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people: the baker's wife

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Sara doesn't really like to admit it, but she's hitting a rhythm here. Twice a week she checks the Darrow Home for Children, gets groceries, and checks the newspaper for jobs that might interest her. Every day, she takes walks, and she's started to build a rock wall around the property line of one of the houses in the countryside. It's one of the abandoned ones, but it looks like someone's cleaned it up a bit. She's kept her eye on it, but nobody's been by except her.

It's something, anyway.

Today is the same as any of those other days. At the end of it, after she's come back to this apartment, she finds herself pacing. She circles it, then huffs a sigh and lifts her phone.

Can I come over? This apartment is too small.

She sends the text to Greta and hopes that she's been out of Fairy Tale Land, or whatever the fuck it's called, that she knows how to text, even if these phones are a little small.

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I can't promise mine is much bigger, but you're welcome to come over.

Greta has figured out how to text, though she's not sure if she prefers it to calling or not. She can appreciate that it's less obtrusive than calling someone outright, but sending little notes feels like a waste of technology that would let you actually speak to someone at a distance. At any rate, she's been here long enough to know that people who send her a text expect a text in return.

Her apartment looks a bit more lived-in, now; there are books on the shelves (cookbooks, mostly) and clothing-related projects of varying degrees of completion spread across the coffee table or heaped in baskets (there's a patchwork dress that's slowly coming together that reminds her of the one she left behind). But she still hasn't accumulated enough stuff for the unit to feel cramped, or even get all that messy, so there's no last-minute scramble to try and make the place presentable.

Besides, if Sara's feeling restless, it seems as likely that they'll end up going out, anyway.

Greta buzzes the other woman in, then unlocks the door for her before going to carefully fold up the skirt in progress. It's taking up the entire dining room table at the moment, and they might be needing the space. "It's open," she calls out when she hears Sara's knock.

She nudges the door open and steps in, then lets out a little breath. Greta's right. It's not much bigger than her place, but it's better than sitting alone. She politely takes her boots off and sets them by the door.

"Hey," she greets. "Thanks, I'm— sorry, about this. I just don't do too well, bein' alone." She shrugs out of her light jacket and holds it up, silently asking where she can put it.

"Oh, no need to apologize." She'd wave her hand dismissively if they weren't both occupied with bundling the fabric out of the way, so she settles for a shrug. It's not as if Sara's interrupting anything. Even if she was, Greta completely understands how the quiet can gnaw at you.

At the unspoken question, she adds, "There ought to be a spare hook in the closet." The skirt gets set down on her bed where it won't be in the way, and then Greta bustles back out into the kitchen. "Can I get you anything?"

"D'you got a beer?" she asks. "If not, water's fine."

It's easy enough to locate the closet, and she finds the hook she can hang her coat on. That done, she wipes her hands on her pants and steps further into the apartment. It's nice, tidier than her own, even though there are more personal touches here than at Sara's.

"I do, actually," Greta says, sounding pleasantly surprised by that fact. It wasn't something she bothered to keep on hand, at first, if only because 'drinking by herself' sounded like a depressing habit to pick up. But now that she has company more often, it makes sense to have some in the fridge, just in case.

The fact that she can buy some and stick in the fridge and not worry about it going off for a while certainly helps.

She fetches out a couple of bottles and pulls the opener off of the fridge (speaking of things that might as well be magic: fridge magnets). "What have you been up to?" she asks as she opens the bottles, her tone just a bit cautious. Sara's text had sounded a touch stir-crazy, and she doesn't want to rub salt in any wounds.

"Not a whole hell of a lot," she admits. "Been checkin' out this old-lookin' farm house out in the country. It's not so bad, I think I might try to buy it, if the city's sellin'." She accepts the beer once it's open and finds a place to sit. "Been lookin' for work, too. I think I might've found somethin', but we'll see. I'm just goin' a little crazy. I need some kinda distraction." Without Cid and the farm, she's finding herself idle, and she hates that.

Greta winces sympathetically. Those first few weeks are when things like 'keeping busy' or 'having a routine' would have the most value, so of course they're also when both of those things are hardest to achieve. And Sara, much like Greta herself, came from circumstances where she had more than enough to do during any given day. It's a jarring transition, going from that to this.

"Thinking of starting up farming again?" she asks, sitting down across from her. "What sort of state is the house in?" Maybe the building itself needs work -- that'd be enough to keep someone busy for a while.

"It's lookin' okay, actually," she says. "I'm tidying up the yard when I go visit it, buildin' a little rock wall along the property line." She doesn't say it aloud, but she's doing it for Cid. If he does come here, like Greta said he could, then she wants to be ready for him, with a place for him to live and be comfortable. Not some tiny apartment in some busy city. She doesn't want that life for him. That's why she'd left him with her sister to begin with.

"That sounds nice," Greta says, and means it. She takes a sip of her beer, then lets out a quiet huff of amusement. "I think I'd go spare if I wasn't this close to the countryside. I thought we lived on a busy street back home, but this?" She waves her bottle towards the city proper and shakes her head. "It's mad, how many people they've got crammed into such a small area."

"And this ain't even crowded," Sara assures her with a laugh. She shrugs a little. "It's alright. It's smaller than the city I lived in before I had Cid. But I'm glad it's so close to the woods and fields. Maybe I'll start a little cane farm of my own, once I get settled in the new place."

Greta winces. She can believe that things could get worse, in terms of population density, but that doesn't mean she has to like the idea. It's probably just as well that Sara's lived in more crowded places, though. She can't imagine going from a lifetime on an isolated farm to downtown Darrow.

"I suppose farming is one of those professions that never dies out," she says. She's not sure what sort of crop 'cane' is, but she's assuming it'll grow here. "A bit like baking, though I think I prefer working at the Gardens to trying to get another shop off the ground. Sam even offered to help me with that, but it's not as if Darrow's short on pastry shops." She takes a musing sip, then continues, "I'm not sure I could've offered anything that isn't already out there, fives times over."

Sara can think of a few professions that will probably never die out, but most of them are too morbid to warrant much talk. Instead, she nods, following Greta's train of thought.

Then her own catches on, and she blinks.

"Who's Sam?" she asks, perking a little bit. She takes a swig from her beer, watching to see what sort of reaction she gets to that question, trying to gauge just exactly who Sam is before Greta even explains.

Greta blinks, then brightens. It had thrown her for a moment -- she's far newer to Darrow than most of the people she's met here, and tends to presume that other transplants have had ample opportunities to get acquainted before she even showed up. But Sara's newer than her, and it's not as if Sam gets out much. It's no great surprise they haven't run into each other.

"Oh, I met him a little after I arrived. He has a sweet little girl, Jordan." She indicates Jordan's height with one hand, a small, fond smile on her face. "Ran right into me. It was adorable." It's also, she realizes, a little beside the point. "Anyway, he's got his own business going, so he knows all the ins and outs." She gestures vaguely with her bottle; she can only imagine what all starting a business would entail. There are aspects of Darrow's government that she rather likes -- voting, for example -- but there's no denying that it's all rather complicated compared to what she's used to.

It's so easy to see the fondness on her face, and Sara wonders if that's how she looks when she talks about Cid. Then again, she doubts Jordan is anything like Cid, so possibly not. She nods thoughtfully, though, at the mention of this Sam fellow, with his own business and a sweet little girl, Jordan.

"Is he cute?" she asks, innocently enough.

"...Sam?" Greta asks, as if Sara could have meant anyone else. The question throws her, though, because the answer ought to be irrelevant. She still wears her wedding ring, and if it isn't ostentatious, it's certainly prominent, the band far wider than contemporary fashions would dictate. Nor is Sam a public figure she'd expect anyone to be interested in, like a Prince or something. He's her friend, and that's enough.

"I, um." Greta huffs out an uncertain attempt at a laugh, her cheeks starting to prickle. "I don't know if cute is the word I'd--why do you ask?" she abruptly changes tack, brow furrowing.

"Well, you brought him up," Sara points out, a little amused by Greta's reaction. "And obviously you've got eyes. I figured it's a legitimate question. It's definitely one of the first things I notice about a man I'm talking to."

She lets out a quiet squawk of objection. That's not fair; they'd been talking about finding work, not the attractive men they'd met since their respective arrivals. Besides, they're not teenagers. Was she really supposed to anticipate this?

"A legitimate question," she repeats dubiously, the 'how?' implicit. Then she runs her hand over her face, realizing -- far too late, of course -- that she's already made a bigger deal out of it than she should have. If Sara ends up insufferable about this, it won't be in spite of Greta's unflinching professionalism.

"Yes," she admits with a faintly exasperated roll of her eyes. "He's handsome. And tall. Not that it's relevant." She takes a swig of her beer and tries not to look like she's sulking.

Sara's having a hard time suppressing her smile, and she leans onto her knees very pointedly as she watches Greta flounder a little bit.

"And tawl," she echoes, her drawl exaggerating when she tries (and fails) for Greta's accent. "It's very relevant," she adds, pulling from her beer. "You got a friend you're makin' eyes at, and he's not even here to see 'em."

God, why did she add that detail? Greta presses her lips into a thin line, though it's far too late to take back what she's said so far. She can feel her cheeks prickling; doubtless they're turning pink, which is just perfect. She sets her bottle down on the table with a pointed clunk.

"I'm not making eyes at anyone," she insists. Convincing Sara of that might be a lost cause, but it won't be for lack of trying. "You asked, and I answered, that's all." In a desperate, last-ditch attempt to dig herself out of the hole she seems to have fallen into, she adds, "I'm married."

Sara holds her hands up innocently. "Okay, alright," she says. There's a look in her eyes that plainly suggests this isn't over, but for now, she says, "So, you don't think this city could use an authentic, made-from-scratch, fresh-out-the-oven bakery, huh?" And that's even if Greta wants to pursue baking as a career. Maybe she doesn't.

Greta's not quite mollified. There's something dogged in Sara's expression that suggests she won't be letting this go, as if 'I'm married' isn't a good enough excuse for her.

Which is the last thing Greta needs, seeing as, after months away from home, 'I'm married' is starting to wear a bit thin from where she's standing, too. Not that she has any intention of cheating on her husband -- there's been quite enough of that already. But spouses are lost all the time, back home, and mourning periods only last so long. It's hard not to wonder what people might (or might not) begrudge her after half a year away. If they knew it had been so long, which they wouldn't, of course. How nice for them, to be conveniently frozen in time and unaware of what she might be going through.

Not that any of that matters. Her world's social mores wouldn't excuse upending lives here in Darrow. Things are complicated enough as they are.

With that in mind, she's not about to object to the change in subject. "You say that as if it doesn't already have half a dozen," she points out, retrieving her drink. "Darrow's teeming with bakeries, at least compared to the Village." And if what they churn out doesn't match what she might make, that's usually because it's lighter or fluffier or sweeter to the point of being cloying -- which might put her at an advantage if everyone who lived here hadn't already adapted to it, but they have.

"So? There're half a dozen coffee shops on this block alone, never mind the whole city." She rolls her eyes a little, settling comfortably on her seat. "Okay, well what does your Sam have to say about the amount of bakeries in Darrow?"

'Your Sam,' indeed. Greta gives Sara a level, unimpressed look at that choice of phrasing, but elects not to tackle it head-on. She just managed to weasel her way out of that conversation; she won't be dragged back into it so easily.

"Nothing," she says, only just resisting the urge to roll her eyes right back. Sam had offered to help her get started if she was interested; he hadn't implied that she ought to do anything at all. "But after running a shop back home..." she takes a meditative sip, then shrugs. "Honestly, I think I prefer not having that much on my shoulders. It was hard enough when there were two of us in a small village with maybe one or two other shops to compete with. Trying to keep my head above water here sounds miserable." Even with all the help her friends might provide, it would still be harder than what she's used to, and what she's used to was quite hard enough already.

Cracking a faint smile, she adds, "My favorite part was letting children get away with free biscuits, anyway. At the Gardens, that is my job."

That has Sara smiling a little. "That seems like somethin' you'd do," she agrees. "So, hang on," she adds. "You ran a bakery back in Fairytale land. With your husband?"

She lifts her bottle in an ironic little toast: that's her, all right. It's the best of both worlds, really. She still gets paid for making meals, but the ingredients don't have to come out of her pocket, and no one has to pay for the privilege of eating what she makes. She can't think of any way such an arrangement could have been achieved back home, but she loves that she's stumbled across it here.

"I did," she says, after deciding not to contest 'Fairytale land.' That probably is how it would seem to an outside observer. "His parents owned the shop before him, so he sort of inherited it." Among other things. Not that she wants to start talking about the Curse again. "The bakery took up the ground floor, and we lived up above."

"And you liked it?" she asks. "Obviously you don't hate it, but. Was it what you expected when you decided to get married?" All trace of teasing is gone, now. Sara is genuinely curious. She wants to know more about this woman who shares her face, even as she already considers her a friend.

Greta blinks, a little taken aback -- both by the question itself and Sara's earnest interest in the answer. Despite the latter, she feels a little like she's been put on trial. Or is it just coincidence that her teasing about Sam has led to questions about marital satisfaction?

"It was about what I expected, yes," she says, choosing her words with more care than she might have otherwise. "I knew it would be work, obviously. But we... we worked well together. Took us a while to find our footing, of course, but once we had it figured out... it was almost like a dance." She smiles, a little sad, a little wistful, not missing the pressures of running a shop, but missing that partnership. One of the strangest adjustments she's had to make in her new kitchen was just learning to work alone again, to trace out new patterns of movement that didn't involve making space for anyone else. She's managed it, but she's not sure she likes it.

"I never been married," she notes as she drains her beer. She hangs onto the empty bottle just to have something to fiddle with. "I guess I never understood the need, or the want?" Her voice gentles a little when she adds, "You miss him? Your husband?" Then she laughs and looks down. "I'm sorry, that's a fuckin' dumb question."

Before she'd arrived in Darrow, that would have sounded like madness -- not understanding the need, as if unmarried women had unlimited prospects. But if Sara's world is anything like this one, it's easier to understand. You can get away with a lot more here. Or that's how it feels from her perspective, anyway: like getting away with something.

Sara's question doesn't land like the heavy blow it would have been a few months ago. Rather than wince, Greta's able to arch an eyebrow and bite back a smile at the other woman's hasty backpedaling. "Of course I miss him," she says without rancor. "I wouldn't..." she pauses a moment, taking a sip as she considers. "It doesn't seem fair to wish him here. Or to wish Darrow on anyone, really." There are exceptions, of course, but she thinks most people would rather be at home.

"What about Cid's father?" she asks curiously. It feels a bit personal, but if Sara wants to ask her pointed questions, it seems only fair that she be able to return the favor.

Sara looks briefly ashamed before she lowers her eyes to the bottle in her hands.

"I couldn't tell you about him even if I wanted to," she admits. "I'm not entirely sure who he is. What his name is. Nothin'. Pretty sure Cid looks like him, though. He only got a few things from me."

She chuckles a little ruefully, and holds two fingers to her mouth, like she's smoking a cigarette. It feels like the right thing to do, like she should be smoking during this conversation, but she'd made it a point to leave her pack at home so she didn't light up in Greta's home.

A few different expressions flicker across Greta's face: confusion, then dawning understanding, and then she looks quietly appalled -- not with Sara, but for her, on her behalf, because she can only imagine a few scenarios that might result in unknown parentage, and they're all awful. She feels terrible for even asking. And to think that she'd thought Sara's questions were invasive, when at worst they were just moderately embarrassing. This feels more like overturning a rock in the garden and finding something truly nasty underneath, for all that Sara seems rather casual about it all.

"I--I'm sorry," she says, because it's all she can say. She's not cruel enough to ask for clarification.

Sara glances at her, then blinks, and she can't help but smile. "What? No! Oh, God, no, nothin' like that. Nothin' happened I didn't want to." She waves her hand a little, then huffs a laugh.

"Oh!" Greta slumps over the table for a moment, head in her hands, and lets out a relieved little giggle. "God, I thought..." she cuts herself off, shaking her head. It's plain enough what she thought, and she's glad to be wrong. Granted, she's still embarrassed -- now because she unwittingly cornered Sara into admitting something she probably isn't proud of -- but it could have been worse.

Rather than keep beating that awkward drum, she instead ventures, "What did he get from you? Cid, I mean." Her own son was so young that there wasn't much of them to discern -- a nose like her husband's, eyes like hers (at least so far; they hadn't yet had time to darken, if they were going to). There was no telling whether he'd have her husband's earnest nature, or her own stubbornness, or anything like that. She supposes she'll find out someday, whenever Darrow decides to be rid of her, but the prolonged wait still rankles.

"Oh, he got a few things," she says again. "My smarts, though I think his daddy was also probably a smart one, because my boy is a genius." Her tone is fond as she speaks, and she idly starts to twirl her beer bottle between her fingers.

"I think he's gonna be small, like me, too. He's little for his age." Not very, but noticeably. She keeps twirling it between her fingers, watching Greta.

Then she seems to decide something, because she says, "He got this, too."

She draws her hands aware from her, so that Greta can see there's no trick here, as she carefully twirls the bottle between her hands, not her fingers, letting it spiral in the air. She uses both hands to guide it, to make sure it doesn't wobble or fall. It's been awhile since she's done this with anything much heavier than her lighter, and she doesn't want the glass to break.

Greta smiles faintly as she listens. Before the Curse was broken, it had always been bittersweet, at best, listening to other women gush over their children. It still is, to an extent -- both of their children are worlds away -- but at least she no longer feels like she's looking through a shop window at something she desperately wants that's priced outside her means. She'll get it eventually, even if the interminable wait makes her want to bang her head against a wall.

She blinks when Sara describes herself as 'little' -- not an adjective she'd ever thought to apply to herself. She's a far cry from the shortest woman in the Village; she's even taller than some of the men. But that's nothing compared to what Sara does next, with only a brief, calculating look to forewarn that something strange is about to happen.

Sara pulls her hands away from the bottle with such careful deliberation that it doesn't even occur to Greta to make a hasty grab for it before it drops. And it doesn't drop. It just... stays there, floating between Sara's hands. Greta's jaw drops, and she lets out a quiet squeak of astonishment. That's--that's magic, or near enough, and it's the last thing she would have expected from someone who hails from a world like this one and farms for a living, and who looks like her, when she never had a drop of magic in her life.

"Wh--?" She's still slumped over the table, now with her arms lying flat, outstretched as if in supplication, and her eyes fixed on the bottle. "How...?"

"It's called TK," she explains. "Sorta just started poppin' up in people. Most can barely float quarters. Cid's real strong, actually. Way stronger than me, even." The bottle wobbles in the air, and she catches it with one hand and sets it down.

"Goodness," she breathes, both relieved and just a little bit disappointed when Sara sets the bottle down. How long could she have kept it up? She makes it sound as if what she did was a feat unto itself, which is hard to imagine, if not believe. It seems odd that people should have such a fantastic ability in such small doses.

Or most people, anyway. Greta tries to imagine parenting a child who could do such things and then some, and shakes her head slowly. "I can't even imagine what sort of mischief a child would get up to if he could do that," she says with a nod towards the bottle.

Sara doesn't mean to, but there's a brief flinch as she thinks of just what mischief Cid's gotten up to. She takes a breath and lets it rush out of her.

"Well, he doesn't really have control of it," she says. "It's mostly when he gets mad that we even see it, and then . . . it's not always pretty."

That flinch doesn't escape her notice. At first, she just assumes that 'mischief' is, perhaps, too light a term for the sort of mess such a child could make. It hadn't even occurred to her -- though perhaps it should have -- that he might not be able to control it.

"Oh," she says, sobering a little as she sits up. "I suppose it wouldn't be." She considers for a beat, then winces sympathetically. "No wonder you were so keen to track him down. I don't suppose being confused and frightened would be good for that sort of thing, either."

"Not at all," she confirms. She debates telling her about her sister, but finds herself clenching at the idea. Instead, she says, "I still look around for him, just in case. I don't want him to be surprised by some of the things that happen here." The strange-looking people, the strange-looking events. She can only imagine how that'll end.

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