her steps are already carrying her towards the back corner, necessarily drawing Della along with her. Jules’ other hand is outstretched, questing, ready to brush along book spines as she searches by feel.

How much does Una hate this room? More than she has ever been able to verbalise. It ought to be her favourite place, reader that she is: the beautiful old shelves, the window nook perfect for reading in. Instead, she's avoided it altogether, and even now seems unwilling to do more than hover about the edges, her eyes on the shelves (watchful, ever watchful).

Another set before them. Della's focus doesn't so much waver as sharpen in one particular spot, trying to get a better impression of that girl, that man. That man who willingly shares the secret, in a house without many men: an earlier version of the grandfather, or someone else?

She should gasp at the shelf-revelation; she should watch for cats who might go where it isn't safe, where they could be trapped; possibly she should clutch tighter at Jules' hand, lest this be a Door as well. She doesn't. It's a wonder she keeps hold of the book as she moves closer to look, to see. (To go?)

It’s utterly bizarre, this superimposition of sensation and sight. But Jules doesn’t hesitate. Unerringly, drawn to the precise location she sees via Della, Jules reaches for the old leather-bound volume with her free hand. It’s so easy to find, when she knows what she’s searching for.

When the shelf itself moves, though, she jumps back a step. “Millie’s hideaway,” Jules breathes. “And her grandfather’s.” Her gaze seeks out Una. “And yours, now.”

There's a half shake of Una's head as if to dismiss this idea: Una, who has kept her distance even now that the wall has opened. "I—" she begins, except—

"Millie?" Is it her, is it the still-familiar other girl, is it someone else -- is it Una's mother --

Is it real? Or, no; is she real in the here and now, not just in resonance and memory?

Della, swaying, loses track of Jules' hand.

“Oh.”

Whatever Jules may have been anticipating, it isn’t this. She lets Della’s hand fall away without attempting to reclaim it. The afternoon light reaches into this recess, but it’s still dim, and Jules squints for a better look at the young woman revealed behind the false shelf.

“It’s us,” she says. Maybe it’s a stupid answer. But it’s the answer that makes sense to her.

Della, wide-eyed and just a little wild-eyed, hugs the book closer to her as she drops out of resonance; she finds herself grinning too, and then looking from Millie to Una to Millie again. Millie.

"We think we are, anyway," she only half-jokes. "What's become of you?"

Jules breaks into a smile, too. It’s infectious. “It’s us,” she repeats, smiling back at this older Millie, suddenly closer in age. “We found the book you gave me. Thank you. We were hoping we’d see you again.”

Her smile dims just a little as she adds, “I hope you’ve been okay. How have you been?” Lonely. She knows this.

For Una, it's more than a little unnerving (an unnerving Irving?): it was one thing when Millie was a little girl who happened to share some of her features, but it's quite another when... when. She stares, silently.

The book. The book. "Here," Della says quickly, flipping back to the inscription and holding it out -- not to take, she's protective of it, but to look at. "Here it is. Your handwriting, right? Only it's old now; look at the pages, how they're yellowed on the edges. Recognize it?"

“We found it in our time,” Jules says quietly. “You’re part of our past.” She’s noticing the wariness, along with the pulse of potential, and her expression takes on a thoughtful cast.

“We don’t know why these Doors open that let us meet you—but we are glad to see you again.” Una’s incorporated in this, whatever her thoughts on the matter may be. “We were looking for you.”

Both cautious and curious, Jules taps into her own river of power. It comes easier and easier, these days. Surely Millie can feel it, when Jules looks at her with that other sight, assessing.

"Your grandfather?" That's Una, barely breathing out the question. "Your grandfather... is like us?"

With that confirmation, Della steps back, and a little sideways, so Millie might be less crowded in. "We've been thinking of you," she says quietly, calm but for the slight tremble at the edge of her voice. "The book," now closed, "is lonely. The library is... shivery. It's no refuge for us. Something happened." It's backfill information, possibly too much information, but she doesn't demand attention.

The cats might. They've appeared behind the women, whiskers half-back.

“I wanted to see what you can do.” Jules is unapologetic in her answer and her nosing about. “What you might have noticed about yourself and about this place. And how that maybe connects to us.”

It’s only fair that she offers her own self up for examination, albeit in a verbal sense when Millie’s investigation fails. “I can move between places. And it’s almost always involved moving in time, come to think of it.” That’s a nugget to inspect later.

“It’s certainly interesting to hear that your grandfather can do things, too.” This time, Jules does turn towards Una, eyebrows arched.

Una doesn't have an answer for Jules, not even a glance: she's just staring at Millie.

Whether the cats noticed on their own, or because of Millie, the way Della does -- following the girl's glance, goosebumps rising along her exposed arms -- they have swiveled to stare too, their fur fluffed up.

Della doesn't, not any more. She's turned back to, "Millie?" her voice low and worried. "What is it?" She moves as though she'd hug her -- but after living with Una, and Millie does so resemble Una, she's exceedingly careful around the other woman's cues. Perhaps a hand to one of those shaking shoulders --

Jules turns quickly, standing in profile to Millie as her attention shifts to the library.

“Oh hi. Perfect timing,” she mutters, dripping sarcasm.

But then Millie drops, and Jules crouches down right where she is. “Hey,” she says, low but firm. “It’s okay. You’re okay. He can’t hurt you.” Or perhaps he can, but behind that statement is another one, unsaid and steely: they won’t let him.

"Her," says Una, who can see. "It's Millie?!"

And Della gasps.

"Wait, what?" She's curled her arm about middle-Millie, protective, and now she has to double-take: back, forth. It's hard to see between Jules and Una and... it's not so still any longer, it refuses to be still, Hephaestus is running for Una for safekeeping (to keep himself safe? to keep her?) and they will not freeze this way.

Athena hisses.

“Oh, shit.”

This is unexpected.

Jules stays put, still crouched where she is. An extra barrier of protection for Millie of flesh and blood. The extra barrier, though, is the invisible one Jules wraps around the younger (yet older) woman, a blanket to blunt any force. Not that Jules thinks their ghost intends harm. But better safe than sorry.

“It’s you,” she addresses the ghost. “You’re the one who wants us to restore things.”

Una reaches down to pick up Hephaestus, lifting him up into her arms for comfort (his? hers? both, maybe) as she watches the rest unfold. She's still standing off to one side, away from her ancestor (the asshole? the non-asshole?) in both her forms. She's utterly lost for words, now: this is the clearly the very last thing she anticipated.

After a look at Una -- Della gives, "Jules?" the prompt that she may not need. Her voice is quiet too, and her arm is living and welcoming, but she's refocused on the ghost's arm: where, exactly where, is she pointing. What can she see of her expression, if there's anything at all.

Young Athena is twitchy-tailed, not hissing again but absolutely not relaxed. She lifts a paw as though she'd move towards the other-Millie, then hesitates, stops.

Watching, listening, Jules opts to reply to the Millie of flesh-and-blood first. “Because she gave us your grandfather’s memoirs. We read through them for clues. I think she wants us to return some things he took from the indigenous people who used to live here.” She’s got her gaze the ghost as she says it, though, looking for some kind of confirmation.

“Did you hide something in here?” This time, Jules addresses the library’s ghostly resident—though it may not be just for her alone. “Maybe for safekeeping?”

"Seriously?" That's Una, finding her words again. "After all this time?! They were right there?" She must be holding on to Hephaestus just a little too tightly, because he lets out an unhappy mrow.

Her not much older-looking ghost.

Della's still peering at the Millie-ghost, the ghostly Millie; she murmurs, "Time to learn how to lip-read."

Where did that candle go? Reaching for her phone and its light, pausing to soothe Athena with a touch along the way, "We'll need to be careful not to shut the door." That hasn't stopped the Doors, but perhaps it will help -- if only to help living-Millie feel more at ease.

She glances at Una, at Jules. To the ghostly Millie then, illustrating along the way, "Do you want us to go in? Lift one finger. Do you want to go in? Lift two fingers." She asides in a lower voice, "Because maybe she doesn't want to spook us by going through." Back to the ghost, "Both, lift all three."

How big is this space anyway?

“Della, she’s already told us.” Now it’s Jules’ turn for exasperation, tone becoming sharpish. “Just don’t close the bookshelf, and we’ll be fine.”

She rises with every intention of brushing past Millie to enter the hideaway for herself. “Can you show me?”

"I'm not sure if she can communicate," murmurs Una, frowning as she stares at the ghostly Millie. Her outburst now finished with, she's regained her calm— some of it, at least— and turned a little more analytical. "She's not much like the other ghosts I've seen."

"I'll... um, stay out here."

"Different 'she,'" Della returns crisply. It's only the ghost-Millie's lack of reaction that has her turn away -- and then there's Millie, looking at her like that. So of course she'll go, but only after, "Maybe not. Watch Theenie? Please?"

And of course she'll look at the art, as well as the room at lar-- long. As for the trunk, "Lug the whole thing out? Or I can try to get my tools and pick it..." though her skills are only nascent: that half-lock to learn, some lessons, some practice. Not a lot; it's been busy. On the other hand, it isn't a bank vault.

With no key at the ready, Jules determines that the best thing to do is lug the whole thing out. It takes a good deal of effort, but she’s determined. First, she lifts the lantern and requests, “Someone take this?” Catching it by the corner in this narrow space off a library full of dry books is not the order of the day. Then, the trunk. Jules puts her back into it, pulling the chest out into the light through a series of focused tugs on the side handle. She’s huffing by the time it’s out of the hideaway.

“Should I look for the key?” she asks. “Or should we just Hulk Smash the lock?”

"Theenie," calls Una. "Athena. Stay with me and Phaestus. Here puss." She gets down into a crouch, all the better to try and lure the other cat towards her, an effort that is aided by Hephaestus' quietly contented purr.

Watching the cats, and staying out of the crawl space, makes it more difficult for her to keep up with what's going on, though evidently she's heard enough, because as Jules asks her question, having returned with the trunk, the modern-day redhead's answer is firm and immediate. "No. Don't destroy it. Please. Let Della try with her picks, unless—" she gives Millie a wary glance, "— we know where the key is."

Oh. Oh. Della's dark eyes show their whites, she looks at Una -- Una the cat-caretaker, Una the Irving -- and she's about to speak when, hastily, she turns back towards the Door. Not flashlight, now, but picture if she can, with a quick, "Millie?" to try and get the young woman's face. "Take care of yourself. Please." No matter what the ghost looked like. "You can always leave us a note."

It won't take her long to run upstairs and return, to give that lock a go, but if Millie's leaving too... she can't miss it.

“You guys are no fun,” mutters Jules, who undoubtedly wants to Hulk Smash. She steps back though, and then quickly looks up when Della speaks to Millie.

“Don’t go yet,” Jules says, both alarmed and earnest. “Stay with us until we find out what’s in this trunk. You have a right to know, too.”

The ghost’s departure occasions a sudden shift to thoughtfulness. “Thank you,” Jules murmurs, looking to her last location. “Rest well.”

Una returns Della's glance, a little wide-eyed, a little unhappy... but she shakes her head and looks away, too.

She shudders, as the ghost disappears, though it's an involuntary thing— and comes accompanied with a wince. "Do you think you can get in?" she wonders of Della, blatantly ignoring any accusations of unfunness.

"Did you ever get to see what was inside?" she wonders, looking directly at Millie, a little shy.

Watching them -- after another couple discreet taps, pictures to be identified as cosplaying -- Della can take in the words better, later, on her way -- "I'll certainly try. Remember everything, tell me everything later, all right?"

Then she actually goes.

Then she kneels, her fingers gentle on the leather and the lock itself, and gives it that try.

“It should let you back through, when everything is done,” Jules tells Millie, looking to her again. “That’s the way it’s seemed to work—that there’s something on the other side to accomplish, and that’s what you’re there to do. And then you take that knowledge back with you. There’s a reason you’re here. There’s always a reason.” She gifts this out-of-time woman with a smile.

And then she too waits, watching Della work.

It's purely incidental, surely, that Una takes in a breath at the very moment Millie does. She's listened to what the other woman has to say, but doesn't have much to say: she's distracted, both by the kittens (who definitely need to not get too close to that box and its so-scratchable leather), and by the reality of the situation.

Its scratchable leather and, an eternity later, the vault of its contents. "Yes." That could be an answer for Millie; it's even more Della's frankly audible delight. (And relief. Let's not forget what's riding on this. Even if it might be fun to smash.)

She pockets the picks and, without waiting -- much less asking permission -- swings the top wide. Time to look inside.

(Time to, depending on what she sees, reach inside -- but she does finally pause and look up, to give the others a shot to weigh in first.)

“I think that’s exactly it,” Jules confirms, smiling at Millie once again. She’s developed a fondness for her that lasts for this older version of the small girl they met only weeks ago. “Whatever it is, it’s clearly important to you. Otherwise maybe none of this would have happened.”

She’s paying attention to Della still, but mostly out of the corner of her eye as she continues addressing their guest (or are they hers?). “I’m sorry we couldn’t see you again, between then and now.”

As soon as the lock clicks, Jules scampers forward to peer in as the lid is lifted.

"Noooooo," murmurs Una beneath her breath, just short of a moan of dismay. She's just barely close enough to see, but it's enough: she's ashen and miserable.

Touching the chest was one thing: focused on the lock, the task, keeping herself to herself. This array...

There's a moment where Della makes an abortive gesture for her non-existent sleeves, not to push them up but to pull them down over her fingers; there's a moment where Della's wondering, belatedly, "Where are your stor--?" but then even that's cut off. She reaches, she reaches, she wants to know --

"So many voices." Has she even touched the carnage with bare skin, or only exposed it to open air? She sinks back, her face flushing, biting back what could have been a low keen. She blinks and blinks again; her head bends down. It's not like Alhambra with Jules and Ariadne; it's worse.

Is it Pompeii?

“Della.” Jules’ tone is sharp in warning. She’s at her housemate’s side now, one hand going to her shoulder. “Back up.”

Her gaze lifts to seek out Una and Millie, one by one. “We already know what’s in here.” The pragmatic streak is followed by a controlled request. Jules’ emotions are right at the surface, but held in check. “Let me handle these things first, please.”

Una swallows. Una turns her face away, just breathing.

That helps: her name, and especially that touch. Della tilts her head to brush Jules' forearm. But kneeling as she is, it's uncomfortable to back up. She doesn't.

Instead, she uses her low leverage to push that chest away from her. It isn't as far, but it's far enough, both to diminish nearness and create a better path for Jules.

She breathes in; she breathes out. "Many people will be glad to have them back," she imagines for Millie, though dating them might present questions. But, finally lifting her gaze to look, "Is he still -- will he notice they're gone?"

“No, they aren’t his,” Jules says evenly. She gives Della’s shoulder a squeeze, now looking down at her with a look of mild concern. “But you don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t take anything,” she tells Millie next. “You’re giving them back. Thank you.”

Then it’s time to carefully lift the first item, turning it over in her hands. “We’ll have to get help with identification. Maybe through U-Dub.” The University of Washington, that is. “After we figure out if any of these are similar to mine.” Imbued with power, that is. “I’d rather not let any of those fall into the hands of the university, just in case.”

Jules kneels in front of the chest to begin the steady work of unpacking these items one by one, putting them on the floor as she goes.

There's a lot going on, and Millie is not helping Una's equilibrium at all: it doesn't help that she's been researching that family history, and knows both some of what the younger woman speaks of... and some of which she doesn't yet know. Even so, she's kept her expression neutral, meeting Millie's gaze squarely, when that moment arises.

Except; "Yes, the ghost helped. But— you don't have to worry about that. You helped."

"I'm sorry." About the war? Perhaps not about Millie's grandfather, though if she misses him... at any rate, Della doesn't specify. "It's a real relief, at least, that you won't get into trouble for it."

For Jules, "Yes." She offers, "I can look at them," touch them, "one at a time; we can write down what's there to learn. Every little bit helps. Under more controlled circumstances," that last part distinctly rueful.

She's near-literally sitting on her hands, curling them into the crook of her knees, leaning to look. Wanting to more than look. To know on a deeper level than bodiless research can provide. Whether she realizes yet about that mask in particular, the mask with its gleaming teeth... well, Jules hasn't held it up for them yet.

And then she looks back at Millie and Una, butts right into that moment -- out of care and worry, but still, butting in -- "Have you had a child yet? Millie?"

“You want to start this now?” Jules asks Della at her suggestion.

She’s preoccupied and only half paying attention otherwise, as she sorts through the items contained in the chest (next up: the mask). However, with the final question for Millie, Jules’ head jerks up. “Oh my god, Della, would you normally ask that question? Jesus.”

Too bad she’s not wearing her I’m Offended shirt today.

Della's enh is inconclusive anyway: maybe, but tilted towards nah.

But then -- "Obviously not, Jules. These aren't everyday circumstances." On the heels of the upset -- and the unidentified pull -- Della has to put in real effort to make her tone calm, reasonable.

With Millie, it's considerably easier; their time-traveler gets a flicker of a real smile to go with it. "Oh, of course. I'm sorry; we don't know anything about your life, since last time, is all. What your life is like, what's important to you. And you mentioned something about stories?"

“That doesn’t make it right,” Jules insists with a scowl. It’s not one she can maintain, though, with Millie’s talk of fast women.

“Whenever you do decide to do, just make sure it’s someone who treats you right.” Jules pauses in her self-appointed task to look up at Millie. “If some guy starts dismissing you or leads you on, kick him to the curb. Don’t put up with any bullshit.”

This time, it's deliberate, the way Una walks away: turning her back on Millie, and on her housemates. She disappears into the hallway. No doubt she'll be back, but—

Not lonely.

Della lets herself glance at Una -- disappearing Una! She hesitates but doesn't, in the end, call after her. Maybe she's just... getting something. Like salad. Cookies! It could be cookies.

Or just making sure the cats are cooped up. (Not that that always stops them.)

Or...

Enough woolgathering; now that there's room, Della stashes her phone and eases to her feet, walking over to lean against the entrance to the closet: not to shut it, just to talk, to give Millie company. (Not to look at the trunk.) "That sounds lovely. I have three sisters -- had I said? -- and there was never ever space to be lonely even if I wanted to be. Not really." She still doesn't look at the trunk. (Not yet.) A question's on her lips, but she gives the other two a chance, too.

Jules looks after Una as well, brow furrowing. “Give her a minute,” she says, either to herself or to Della.

“My family’s pretty small,” she offers, in contrast to Della and her sisters. “But there were always lots of other kids around to play with, growing up. And small can mean close.”

Jules pushes herself to her feet, wiping dust from her hands onto her jean shorts. “I think we have a folding table in the basement. Be right back.” This also gives her a minute to check on Una.

Out in the hallway, Una leans up against the wall, eyes closed: just breathing. Her face is pale, even paler than usual, and her arms wrap around her shoulders protectively.

Della's nod to Millie comes with a rueful smile; she pauses to call, "Good idea," after Jules, but then, "Una would have liked a sister too, I think. Jules has a brother.... But yes, we live here together; it's a boarding house of sorts -- a rooming house? -- where Jules and I pay Una for the use of our rooms, and we all pitch in for the things that need doing. Cooking, cleaning, though Una's the baker. Her food, it's amazing."

"This library. It's really welcoming now, isn't it," and this smile for Millie is warm like sunlight.

The folding table is secondary. Jules doesn’t reach out for Una yet, but she comes to stand close by, watching her with concern. “You okay?” She keeps her voice low. “If you just need a moment to yourself, tell me and I’ll fuck off; I won’t be offended.”

Una blinks her eyes open again, focusing on Jules after a moment of disorientation. "No, no, I'm okay," she says. "It's just— she's going to die, Jules. She wants all these things and she's not going to get any of them, and it's awful, but it also has to happen, because if it doesn't, I don't think I exist at all. I hate the past. I hate not being able to change things."

"We do. And... it's more that it felt shivery," Della temporizes. "Unhappy. I didn't even notice when I first moved in, but then I hadn't come into my... glow, you could say, my blessing." Not witchcraft, no no no. "It wa sonly after. What was it like for you, what can you do now that you couldn't before?" Which could mean altogether mundane things, but there it is.

Jules’ gaze remains steady on Una, sympathy joining her concern. “I know,” she replies quietly. “It reminds me of what I saw when Ravn and I visited the village on the Chehalis, when my great-something grandfather told me everyone would die. I already knew it, of course, because the measles and smallpox are part of our history. It doesn’t make it any better. Part of me wants to try to change it, too. But then none of us would be here. We have to live with the past, but we can’t change it.”

Her smile is sad. “I think all we can do is acknowledge people like Millie as real. It’s okay to mourn her. But she’s not dead yet,” sort of, “so I think the thing to do now is affirm her as she is now.” Jules reaches out to give Una’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’m gonna go get the folding table from downstairs.”

Una's swallow is a thick one, and finally, carefully, she nods. "I know," she says. "I just— no, you're right. Of course. I'll be ready to go back in soon. I don't want her to think I don't want to know her or anything. Thanks, Jules."

She closes her eyes again. She breathes.

"Mmm, I'm with you; I don't like that 'better than them' thing. So much is what one does with it, isn't it? And healing... healing is wonderful. Is she still with you?" Della's smile has turned -- not reminiscent, but along those lines. Millie, like Una, and yet not. "We have kittens; I don't know if you saw them just now. Una and Jules can heal, and I'd like to be able to," but her faint shrug implies it doesn't matter, too much. "Oh, and do you like to bake?"

“Take all the time you need. We’ll cover for you if we need to,” Jules replies before she leaves Una in peace and heads for the basement. She’ll be back just a minute later with the folding table she’s after, toting it up the stairs and back into the library to set it up there.

"Hesta!" Della's eyes are bright, but she settles in to listen, not yet to explain, with acknowledging nods for the extra years, for other things, for her grandfather. "Mmm. Sugar cookies." Millie's not the little girl sleeping under the ice, isn't a little girl at all, but even so... Now she's watching, half-watching, for Jules. "Hesta, goddess of the hearth? Ours are Athena and," wait for it, "Hephaestus. What a funny coincidence. And I... read objects, I suppose you could say, pick up associations when something's been really loved. Or not."

Which means it's the perfect time for, "Jules? Would you mind seeing if we have any spare cookies, if it's all right with Una, pretty please? I wish I knew how much longer we'll have." Beyond the clues of the Millies' faces.

“Sure. One sec.” First, Jules is going to set that table up, popping out the folding legs one by one, and gather the items spread out on the floor. No cats will mistake them as toys, this way.

Then out she goes again, calling, “Hey Una, do we have cookies?” A cookie-less household would be a tragedy.

Una straightens from the wall, immediately. Cookies: such an easy way to draw her back in. "Yes," she says. "Chocolate chip, baked this morning. Do you want me to fetch some? I could do that."

No, the cats will only get at them now on purpose.

"Yes, like the book. Or those." That Della's not looking at. "Not just any old thing, or any old happening, but events that meant a lot to the people who held them. I think. It's still so new."

Della hesitates, her gaze thoughtful. "Are there any other interesting places, like your hideout here? Or nooks or whatever, that you know of?" Someone with TK could make plenty, though, without leaving much of a trace. "Or is there anything you'd like us to know about you, and your own story? If you've kept a diary, or other messages, we haven't found it. There was a musical, recently, involving a woman who'd burned her stories so no one else could know, but that meant all of us missed out on them, too." Yes, Hamilton means Eliza.

“Chocolate chip would be perfect.” Jules grants Una a big grin. Cookies always do the trick. “Fresh baked, even better.”

With Una now on the job, she heads back in, catching the tail end of Della’s remarks. “That’s what we were looking for originally,” Jules says. “We were wondering if you’d left anything like that which would let us know you a little better.”

It's for the best that Una isn't in the room when that last question gets asked— she's off in the kitchen, hastily putting together a tray. Cookies... and milk to go with them, too, because that's the best way to eat a chocolate chip cookie.

"Did you! How exciting! I'll have to look for it!" Della glances to Jules, brows lifted: does she know it?

Though, truth be told, the hollow step's no less exciting. Or, rather, more. And a safe... "All right. Thank you. This is fascinating. I'm so glad we got to meet again, not that the Door appeared when we were off grocery shopping. If ever we wind up going back and don't see you, I'll try to leave a note in the same place, too."

More and more somber. Another glance to her actual housemate. "Do you recall, Jules?" What can she tell, truthfully. "There was a point where your name showed up in the census, and then it didn't. But you might have moved." And left her daughter behind?

Jules looks up attentively at the mention of more hideaways, eyes a-gleam. She doesn’t comment, though, due to the question that follows. Immediately, she turns serious.

“I don’t think it’s good for any of us to know that,” she says instead of answering Della’s prompt. The response is as much for her as it is for Millie; there’s a quick glance, a warning shot, towards her housemate, before she turns her dark eyes to their visitor. “I’ll tell you this though: you have a family. Una’s your great granddaughter, I believe. So that makes us family, too.”

And there's Una in the doorway to the library, a tray of milk and cookies in her hands. "No," she says, sharply. "No."

Della. Del-la. She doesn't correct her.

"That's right. Though we'd want to be family either way. And -- Millie!"

Della's right there for a reason; she shoves at the door to try and open it back up, away from the lantern, away from Millie, away from fire.

“Oh shit,”Jules says, just when she’s about to reaffirm Millie and that gladness, that connection as chosen family.

Della’s faster than her, and the air tingles with power, so Jules stays as she is, breath caught.

At least Una manages not to drop her tray, though her lip wobbles, and... yeah, that's a single tear, sliding down her cheek.

Goodbye, Millie.

Della, breathing hard -- "Well, fuck."

And Millie isn't even around to hear it.

Jules, meanwhile, bites her lip as she closes her eyes. After a moment:

“It’s always too soon.”

"Screw milk and cookies," says Una, after a moment's pause. "I vote we raise a proper glass to her."

Raise a glass to freedom...

No.

"Let's do." Della can see it now, the liquid amber, their faces reflecting what ought to be candlelight. To Millie.

Only, just as she's pushing away from the door -- "She might still have left something for us. She's had time, even if we haven't. Before we..."

"Let's see."

“Agreed.” To both, presumably. At least, Jules makes no objection to the latter.

Quietly, to Una: “I told her your relation. So she knows she has family.”

Una half-turns, as though she's about to disappear through the door again, but Della's comments draw her to pause again. Instead of leaving, she sets down the tray, taking a few cautious steps forward.

"She knows," she repeats, answering Jules, hesitating over the words. "Good. I think? Della—"

But mostly she's waiting, now, to see what Della might find within.

No gloves. Della nods to the others, and gets out her phone to add its light; she sees the box right there, so visible, so ready, but moves a few steps further to get at least a glance at the whole place before picking it up.

"Got something," she reports back. "A passel of really old chocolates."

“I think it’s good,” Jules answers Una. “She asked how she died, and I wasn’t going to tell her that. So I told her she had family. She wanted that.”

She’s watching Della too, eyebrows lifting for the description. “Serious or joking?”

Una's nod is a very slight one, her expression still perturbed, though she's dashed away that tear that slid down her cheek. Whey faced, she waits for Della.

"It better not be," she says. "That sounds disgusting, and I'd hate to have to throw out Millie's message."

Emerging, she eyes the room -- and the table -- and settles for going down on one knee so she can use the other for a prop, presenting the box like a gift.

"Want to do the honors, Una? She's your great-."

Even in this moment, Jules can’t but roll her eyes at Della’s sense of humor and the non-response. This doesn’t keep her from immediately agreeing, “It should be you,” as she comes forward to have a closer look.

"Oh," says Una, cheeks going pink as she takes another step forward. "I— I guess so."

She takes the box, holding it gingerly in both hands, then sets it down carefully upon the floor, crouching in front of it. The lid gets pulled off, and she peers in. "It's full of— papers, it looks like. All kinds of things. There's a letter on top, though." Her fingertips brush up against it, then tug it towards her. "Shall I read it out loud? It's addressed to all of us."

"Yes! Yes, do." Now that Una's set the box down, Della drops the rest of the way to sit cross-legged (and, yes, aims to take a discreet photo of the contents while they're mostly undisturbed).

“Please,” Jules joins in. Since they’re all gathering on the floor, she sits too, tucking her feet under her.

Una swallows, unfolding the aged page and then clearing her throat. "January 5th," she reads. "1940."

Then, in a sometimes-faltering voice:

"Dear Jules, Del and Una,

This is perhaps the oddest letter I have ever had reason to write, but written it must be. I couldn't leave you without saying some kind of goodbye, and at this point, I don't think your door will reopen for me. For me, it has been nearly three years since we last met, and disappeared from each other so inconveniently. For you, I expect, mere minutes.

You said that I disappeared between censuses, and that I had a family, and I've spent more time staring at my face in the mirror than I care to report, this past year or two. It's clear enough to me that this census year is the one, and given everything, I expect that means I don't have much longer to live. It is the queerest thing, to walk towards something knowing it will be your end, but so be it. It means, at least, that I have this opportunity to say farewell.

If I have regrets, they are simple ones. I can feel my son move in my belly— and I believe he must be a son, for how else would my great great-granddaughter live in my grandfather's house?— and he must, surely, make everything worth it. I expect I won't live to see him, but at least I will die knowing he grows up and has a family of his own.

With luck, his will be the last generation of lonely Irving children.

His father— I never even told Mother, though she threatened to beat me to know. He's one of the Addington boys, and I have no expectation that this information would have brought any resolution. He's gone to train as a pilot, now, for the war in Europe that we may, one day, end up in. They said the last war was the one to end all wars, but no, of course it never would be. He doesn't know about his future son, and I never expect he will. It's better that way.

I knew I would fall pregnant, of course. If I was to have a family before the end, the timing was too perfect.

I am so grateful that I met you all. For a lonely child— to know that I was cared for, truly, was the greatest gift.

I have gathered together as many things as I could find: stories and drawings. My diary, too. Remember me with fondness.

Yours,

Millicent Agnes Irving."

By the end of the letter, Jules’ cheeks are damp and her eyes shining. “Oh, fuck,” she breathes out after a minute, into the silence. “Where’s that drink?”

"Tell us a story, Una," Della murmurs as that worthy's making herself ready, for all that she never had seen the brood on the stairs.

And then she's quiet, listening -- there's just that one point where she reaches out, very much not for the letter but for Una's knee. Oh. Oh.

The out-loud words, initially soft as soft can be: "Addington." And then, "Agnes." As if that should be the shocker.

"Oh, Una. Yes. Drinks." But first, whatever else -- a hug? space? a curtain-sized handkerchief? -- their friend seems to need.

By the end, Una is crying openly, carefully holding the page of the letter out of reach of the tears that splat unhappily wherever they may. If she's noticed the hand at her knee, she's not responded to it.

Instead, the letter flutters down towards the floor, abandoned by her flailing hands. Perhaps the observant might note the postscript, beneath the signature, that Una hasn't read: in the short term, the redhead seems unable to do anything but sob, her shoulders shaking as she leans in upon herself.

Does she need a hug? Almost certainly.

No no no not the floor. Della swoops to intercept, one-handed, though she doesn't immediately look; she's more concerned with that hug.

And no, she doesn't keep her blouse out of the way. Splats happen.

Della’s quicker than Jules, both to catch the letter and to gather Una in for hug. Jules scoots herself a little closer so she can put a hand on Una’s upper back, one more touch for comfort. She’s quiet. And yes, she’s still crying, too.

Una is not a pretty crier. Her cheeks are blotchy, there are tear stains everywhere and the noises she's making? Hopeless.

It resolves itself into shuddery breaths in time, though, after she's had her fill of leaning in to Della's arms, not to mention the comforting weight of Jules' hand.

"It's not fair," she snuffles.

"Of course it's not," Della agrees, cheek against Una's shoulder, where at least the drips won't actually get into her own eyes (especially the not-just-saline ones). She rolls those eyes upward, but it's only to try and get a look at Jules before she straightens.

(She also doesn't offer her blouse for Una to blow her nose on.) "Let me get you some kleenex, okay?" She'll be quick.

Unless the letter hijacks her first.

“It sucks,” Jules heartily agrees. Her own tears are on their way to drying, but her expression hasn’t lightened any.

“We can all move into the kitchen,” she suggests. For cookies and liquor.

Una sniffs, like a child. though yes, there's snot running down her face now (also like a child).

"Oh-kay," she sniffs again, via a shuddering breath.

It shudders; Una's breath shudders; Della shudders, standing. "We'll be back," she assures the room and its contents, and then proceeds down the hallway, discreetly wiping her hand on her shorts along the way.

But then she has to look.

“Come on,” Jules encourages as she gets to her feet. She leans down to offer Una a hand, ready to (gently) haul her up and sling an arm around her waist, if it looks like Una wants more physical contact. Jules is mindful enough to be looking for it.

Una needs that hand, uses that hand, to draw herself back to her feet, wobbling as she does so. She lets out a few rough, unhappy sounds, choked-back sobs, and yes, maybe she really does need that arm too.

Still, she's easily led.

It's hard to get far when the person in front stops all of a sudden, the way Della does. "Whiskey!" Tearstains still on her face, she laughs and laughs. "We have to go back and get it and drink that. Here," and she reads it out loud, just as dramatically as she can in these circumstances.

Della’s rendition of the postscript makes Jules break into a grin. “She knows us so well!”

She’s still got her arm around Una’s waist, but now she spins them about as dramatically as Della read those last few lines. “Here, let’s take the whole thing with us,” she proposes, loosening her grasp so she can lean down and pick up the hatbox with both hands.

It’s definitely heavy enough to involve a bottle of whiskey.

Una ought to laugh, but it just makes her cry again, though at least she's sort of smiling as she does so.

"Does whiskey last that long?" she wants to know, frowning. (It does, unopened.) "I guess we'll find out!"

Della murmurs, still smiling at the postcript, "I like the way she signed that last, 'M.' After using her full name before. It's cute. And it's celebratory, the way she invites us. And -- " her head lifts, and she turns back to them, a few steps shy of the powder room and its remedies. "I'm glad, Una, you've an ancestor to be proud of now."

But then, she always had.