2022-09-04 - Ten Thousand Doors

Mid-morning and still no Della, Sunday or no Sunday. But the shower's running, the cats have been fed -- not in that order -- and finally there's the woman herself, a woven, tasseled shawl around her summer-bare shoulders, her brows veed in what's not quite a frown. "So I finished it," she says to Una when she finds her, without preamble.

Mid-morning, and Una's in the kitchen: not eating but cooking, with the big cast iron pot in the process of being filled with carrots and celery to go with the cheap cut of beef, onions, garlic, red wine, tomatoes and stock for this evening's slow-cooked ragu. She turns her head to smile at Della as the other woman enters, but that smile turns immediately appraising— and joined with a lift of brows— as she speaks.

"And?"

"Any more chopping?" Della questions first. As she moves towards the sink -- for Una's sake or her own -- "Renewed my long-standing membership in the Bad Decisions Book Club last night. There was a lot to think about; definitely worth it."

"No Dream, either."

"No, but there should be a can of lentils in the pantry, if you could find it and get it open and drained for me? And then it can just be left to cook." For hours and hours and hours: the best kind of Sunday meal.

Her tone's conversational, if distracted, for the practical commentary, but it's the rest that draws that brightness to her expression, and the sharp inclination of a nod that marks both understanding and approval. "I love a book that's worth staying up late for. I think— it really hit me. Doors. Doors being closed forever, when one is on the other side of them..."

"Brr, yes."

Really, Della should have washed her hands in the powder room, but the shower wasn't so long ago, and her glance at the sink doesn't carry dissatisfaction for long; once washed, she goes hunting.

"When Jules and Ariadne were stuck in Paris but it was at least the same time, that would have been one thing, but otherwise... not that I really want Locke's world roaming into ours, not even a little."

"Not that they were all like him, I suppose."

"Not, but even one like him... no thank you." Una's shudder is a little theatrical, but determined too. "I don't much like the idea of people coming in from other worlds." (It's a very good thing she knows only a little about Haggleford.) "Even though I love the theory of visiting other ones myself. What if our Pompeii door had been crushed before we made it back? What if— well, it's an awful idea, in any case. But so's losing access to a world you thought you had, too."

She continues to scrape her chopped up vegetables into the pot as she speaks, hands moving methodically.

"Poor Jane," Della agrees, frowning at the can she's opening, gauging whether she's come all the way around or has a while to go.

"I suppose it could've been someone without much in the way of powers, escaping Locke's land? A refugee, if you will." She pops off the lid, careful, careful. "Like the group near the end, the encampment. How would you feel then?"

"Poor Jane," echoes Una, frowning as she sets down the chopping board and begins mixing the contents of the pot with her wooden spoon. "That was awful. It makes me think... I mean, it's a good thing we never tried to save anyone, through any of our Doors. How would it feel?"

That's a train of thought worth being distracted over, but Della's question is still outstanding, and she circles back to it. "Maybe that would be okay. Refugees. If they came through knowing, you know? I think it's all about choice. Though it begs the question: should we really be leaving our own worlds? What it if does harm we don't know about?"

"How would it feel... if they regretted it? If they were stuck anyway? If they were a Locke?"

Right on cue, snap, off goes the lid: draining time. Sluicing, and more draining. As the water works, "Hard to sit them down and weigh the pros and cons for them, sufficiently," Della supposes. "So they have time to say their goodbyes and all that. Perfect is the enemy of done? And... we could be doing harm we don't know about, you're right. Like how some places have you make sure your shoes are all washed when you get there so you don't track the wrong kind of plant life in. Not that I know where, off the top of my head. Greenland? Iceland? Antarctica?" While she's at it, "It's been too long since Trivia Night."

Idly, "New Zealand." Una does know that bit of trivia off the top of her head, though admits, "It might be some of the others too. We should definitely do Trivia Night again, yes."

She's slower to work through the rest, stirring methodically as she thinks her way through. "It would suck. There's too many variables... too many things we can't control. I hate the idea of making decisions like that, decisions that can't be changed. I mean... I know most decisions can't. But something like that... how do we ever know what's right?"

"Wouldn't you know it," Della sighs, as though New Zealand had affronted her personally. "Well, I washed my feet after getting to Auckland. I think? Or maybe it was just that they were reasonably clean here anyway. I wouldn't put it past Tui to zap anything that needed zapping, either. Here."

Lentils: she can scoop 'em in. "So maybe next week, then; have to check the schedule."

Meanwhile, "I don't think we can know what's right. Not for this, anyway, which is why I like math..." any exceptions bitten off as unuseful to the point. "We can try, but if we tried too hard, the transaction costs would be petrifying. Approximations are real." She's been searching out Una's expression, and now she adds, "At least it's usually just a few people at a time, max; even January's refugees aggregated over time, didn't they? Not that she wasn't a visitor there too."

Una shifts her spoon to the side as the lentils get added to the pot, then begins mixing again, big chunks of meat— which will need to be shredded later— bobbing up to the surface as she stirs. "Biosecurity laws weren't designed to worry about people walking through Doors," she says with a wry laugh, distracted but not disinterested. "Next week would be good."

She's plainly a little discomforted by the ramifications, however theoretical, of the other thread of their conversation, though the furrowing of her brow is more thoughtful than truly, deeply concerned. "That's true," she adds, , as she sets aside her spoon and covers the pot. "Of course, I wonder if the trickle of refugees seems fine, and then suddenly you wake up one day and— but no, because that implies that you should turn people away, and you shouldn't, I think." She allows a faint smile. "Challenging thoughts. Complicated. Though I like it when books leave that kind of thing behind, you know?"

That gets a chuckle. Della moves on to rinsing the can, getting it set for recycling, as Una goes on; "I can't argue," well, she can, but, "with a certain amount of filtering; however..." She sighs.

"How far behind? Like, what books work for you that way, and which get too far into the weeds? Or into the depressing things, whichever."

Without any more stirring to do, Una leans up against the counter, one hand holding on to the rim on either side of herself, and considers. "I don't like books that completely depress me," she admits. "Or leave me feeling hopeless. I mean, I think if I'm being really honest, I prefer books that don't leave me thinking too hard, though I can't think of specific examples. I don't like being depressed by books; the world is good enough at that already. If that makes sense?"

"Definitely. No 'literary fiction' for you."

Della further admits, "Or me. Seeing that label on a book practically guarantees it's going to be depressing. At least give us hope, you know? Give us satisfaction. Catch the killer, wind up with someone you love and get along with -- with no plague or impoverishment -- and do all of these things with or without wings or spaceships." All that's with her eyes soft on Una: is it like that, had she understood?

"This one ended without everything being solved but with, largely, a solution ahead." A relief.

"Exactly," Una confirms, forcefully. "Literary fiction just seems to... it's all about showing off your self-importance. And general nihilism. Things don't have to end perfectly— life generally doesn't!— but I don't want for there to be no point at all. This one was good. It felt... complete. Satisfying. But with enough interesting questions to not just be a throwaway read. Not that throwaway reads aren't perfectly good too, sometimes. But— sometimes you want something that's in between literary fiction and utter trash."

Una grins. "It does, a little, make me miss the Doors. We had some fun adventures, you know?"

Della's nodding, nodding. Yes. This.

"We absolutely did," she agrees. "Well, going to Auckland, anyway; all my others were piles of grief, which I suppose is par for the course. Not that they weren't interesting, or didn't have their good parts, but..."

But.

"What did you think of January's, well, cutting? Did you ever read the Others books, Anne Bishop?" Not the Black Jewels. Definitely not those.

"Meeting Millie," suggests Una, though she's got her hesitations about that experience too. "Though you're right, of course. A lot of mine were... intense and difficult, but it was still interesting. I... met Nero, you know? Cleopatra. I visited Pompeii. Even the awfulness of some of the rest just... I suppose it depends on how you look back at things. 'Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.'"

Not the Black Jewels. Not for Una. And not, it seems, other Anne Bishop novels, either: she shakes her head. "I didn't. Should I? I found... that was hard. Hard to read. Hard to think about. Contextually important, but..." Another shake of her head, this one sharper and more unhappy.

"What's the quote from?" Della immediately wonders. "And yes. I wouldn't take any of them back. Especially not Millie."

As for those other books... "No, I don't think you should. Which doesn't mean, 'Una, you should! not! read this!'" with a deeper, scratchy voice to go with her scowl. Back to normal, "That one has... and stop me if this is too much, okay? ...a heroine who cuts herself -- there's more to the story, it's complicated, but this is what's relevant -- for magic, and she was used for that but then she escapes and uses it for herself, but it's still..." Della's mouth twists up. "People can be vulnerable. And I wish more people, marketing people, whatever, would use content warnings. Here it was different, in that January didn't have more to write with available, but it also meant more power, and it was in -- " she stops herself.

"I admit, I didn't always think much of content warnings when people first started calling for them, but I do now."

There's definite and distinct seriousness to Una's expression as she listens to Della's explanation, the furrow of her brow acknowledging her faint discomfort, though nothing so strong as to encourage a stop. She inhales, then acknowledges the whole of it with a careful nod— and then hoists herself up onto a (clean!) bit of bench, feet dangling. "People can be vulnerable. And that's the kind of thing that— when you don't expect it, and there it is, and you happen to be one of those people who— I do too. I wish books had them. For January... yes. It wasn't there to be edgy."

"And," she adds, with a little laugh that suggests she's half lifting the conversation away from that more serious topic, though by her expression she's still thinking it through, "the quote's from Pride and Prejudice. Lizzy owns it as her philosophy to Mr Darcy at the end, so that they can move on from how full of pride and prejudice they were."

She perches; Della heads for the fridge, but slowly, glancing back over her shoulder now and again so Una can know she's listening. "I agree."

And then she laughs. Emerging with sparkling water, "Is that easy for them to say? To do? My Austen background is lacking, though not for want of opportunities."

"Well, by that point they've already made up and are engaged, and the novel ends soon after, so— presumably, yes. It always struck me as a good philosophy, though, even if I'm hopelessly bad at actually following it: my mind has a habit of taking me back to mistakes I made, or things I said that were embarrassing, and forcing me to relive them." Una's eyes roll, but she's largely cheerful about it: resigned, perhaps, to the workings of her own mind.

"Of course, the whole novel is about learning from one's mistakes, so it can't be so terrible to remember things, can it? I like Austen. That novel in particular, but the others too. It's a comfort read, for me."

Della's acknowledging 'ah' is quiet, understanding: not surprised.

"Is it? That makes me want to read it. It helps that it's learning from mistakes, so it's -- maybe -- 'forgetting to move past,' except one can't forget, but they're treating it as water under the bridge? versus 'forgetting to make peace at all costs' and sweeping it under the rug. Does that sound right?

"Yes—," Una confirms this immediately, and seems relieved for it, somehow: that's a better way to expression it than she's managed. "Exactly that. Focus on the fact that yes, mistakes were made but things were learned and now we... move forward. I like that they both need to. It's all about personal growth, and then there's the fact that Austen does lovely, biting social commentary too."

"Good. I like that too. Do they have to learn the same thing? Tell me more about the social commentary, what I should look for?" Della asks, settling back with her drink.

Una drums her fingers against the denim-covered solidity of her thighs: summing up this favourite book of hers requires consideration. "She has to learn not to make snap judgements about people, and then bear grudges: prejudice. He has to learn not to see himself as above everyone else, and to... hm, understand other people's perspectives and insights: pride." She lifts her chin, exhaling, and then adds, "It's a lot of witty asides, and... comments on human folly. I missed a lot of that when I first read it, at twelve or so, but now... I don't know. It's just so good."

"So," Della starts, "They both have to learn something -- which I love; it's not much fun if it's just one or the other -- and it sounds like they're both learning about dealing with people, in a complementary way. She starts out seeing them and making snap judgements, while he hadn't even been seeing them at all, really, but maybe he'll skip the snap judgements step because he's learned from her." Maybe?

"Anyway, witty asides and commentary sound delightful. It doesn't sound like they're just snarky to be snarky, all 'The failure mode of clever is asshole'... Are there any, ah, errors of the time that I should watch out for? Like lead characters complaining about 'moneygrubbers with big noses?" Her nose wrinkles, just a little.

Una's not Ariadne to offer fingerguns for confirmation: her way is a grin, and that vibrant, enthusiastic nod. "Exactly that," she agrees. "There's definitely... hm, well there's one character who deliberately pokes fun at people, and over the course of the book you— well, I, anyway, start seeing it differently. Because exactly that, the asshole-ness of it. I don't think there's anything glaringly product-of-its-time. Nothing overt, at least."

Her nose wrinkles, too: uncool.

"Mmm, good. I don't necessarily mind too much if I know going in?" Well. 'Mind.' "But when it's just suddenly there..."

Della stretches; she moseys over to sniff at the soup, wafting it one-handed towards her. Then -- "Oh! One more thing. What did you think of both couples having that insta-..." perhaps not love. "Fascination."

"Yeah," agrees Una, wholeheartedly. "I don't like unpleasant surprises like that. I know we need to accept that things were written with the wisdom of their times and all of that, but... it definitely pulls me right out. Now, anyway. Maybe less so, a few years ago."

When she was Young(er).

She tilts her head, watching Della with the pot. It smells like garlic and tomatoes and deliciousness.

"I think... it's probably a little unrealistic, but it makes for an interesting story? It works."

So good. So good.

"It does," Della admits. "And there's magic in there already, and there get to be parallels between the generations, and you -- we, the readers -- get to skip all the parts where they are getting to know each other and the author doesn't have to spend more time on it, which helps with the pacing, everything else that's going on in a book..."

Yes, that would be Della's stomach rumbling. She stands back. "So I enjoy it too, it makes sense, and imagine how frustrated we'd be if it were literary fiction and they find each other but they're all wrong for each other or only one person has been doing the looking. Imagine if one's looking and the other one has just da-da-da gone on with their life, done other things than searching."

Instead of a 'But,' "If this weren't a really engaging book, I wouldn't care." As much.

Una's slow nod answers Della's musing, her smile twitching into place more firmly for that reference to literary fiction, and by the end? She's grinning outright. "That's always the thing, isn't it," she agrees. "If it weren't so engaging, those things would matter less. And it's not that I mind a romance. Or two. I think— maybe it's the epic-ness of it. I don't know."

She gestures, then, towards the fridge. "You want some breakfast? Coffee?"

How has Della not had coffee yet? She looks surprised, even at herself. First: "Epic. Yes. Funnily, that took more suspension of disbelief than the whole traversing worlds thing," or maybe not so funny: they did that. They do that. But next: "Yes, please. All the things."

Over her shoulder, on her way, "Still saving room for soup!"

Not so funny, no. Una's smile is crooked for it: just a little wry, a little amused. She's got the faintest flush to her cheeks when she admits, "I don't think romance works that way in the real world. Maybe it does, for some people? I don't know. I can't imagine going to that kind of length for a person, not... in that way. Like that."

She slides back down off of the counter, all the better to get to the fridge first. "Eggs? Quick batch of french toast? Something else? I only had some toast, earlier, so—" She's eating too, and also saving room for soup.

"A person you just met." That's Della, darkly -- before she cedes her place before food.