There had been a flurry of text messages between a less-than-sober Arianna and an always-eloquent Penelope regarding someone else's brilliant and clearly risk-adverse (sarcasm) plans, and how they might have possibly raised something akin to wary askance side-ways looking concern in the Silver Bough's Bonisagus. Not that Arianna concerned herself with Apprentices, or apprentices-not-apprentices as the case may be here, especially those outside of the Order and especially especially those who may have yet to declare or secure allegiance to/from a Tradition. There were boundaries on her Good Will toward men. One had to have standards. Such Hermeticking surely factors in at some level except this:
She is passingly fond of Andres' female apprentice.
This bevy of fleet footed texts was Saturday, and then some damnable thing or another had interceded into Sunday and so feasting and general comradeship was postponed into Monday -- evening as Nick insisted on having an occupation other than Hermetic Mage, which was good, as being Chakravanti was not consistent with a life goal of occupation: Hermetic Mage -- which is to say that it is after work, and Ari has finished or set aside whatever passes as her daily grind and headed over toward Nick and Pen's and as this is damnable Denver she has taken the short ride by car because the weather says something about possible snow down to 6000' and just about anywhere in the city is close enough that she does not wish to measure the rise of the hill upon which the House of Hyde and Mars resides to be certain she is safely below the snow-line.
Past fucking Beltane, and the snow still came. For this sort of ridiculousness she could be high in the Alps enjoying Swiss chocolate and the tangle of languages that feel closer to home. She could be testing the magical principles of Correspondence in the Himalayas -- does the thinness of the air affect the transmutation of space?
On Saturday she had worn a dress with a hemline that swung around her knees and fit just so and it was feminine and elegant and perfect. Today, though, she is returned to slacks, and boots, and a coat. But she draws the line at buttoning it up. And on the short hike up their hill to their front porch -- eyes cast up to the steepling of the tree boughs now bedecked in a flurry of whispering leaves, eyes cast next to the swing and groan of the furious weather vane, eyes at last coming to rest on the warm light spilling out of their windows -- she refuses to bend enough to this Denver weather to button up her coat or sling a scarf around her neck. Her breath makes small clouds before her, steam pushed aside as progress requires their parting. Grey slacks, a pale pink sweater, an unreasonably white coat that gleams in the light of the gibbous moon. She is a slip of moor-light moving up their path; she is luminous even before she graces their doorway.
And knocks twice.
And then twice again.
Because she is impatient. And because the things she has brought to add to the feast weigh down the canvas bag in her right hand. And because if she didn't knock twice twice, then the House might not recognize her name.
HydeTo one side and across of the House of Mars and Hyde, there is a war. It's funny that Ari should imagine Switzerland because that is the role her friends seem to be playing just now: across the road from them the yard there has grown up a crop of Bernie Sanders '16 signs. Next door to their house, Donald Trump '16 signs bristle up like the rifles of a distant army glimpsed at the horizon. One wayward Sanders sign appears to have somehow been 'misplaced' there amongst them.
It will escalate. It will most certainly escalate.
But for now, Ari is not the only one dismayed, left dismal, by the weather and the surprise reappearance of snow. Nicholas has been bemoaning it since he first heard the forecast. Were he some haunting spirit, someone who had died frozen in Denver's outer reaches and left to wander its plains and mountains for eternity, his refrain might be: Snow! In May! What the fuck.
He curses infrequently enough and saves it for those moments when he is truly in anger or in shock.
Much like the time Ari surprised them at their doorstep several months ago now, when he hears her knocking Nick tromps down the stairs to answer her, though by now her knock is grown familiar. She lives so close, close enough that if it were not snowing! in May! he would most certainly have teased her about hailing a cab to come over here. He appears at the door wrapped in a heavy cardigan of natural wool, undyed, and smiles at her as he beholds her there on the doorstep. He looks past her just once to take this in: there is one more sign out there than yesterday.
"Come on in, Ari."
AriIt is worse than Nick has thought. Arianna has not hailed a cab. She has driven herself, but still she parks her car at the bottom of their hill and walks up because something about amassing all their resources in one location -- daughter of a Flambeau general; occupational hazard: Legacy Mage -- or another paranoid nonsense hand-waving thing. Or perhaps because she counts the hike up the Hill of Mars & Hyde as excersize, thus excusing the indulgence of friendship and feasting and fete-ing.
There is no need to linger on the doorstep, torn between old ways and new, wondering if she might trick the cosmos into accepting her welcome. Nick speaks it freely, and so she pulls him into a one-armed hug even as she crosses the threshold. With Pen and Nick -- and also with Thane -- Arianna is affectionate. In Denver, only Andres has won the right to sling his arm around her waist as they sway from one establishment to the other. (We do not mention Silas, as he won his rights elsewhere, and also because it is a touchy subject, and also because reasons.)
"Can you believe this damnable weather?" she asks him, knowing that Nick is as fond of the slow creep of seasons as she is. (Snow! In May!) But her mouth is curled toward friendship and teasing, and the hug is tight and fast and quick.
"I made ravioli," she tells him. "Because they go with everything." The canvas bag is hefted slightly, as if to prove the weight of her offering.
MarsPen is bare foot and bare foot and bare legged she comes down the stairs after Nicholas, doing what one might describe as: frolicking, prancing, skipping, bouncing, whisking, dancing. Dancing is perhaps the most dignified, and Pen is a dignified woman; still she comes dancing down the stairs like a maenad or a murderess, her red red hair a bloody halo and a bruise on her thigh (visible when the skirt she is wearing flicks to the side, and why shouldn't it flick? It is essentially fringe: sparkling, glistering trails of starlight -- of course it is all silver; ribbons of it; fringe; swish; a poem of movement, a kinetic dream) like a crushed blackberry.
"Do they go with your beautiful eyes," she says, by way of greeting,"Do they go with the thrumming of your blood? Do they go with Mercury's transit past Helios? Do they go with women grieving less for Icarus and more for their own eyes, for these women went blind when wax from his wings hit them? But then they were looking upward and saw something remarkable; what do they grieve for, and is ravioli good for it? Hallo, Arianna!"
"Nicholas didn't laugh at my joke earlier, but," and she starts laughing at herself, in advance. "It's, did you see the si, the signs, the political signs, I said we should," and she laughs, and she laughs and she laughs, "that we should put up a sign that says,"
Damn it, Mars, pull yourself together,
"one that says," and she laughs even harder. Nicholas will remember this joke: it was, to be fair to him and to Pen, a reference to an obscure but famous (if you are a Hermetic) political rivalry within the Order of Hermes, and it is a nice updated Hermetic meme and the quote tags she came for each candidate's signs were very clever, and there was absolutely no reason Nicholas should know what the Hell she was talking about.
Ari[For my amusement: Int + Politics: Does Ari get Pen's obscure reference, based only on giggles and political signage hints?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 5, 7, 7, 9) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens]
AriAri's arm is still around Nick when Pen comes dance-shimmer-shining down the stairs, wreathed in bell-like laughter, already heralding some sort of mischeif and so it is mid-transference of the hug when Pen's meaning hits home for their Bonisagus friend -- who is most definitely aware of obscure Hermtic politics and who most certainly is not on her best behaviour about them.
Something akin to a snerk escapes Arianna, whose eyes have gone wide and her lips are pressed thin in an amused attempt to hold back laughter. When she does speak the name, it is thin and wheedlingly so, as if giving it full voice will only break her down into convulsive giggles like Pen.
"Higgority Valantius, he's the only man for us..."
Aha. Ahaha. No, no she cannot maintain a straight face. The terrible rhyme; the terrible name; the even worse political platform. It all echoes something of a particular presence in modern politics.
"Oh, oh gods Pen. I think I know where I can find a likeness of this sign. I think it is a Bonisagus library, friend of a friend of my mother's -- I could." Barely contained snerk again. "I could... fashion you one for your lawn."
HydeNicholas does indeed remember this joke, and he did not laugh at it earlier. By her laughter he can assume it was a good joke, a clever joke, but there is no reason he should know what the Hell she is talking about and indeed he does not. His expression deadpan, he looks sidelong at Pen as she repeats the joke and laughs and laughs. And he smiles because he likes to see Pen laugh, but this is touched with affection, not shared mirth; it looks different.
Oh but of course Ari gets it. Higgority Valantius.
Mind you: Hermetics choose their names. This man chose that name for himself. That is what Nick thinks about while the two of them laugh. He also does not say that the Sleepers are likely to believe it to be a Harry Potter reference. Best not to pick at scabs and all that.
"We're only good Valantius folk in this house."
Nicholas holds out his hands for the ravioli, which he appears very happy to accept, in preparation for taking to the kitchen.
MarsPen's eyes are bright with the tears of laughter; she has her right hand wrapped around her stomach, her spine curling because the laughter is convulsive and she does not do it still right now; she lets it take her, drifts; bends; doesn't break; reedy, see? And when Arianna gets it, of course Arianna gets it, she flashes Nicholas such a look and such a smile; but he's the only man for us - and Pen's hands are lifted to her face; she covers it completely and her shoulders shake. Then: one hand snaps out; she points very dramatically at Nicholas, peeking through her index and middle fingers, "See! I am hilarious. I am the cleverest most hilarious person except for Ari who is equally clever and hilarious."
Signs! And Nick jumps in, too. Pen clap claps her hands at Ari's offer to fashion one for her lawn and clap beams at Nicholas when he deadpans and then, quite earnest,
"But Ari, if we do a sign for our lawn, we have to do one for your lawn too. Oh, oh oh oh, oh, oh we can send pictures to Eve, Imagine his face. Remember that argument he and, well that argument he had? It ended, Nicholas, in tragedy. A stuffed pig was unstuffed and a spirit unleashed."
"Oh I will take that," and Pen who is One Jump Ahead will slip in take the ravioli dish bag box and head to the kitchen first. Dance to the kitchen. Prance, frolick: whatever.
She seems in high spirits, or at least.
AriThis proves Ari's point, by the by. If her Nonna's ravioli could go with obscure Hermetic politic jokes and remembrances of Eve, then surely they could go with anything. They would be good with anything. They are relinquishes to the Mars-Hydes' custody.
"I thought Xavi might spontaneously combust..."
This is all that is said toward the dicussion of the horrible Name, yes chosen Name, yes chosen perhaps for its awfulness -- Ari cannot rightfully remember his House, though she does the inward equivalent of crossing herself thrice and hoping it is not her own.
"Of course," she says, when Pen insists there should be one in Ari's yard as well. Pen's dancing continues toward the kitchen, and Arianna shoots Nick a little raised-brow amused look before tripping that way herself in a manner that might be construed as dancingly.
"I made as many as I could stand to fold, and then a few more just for good measure." This is again about ravioli. They are filled with sage and cheese; there is sage butter to brown and coat them with. It will be delicious, thought it will not in truth go with everything.
"I failed to gift a sending stone to Margot," she adds, very by-the-by, as if she expects Nick to already be caught up on the gossip shared via text message. Because of course them are. "She is adamant about facing her past herself."
A beat. Business intermixed with other things.
"Can I help with anything?" she asks, shrugging out of her coat and draping over something too high for Yorick to scale. The destroyer of books has been remembered.
HydePen is in high spirits, frolicking past him to the kitchen with ravioli in hand, and Nick is a more solemn creature even in his good humor, walks after the swaying Hermetics without dancing. Yorick is in his pen at the moment, as he often is when Nick is not in the mood to follow him around the house cleaning up after him.
He would not have to do that with a dog or a cat. He has commented on this to Pen, more than once, frequently in texts that involve photos of puppies and kittens and adult dogs and cats that are currently available in local shelters. Some of them are missing eyes and have three legs, but, well, he likes to give things second lives.
"A sending stone?" He looks sidelong here at his friend, and his tone suggests that he was not caught up on the gossip after all. "It's important to her to do it alone, I think. She believes it's going to help her grow on her own."
His tone is not approving or disapproving; it could perhaps be trying to be neither of those things, to respect Margot's wishes without letting his own feelings influence them too much. He might have many things in common with the Verbenae, but he is not one nonetheless. "You already made us ravioli," is the simple reply when Arianna asks after help.
MarsHere is the true advantage of being the one who brings the ravioli dish into the kitchen. One can steal a ravioli from it, and break fast by popping it in one's mouth, and then: no. Pen does not moan; she does, however, sink against the side of the kitchen counter, eyes closed as she tastes. Bliss.
One would think she were not listening to Nicholas and Arianna, but of course she is. She usually listens, and pays mind.
She even looks at all of the pictures of animals they will not be adopting which Nicholas persists in sending her, and when Yorick is hopping around, crapping on the ground or, as in one memorable and hilarious case, on Nicholas's laptop which was on the floor for whatever reason, Pen is serene in her refusal to help. When he is around, she rarely even pets the bunny. He is usually not around, what with his day job, but what Pen does on her own is nobody's business.
"I think that is too bad, Ari," she says, once she bliss has subsided: somewhat. The oven is on and Pen: she takes out a loaf of bread, crusty and handmade and homemade, and begins slicing it up. The bread's center is a delicate white; it wants to be smoke. From the refrigerator, she takes: fig jam, brie. From the bowl of vegetables, an heirloom tomato: begins slicing, slathering. These will go into the oven to crisp. That Margot wouldn't take the sending stone, that is.
Cut, cut, cut. "Nick, get Ari a drink, why don't you?"
Ari"Well, not really a sending stone," Ari says, back tracking a bit from claims of true Talisman crafting in a hotel bar. "But a close-enough thing. Something we could have used in similar ways."
She is saying this and Pen is sneaking a ravioli, which is filled some deliciously musty cheese mingled with sage and salt, which is delicate and slippery and nutty from the browned butter and marvelously redolent. It transports her. Where? That is up to Pen's memories of things delicious and indulgent and too nuanced to be found in a delicatessen's case.
"A true sending stone," she says, for Nicholas's benefit, "Is more than merely an anchorpoint for scrying or other Correspondence work. It could even hold the whole of the sending ritual and only require activation. I might have made this false one by pushing a bit of my own resonance into a thing which Margot could have taken with her. Then if she stays overlong in the perils of her past, we might find her -- and not be distracted by the larger well of my resonance, as my location would be clearly known to us."
Hermetics: saying everything the long way.
HydeWine glasses click together, though whatever sound the smallest impact makes is shortly drowned out by the delicate ringing that follows, by the glass shuddering in ways too subtle to be seen by the naked eye. He is carrying three of them, two held between the fingers of his right hand, their stems crossed, and he sets those down first. "White or red, Ari?"
She gets a glass of whatever she requests, as does Pen.
A curl flips down nearly into one of his eyes as he glances up at Ari, who offers many explanations about magick the long way. He has never given any indication that he minds; he has learned things from her more often than not.
He flicks his head, an eyelash fluttering in irritation as he tries to toss the curl away, all to no avail. It clings as assuredly as grasping vines do to old brick. "She agreed to contact me if she gets in over her head. I think it might be the best we can hope for."
Mars"Even without the sympathetic magic, I believe we could find her without very much trouble, although it never hurts to have an edge; perhaps Yorick would even be useful," this, with a Look for Nicholas. Pen is still in high spirits; the Look is accompanied with the suggestion of one singular dimple, the other being an ace tucked up her sleeve.
"I said it over text; I'll say it again." Now she is laying cheese and sliced tomatoes over the fig jam, like so: perfection. "I am only concerned if 'facing the past' means 'going to murder somebody because now I have magical powers.'"
Her voice is not tinged with a sarcastic edge. She does not sound sardonic; only thoughtful and steady and perhaps a bit hungry.
That ravioli. Would they notice if she ate it all, slowly, while they waited?
Pen wants red wine tonight.
Ari"Red, please." Ari and Pen are of a mind about wine for the evening.
"Mmmmm." It is a thoughtful and not entirely agreeing sound. Neither of her cabalmates seem overly concerned about the Apprentice -- is one an Apprentice if one has no Tradition to confer and recognize one's rank? Is one truly? -- hieing off on some ill fated adventure. Far be it for Ari to be the only concerned party if the others are unmoved.
Far be it indeed.
"Well. I hope that she returns unscathed." It is about as magnanimous as Ari will get on the matter. The remainder of her thoughts, eloquent and thoroughly judgemental as they would prove to be, remain closeted behind her teeth. Such restraint. Twice now on the subject. This time in the presence of wine, which is lifted in silent toast to the Hyde-Marses before she drinks. And it is a chalice; and is a cauldron; and mostly it is a very good red, to which she nods her approval.
HydePen's reaction has had his gaze straying, intermittent, toward the ravioli, which are waiting there and occasionally the scent of brown butter wafts out into the space held between all three of them. He does not reach for it just yet; he is observing some decorum perhaps. If they eat it all now there will not be any left for later.
It is red wine for all of them, and as glasses are set down and then raised up again, he takes a thoughtful swallow from his own.
"I don't think she wants to kill anyone," he says. "She is being so secretive about it because she's worried someone will get hurt otherwise, I think. You know they...she and Ned, they aren't very trusting." Though maybe they don't know; he can't precisely be sure of what Margot has confided in him and what she has confided in the others, and how it differs. And he does not like this space, this weight given to one person's confidance and the desire to share with two others who are dear to him.
"We can't force her into making the safer choice, Ari." He says it to his wine glass, though it's addressed to Ari. He is less precise with his words than a Hermetic would be: they can, of course, but the rue his tone is laced with says only that he will not.
Ari"I don't think she wants to kill anyone," Ari says, but the sentence has an alarming amount of momentum. It does not stop there. It keeps going and yet still manages to fall short of saying all of the things she has been so good at not saying to date.
"And no, no we can't make her do anything. None of us has that authority as she is Disparate and seems to have divorced herself from even Andres' mentorship -- a thing I do not understand. I mark the change of resonance on her; it is palpabale, but that does not an Initiate make."
It falls short of saying all the things she has been thinking, whilst still saying some of the things she has been thinking. More of them than she might in other company.
"I like her. I do not want to see her hurt, or burdened further by things she should not have to face alone. But mostly I do not want to see the people I care deeply for hurt by the extension of whatever may hurt her, because you are fond of her Nicholas, and also Thane has invested in her and even myself, for all that I do not will not gods willing you cannot make me take an Apprentice yet, for all of that I think she might even be a bit dear to me and NOW, good friends. Now we drink. Because this thing where we can do nothing about it but also where we know it is not right: I despise it."
A beat. She breathes out.
"And I did not say even a word of that to Margot. Please, admire my restraint."
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