Plans

Nick
It's Friday morning and Nicholas struggles to get out of bed on time: Fridays are like this.  He clings, he turns his head away from dawn as it pats soft hands over his face and eyes and mouth, he sighs and turns over once or twice.  But eventually, wakefulness comes and he rises to shower and dress himself, the way acceptable adults do.

This morning will find him bleary-eyed and shuffling though their cabinet for a suitably wakeful tea.  It would be difficult to be less awake and alert than he, and so Pen is probably here now, already ready to start the day.

As the kettle whistles he reaches for it, flips the cap and begins to slowly filter water into the teapot.  "What's on your agenda today?"

Mars
[Decisions about relative brightness and alertness given to stamina.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 8) ( success x 1 )

Mars
It's Friday morning and Pen is lounging against the counter, yoga pants (leggings) and a sports bra on beneath her pink silk robe. She is awake and alert, or at least conscious of a desire to be alert, and she has been awake for a little while now.

He doesn't need to find tea to make; Pen will make it for him. Here is his mug, set out just so, here is the tea pot, here are some bags of PG Tips, or perhaps Earl Grey, Lavender Earl Grey, or - something bracing: some very black, very bracing tea.

"What's on your agenda today; are there any omens or portents?"

Nick
"Today seems quiet, but I doubt that one of my clients is going to live out the weekend," he says, from where he is standing near the refrigerator.  Breakfast, perhaps, except he has forgotten what he was about to open the refrigerator to look for.

It is still dark outside.

Regardless, he means: Monday omens, portents.  He is not distressed; in the sort of work he does, clients dying on a regular basis is the reality.  The nature of the work, even.  "What's on your...wait, I asked you that."

Mars
"Would you like an omelette, Nick-knack? I believe that number one - well, number four or five - on my agenda was make your husband consort lover who is beloved to you a healthful meal which will give him zazzle. I will make it spicy if you wish."

"What will you do for the client?" Pen: has streeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetched her arms up above her head, reachreachreach, and then planted her hands on Nicholas's shoulders, only to steer him toward the door and the dining room and chairs. Little push: that direction, go go.

Nick
Nicholas can be steered, and is, toward the dining room, where he wanders over to a chair.  Drifts, really, more of a slow haphazard movement in that general direction before he collapses into a seat.  He'd nodded once, twice, in regard to her mention of an omelette, and once more when she offered to make it spicy.  Maybe there's a flicker once of envy for Pen's ability to be effortlessly awake.

"Probably push a little harder when it comes to asking questions and staying focused on topic.  Usually they know they aren't doing well though, so they're ready to...be ready.  She'll probably want to tell me stories, so I'll listen."

Mars
Pen takes some things out of the refrigerator: a jalapeno pepper, half a green pepper, a red pepper, onion, garlic, cilantro, ghost pepper sauce, butter, sharp cheddar, eggs, milk.

She makes an inquiring noise, not quite a hmm but almost, an invitation to say more; and that's all she makes as she starts dicing fairly quickly, choppity chopchop chop, veggies first spare nothing sizzle butter.

From the dining one cannot see the stove, but one can hear, right?

Nick
Nick scrubs his hands over his face, pulling at his skin perhaps in an effort to get it to bunch up less and contour to his muscles more.  It appears unsuccessful; his cheeks and forehead only sag into something like the position they were in before.  "I try to help them come to something like acceptance and finish the things they want to do so that they can move on more smoothly," he says.

Mars
"Will you make me breakfast tomorrow?"

Sizzle sizzle sizzle, rattle dink dink dink clink dink sound, punctuated by noislessness except for the simmer sizzle, and then:

ffffffshhhhhhhhhhhh. Cooking!

Nick
Nick smiles at that; it's a sweet thing, still hazy at the edges with the residue of sleep, and so almost uninhibited in its way.  "Of course.  What would you like?  I think we still have some cornmeal and blueberries if you want pancakes."

Nick leans his chin onto his fist.  He can't see her, but he can hear, and he likes this game - imagining Pen as she goes about slicing things and dropping things into the pan, her easy warrior's grace in every movement, quieted for now and directed toward another task.  "What are you doing today?" he prompts, again.

Mars
"Pancakes sound delightful; with some cardamom whipped cream?"

Ffffshhhhhhhh clink clink clink scrape scrape. Louder clatter, as of a plate set down on a counter, then a porcelain scrape as of a plate dragged across a counter.

Drawer opening, low rumble. Closed, tinny metallic dance-sound plink.

Humming, just as water: running.

Nick
This thoughtful noise.  "I can make that."  By the time he has heard the scrape he is looking around the corner into the kitchen, his eyes seeking Pen; he's like a hungry cat or dog.

There is silence.  He is leaning his elbow onto the table and himself on it, now.  His voice, perhaps more fogged with sleep now than moments ago, asks, "I'm sorry.  Did I ask you what you're doing?"

Mars
Pen is a glimmer of elegant pink at the sink, rinsing off the whisk; the edge of her robe unfurls, swirls around her calves as she steps back over and quickly to the stove, the better to scrape the omelette out onto the plate.

Sound of refrigerator opening;

closing. A glass clink, and then

glug, glug, glug.

Pen pads into the dining room with Nick's plate balanced on her forearm, his tea mug in one hand along (perhaps) with cream or honey or sugar, a glass of orange juice (for herself) in the other. Waitressing skills: coming in handy.

"I could wake you up earlier, you know; you could come for a run with me."

Nick
"That sounds like the surest way I've ever heard to break an ankle."

He has perked up somewhat at the sight of her coming into the dining room, and Pen manages to make anything look cool, doesn't she, even skills she picked up as a waitress: this graceful way she has everything balanced between both her arms.  Nick is watching her, and Nick is admiring to himself because his thoughts wander when he's sleepy, they're still half dreams.

"I should try to practice things like that more.  Especially if...I mean, it's been quiet lately, but..."  He hasn't yet forgotten that the Order declared a state of war.

Mars
"Practice things like what; breaking your bones?" Pen says, quirking an eyebrow.

Plate of omelette: slides in front of him. Mug follows, and cream or sugar or both. Then Pen sits in the chair next to Nicholas's and sips her orange juice.

Nick
"Are you not eating?  Thank you," and the two statements merge together almost without missing a beat.  Before he adds honey and cream to his tea he reaches over and smooths his hand over the top of her thigh, and it curves around until it meets the spot just above her knee.  An affectionate squeeze, and then he adds here and there and stirs and picks up his fork to eat the omelette.

"Like running or shooting or something," he says.  "Things so I'm better prepared and don't need to burden you."

Mars
"How would you need to burden me?" Pen says, the inflection of her voice this cat-tongue lap thing, amusement unearthed like a trinket a polished dark stone: goes sk-skipping. "And I already had toast, and fully intend on stealing from your plate."

Nick
"Well, when we need to fight, or if the Order declaring war ends up boiling over here," he says, carving out a chunk of omelette with his fork and transferring it to his mouth.  He nudges his plate a little closer to her, then separates another piece using his fork and holds it out to her as he chews.

Once he has swallowed, "I don't want you to have to take all the risk, if we get involved in something like that."

Mars
"It sounds more as if I am the burden in this scenario," Pen says. As she speaks, she eyes the omelette piece on his fork, and then she leans forward and (chomp!) takes it between her teeth. Swallow. Yum. Spicy. Too spicy, in fact, for her: that piece had hidden ghost pepper. Her lake eyes water and she blinks once twice rapidly as moth wings in contact with an electric light and she takes refuge in her orange juice, and then (disgusting) in a sip of cream from the creamer. Better.

Nick
As her eyes water there is amusement there in his own, and sympathy.  "How does it make you sound like the burden?" he asks, as he chews on another piece of the omelette.  Ghost pepper does not faze him.

Mars
"It sounds as though you believe you need to run or shoot in order to be useful in a fight, which we both know -- or knew -- isn't true," Pen says. She gives Nicholas a sidelong look. "If you are reasoning this because otherwise you will be a burden to me, then the shadow of that thought is a burden I have cast on you, however unintentionally."

Nick
His hand reaches for her knee again, and gives it another squeeze.  "You haven't cast that on me," he says.  "I've just been thinking.  That's all.  About how to be better, or how to be more, so that I can move forward with you."

Mars
"Morning runs are fun," Pen says, and she is a terrible liar, but does not seem to be lying right now. Such is the cult of morning runners.

The terrible, terrible cult. "I would count you among the valiant if you came with me once or twice," and she smiles, a sweet-struck expression, putting her hand over his hand in order to play with his fingers. "I would like it dearly."

"But I know you don't enjoy shooting; if you want to be more physically martial, well, fine, or if you want to take from those exercises useful disciplines, also fine ... well and good, even. But Crow, that needn't be what you do to hone yourself."

Nick
And he is lost: her sweet-struck expression, the way her fingers splay over his own, that she would like it dearly.  He is lost even though he would have laughed five years ago at anyone who would have told him he would be going out for morning runs with his wife one day, and he is lost as he says, "I'll come out with you tomorrow."

It's a weekend.  He can go back home and sleep.  (Poor Nick.  He thinks he's going to go back home and sleep.)

He takes a swallow of tea to cool some of the fire in his gums and lips.  "It was just a thought.  I've been more focused on learning more magick recently, anyway."  A beat.  "So what are you doing today?"

Mars
"I know. I can't wait until we can do Gate-hopping races! Which I will win, of course," and she is teasing him, for although she has been ambitious, is ambitious, she is not necessarily competitive. "After all, my name is Mercury," and Pen stretches out one leg, and examines her ankles, as if she might see gold-fleet wings glittering there. "So... I know you've been working out more magick but what else have you been learning? Are there skills which help? I would help you, if I could." This is not that downward lilt many people imbue 'if I could with.' She means it: frankly, forthrightly; if she could, if she can, she will help; she is of a mind to do it.

Nick
Another squeeze of her knee before he withdraws his hand, as she offers to help, because: he knows that she means it frankly, and forthrightly.  "I'm beginning to study Life, so I think having a better grounding in medicine and anatomy might help with that," he says.  "I've been thinking about asking Kiara for help, too.  She knows a lot about that kind of thing."

Mars
"Mmmm." Neutral sound, re: grounding in medicine and anatomy. He might read it as doubtful, although it is not necessarily doubtful. "It cannot hurt," and her mouth curves, pleased with a certain connotation here, "to ask one of the Verbenae for a grounding in Life; they hold that Seat for a reason." Beat. "You could train as a massage therapist, like that friend of Thane's."

Nick
Pen's careful neutrality draws his eyes, and when she suggests that he train as a massage therapist a corner of his mouth quirks.  "I don't really see myself taking that route," he says, "as disappointing as that is.  I was talking more about traditional medicine and herbalism.  Delilah used to use those to Work."

He scrapes up the last few bits of egg and pepper on his plate.  "You sound skeptical."

Mars
"At a certain point, learning Physics to help figure out Forces just isn't helpful; it's the opposite. I wonder what at what point medical knowledge might be the same sort of weight. I suppose it wouldn't have to be, but it's something I think about sometimes. But there, you mean traditional medicine; Western medicine is already a weight around that type's neck; how could it be a weight, too? And knowledge is important, and," Pen waves a hand. "I don't know, my thoughts are without order."

Nick
Now it is Nick's turn to say "Hmm," as he swallows the last crumbs that were remaining on his plate and settles against the back of his chair.  His fingertips curve around the handle of his mug, though he doesn't pick it up to drink from just yet.  "That's good to think about.  I think it might be part of the trouble I have with learning Mind," he says.  "You think things have to be done a certain way, or fit a certain framework."

Mars
A moment of silence. Pen rests her chin, delicately, on her fist.

"You ate so quickly," she says, with an air of marveling. "How can you be so famished in the morning, and yet also so honey-slow? What did you dream of doing?"

Nick
"Staying in bed with you all day," he says, and languishes against the back of his chair, letting his head fall back against the headrest.  Very dramatic, Nicholas.  He straightens after only a moment, bringing his mug to his lips.  "I had a weird dream about taming a velociraptor with Rob, actually."  A quirk of his mouth.  "What about you?"

Mars
Pen smiles at Nicholas, and certainly her glance is steady, even as it burnishes a brighter silver; even as she pulls his empty plate closer to her, then sets her glass and the creamer atop it. There is pulp caught at the rim of her glass; her chin is still on her fist. "I'll tell you if you can answer a riddle. It is medieval." She clears her throat. "I have heard of a something-or-other, growing in its nook, swelling and rising, pushing up its covering. Upon that boneless thing a cocky-minded young woman took a grip with her hands; with her apron a lord’s daughter covered the tumescent thing."

Nick
Nick clutches at his chest as Pen recites the riddle in mock-horror, as though scandalized.  Then his eyes drift toward the ceiling as he considers the words.  "Is it a mushroom?"

Mars
[Shhh willpower not to laugh]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 4 )

Mars
Pen looks most solemn. "No, the cocky-minded woman does not grip with her hands a mushroom. I suppose you will never know what I dreamed now."

Nick
"But you should at least tell me the answer to the riddle," Nick says, with a sidelong look toward her and a smile.

Mars
"Dough," she says. "For bread."

Nick
"But you don't grip dough!  You knead it," he says, with a wave of his hand and this little sigh of resignation.  He takes another swallow of his tea.  "Are you going to come visit me at work today?"

You should come visit him at work, Pen.  Hint hint.

Mars
Her mouth curves. "You are being very narrow minded about the meaning of words," Pen says, "or the treatment of dough; I do not know which."

She pushes her chair back. Sets one hand on Nick's right knee and one hand on Nick's left knee and pushes, stretching her back and bowing with languorous aplomb. "Would you like me to bring you a musician and a serenade?"

Nick
Nick laughs and reaches down to cover her hands with his own, trailing them up her forearms.  "I think the hospital might have rules against serenades.  But maybe we can play some music."  A beat.  "I wouldn't be interrupting something you're doing today, would I?"

Mars
"How could you interrupt something I am doing if you are at your work?" Pen says, letting her back un-arc go slack. The pink robe has shadows that are a dee blush, but also shadows that seem almost silver; it's a dawn lake sort of robe. "Does the hospital truly have rules against serenades?"

Nick
"I doubt against serenades specifically," he says as his fingers reach the sleeve of her robe and run over the crease of fabric there at the end, "but as a general rule, loud noise is frowned upon."  His eyebrows have slackened as his expression has turned thoughtful.  "Maybe a few more years and I can start a private practice.  The environment would be less sterile.  Anyway, I just don't want to pull you away from anything important."

Mars
"The rocks are as important to the sailors as the siren," Pen says, "And the siren as important as the sea." The chair legs drag thumpa drag drag closer because she braces herself and drags the chair near, again. "Would you really like a private practice? What would you need to make that happen, if you would?"

Nick
"Money," he says, with a sigh.  "Always the hangup. I think I would like one.  It would let me worry less about running into a Conventionalist throughout the day, at the very least."  As she moves closer his hand slides further up her arm, beneath the sleeve of her robe.  "Maybe if we ever move back to New England.  Do you think we will?"

Mars
"Yes. I do not want to be forever gone from those green lands," Pen says, also solemn and archaic at once. "But if it is only a matter of money," and see, there is never any 'only' about the matter of money; Pen is very careful with what she has, although what she has is often mysteriously steady. Not so mysterious: somebody from House Fortunae who owed her a favor. "That isn't so hard. I'm sure we might attract wealth one way or another. Do you want to go back to New England?"

Nick
"Yes," he says, and without hesitation.  "Not right away, but eventually.  I...think of it like home, now, more than any place I've ever been."  He Awakened there, and it is where he met Pen and joined a cabal for the first time; perhaps it's not all that strange or unexpected, in its way.

"We probably could find a way to attract wealth.  It'd take more studying on my part though."

Mars
"Mine too." These two words are so: thoughtful, and her gaze gone distant (aloof [reserved]), a poet's gaze maybe. You'd think she'd walk into a wall, look in her eyes like that, except Pen seems so assured of herself, so present in her body and the space around her: a correspondence Mage; there is a compact made with grace.

Nick
Her gaze has gone: aloof, distant, and Nick studies this expression she has and this sort of gravitas, and he cannot help himself.  He leans forward (they're already leaned forward, he doesn't have to lean far) and kisses her, perhaps bringing her back to just where he is: they are Correspondence mages, both.  The kiss tastes like fire and it might even burn like it too; he was just eating ghost peppers.

"Maybe you can ask Eve for notes on whatever he did for you."

Mars
It does bring her back to just where he is. Pen is leaning forward when he breaks the kiss to suggest she ask Eve for notes, her lips parted, her pupils large; they'd drown the tarnished silver water of her clear eyes; he shifts her balance. He has always done this: since they met, before any moves were made, he has shifted her balance; she shakes her head and a loose lock of hair falls over her ear; her gaze goes to the side, to the table, and then back, "I believe," and her nose crinkles, and she cants her head, squinting one eye more than the other. She doesn't like to admit this, isn't certain it is true or untrue. "I believe I ask for help too often; I should be more self sufficient in my craft. I should learn Ars Mentis, but I do not have it scheduled for at least another year, perhaps more."

Nick
The laugh he emits is a gentle sound.  He catches the lock of hair that's fallen over her ear and brushes it back, tucking it behind once more.  His eyes are dark; it's hard to tell what's in them, sometimes.  "You keep a schedule of when you're going to learn?"

Mars
"Yes," Pen says, gravely. "Of course, it is flexible, and sometimes dependent on the materials I have, but there are so many things to learn; if I don't force myself to focus, I'd learn nothing at all."

Nick
"I don't believe that for a minute," he says, and amusement is in his eyes and in the corners of his mouth and in the lift of his cheeks.  "Pen, you're one of the most driven people I know.  You can't be only forcing yourself to focus."

Mars
"I didn't mean to say that's the only reason I focus; once I am focused, I find it quite easy to concentrate. But there are just so many interesting things, Crow, so many things I want to know how to do or to learn about, and only so many hours in the day to devote."

Nick
He lifts one of his arms to the table, leans his cheek on his palm as he watches her.  "What do you want to be, eventually?  What do you want to learn how to do the most, or what do you want to master first?"

Mars
"Right now, I am focusing my passions on Ars Essentiae; Prime. I want to master everything at once, my handsome lover. I've always felt quite attracted to that Art; it came quickly to me. But it was much more important that I learn how to wield elemental forces first. Otherwise, how would I make you happy on a cold night?" Glint, in the eyes; suggestion of a smile, or.

Nick
"I would have to learn to start my own fires if you didn't know it," he agrees, and his smile is one part indulgent and two parts playful.  His gaze sweeps her face, a rake of affection moreso than because he is looking for anything specific.  "Tell me about what you're learning with Prime.  I like to listen to you talk about magick."

Mars
"Mm. I won't this morning; it is not a propitious hour for it." Pen is frank and forthright; she also manages to be occulted, elusive, at the same time: sometimes. Likenow. "Later," she says, and she looks at his lap like she's thinking about crawling into it.  "You are going to work very soon, and my thoughts are in disorder yet on that subject."

Nick
There is a glance toward the clock and he finds that she is right: he should be leaving for work soon, even if his dream did involve staying in bed all day.  "I'll ask you later, then," he says, with the sort of smile that makes this a guarantee.  Then, noticing her look, "Come here," and he gives her hand a tug to pull her over into his lap.

"I know I've asked you already what you're going to do today.  Is it very mysterious?  Should I stop asking?"

Mars
Come here: so she does, with a bright and ardent flick of her eyes from under her lashes, fitting herself as neatly against him as the teeth of a key into its lock. Both arms circle his neck, and perhaps someone somewhen, one of those people who told him he shouldn't marry Pen, someone called her arms chains: why wouldn't they. The metaphor is good.

"No." - contrition. But he has asked her seven times. The bet is won - or near enough. "And no, it is not very mysterious. When you leave, I am going to do housework. Then I am going to go down to the forge for a while, then to the gym to swim, then languages for two hours, then I think the library," and there's an ache, still, in her voice: something raw, just unearthed, mention of a library goes down, "out in Morrison, where I will take copious notes. Then, if it is not too late, I am going to scope out the security on this junkyard, and then I am going to spend another hour on languages, and I think after that I am going to check the wards on our home, and from there practice some practical application of my knowledge, so I am ready should I need to be practiced in an Art. I would like to have time to sketch, but I just do not think there will be time."

Nick
His arms circle her waist as she fits herself against him, and his eyes are shut; this is a meditative thing, almost.  They pop open again as he listens to her describe her day, all the things she hopes to do, and he laughs once.  "Is that all?"  One of his hands spreads against the small of her back, over muscle and bone.  "Which languages?"

Nick
His arms circle her waist as she fits herself against him, and his eyes are shut; this is a meditative thing, almost.  They pop open again as he listens to her describe her day, all the things she hopes to do, and he laughs once.  "Is that all?"  One of his hands spreads against the small of her back, over muscle and bone.  "Which languages?"

Mars
"Today, it is Hebrew," Pen says. "Though I will do some translation work in Ancient Greek, just to stay polished. I may try to write poetry during Ancient Greek time."

"And of course, I will come to see you, and then later, when you come home, when I am done with my other studies, I will try to lure you somewhere. I could take you to work and pick you up, if you don't mind the 'cycle."

Mars
ooc: ahem. "I will try to lure you somewhere, and make you my study; you are my study, handsome omen." etc etc.

Nick
"I don't mind," he says, "especially now that it's warmer."  His hand ascends to her upper back, her shoulderblades, and this is a sort of study too perhaps, a memory of her bones and her solid weight beneath his hand to carry with him to work.

He smiles up at her.  "Where do you think you'll lure me to, today?"

Mars
"I don't know. The hot spring in Morrison, perhaps," by which she means: the Node, the well-spring, which: she's told him filthy things she wants to do to him in the Node-spring, because why the heck not! Pen is a menace. "Or perhaps out for a quiet bite to eat; perhaps simply somebody else's home; maybe out to the mountains, to the observatory. You'll have to wait and see."

Nick
"One of these days I'll have to surprise you," he muses, and though his eyes are thoughtful this is a means of distracting himself because: hot springs in Morrison, the mountains, the observatory.  He is quiet as he considers, and then: it is obvious that his thoughts changed, that there was another thought that butted in and took up the room, and he says, "If I teach you Time magick, are you going to use it to make more time in the day to study more things?"

Mars
"I might use it to become more efficient, but no. I want to use Time in order to move through it more quickly than my enemies, to track things through Time and know exactly when, the best moment to, you know. I want Time for the future, not for the present." Beat. "'If'? Do you doubt your ability as a teacher or my ability as a student?"

Nick
"My ability as a teacher, mostly," he says, and his smile has turned rueful.  "I have no doubt about your ability to learn it.  I only...well, I want to make sure I can teach it in a way that makes sense to you.  We should...I'll have to think of some actual exercises we can do."

Mars
Pen unwinds one arm from around Nicholas's neck. She traces the curve of his ear, and then makes a hook of her (mercury) index finger, catches one of his curls and moves it: just so.

"I hope I am a flexible woman. So far, when you have talked to me about Time, I have listened and not felt as though you were speaking a quaint language that has naught to do with my practice. Teach in any way you want to teach. I'll try to follow."

Nick
"Maybe I'll take you somewhere this weekend to start," he says, as she shifts one of his curls.  There is a playful quirk of his mouth, a glint.  "If you can make the time."  A beat.  "I would like you to teach me more about the Ars Essentiae, someday."

Mars
"Nicholas Augusto Hyde," Pen says, her voice pitched low, clear and ardent and she is quite close to giving him - deliberately - a hickey, for no other reason than she wants to give him something to carry through the day.

"I will teach you whatever I can about Ars Essentiae, if I ever learn more about it myself; the library is so - it lacks, Nickolai, it is - it is not sufficient or satisfying, although at least it is something." She sighs; a deep inhale, toe-to-chest, chest-to-toe. "We should hunt down a library, better than any we've ever yet known."

Nick
"It does lack," he agrees, and he too has felt the absence of Pen's old library, though it would be unwise to say so just now.  "Where would we even begin library hunting?  I'm hardly opposed."

Mars
"We will have to be birds of ill omen; crows at a cradle; death watchers," Pen says, solemnly, and she traces a line from Nicholas's curl, down the side of his neck to the ridge of his shoulder, and then she sighs: softly. "It is time for you to get ready; past time for me to get ready, if I am going to take you and sneak a shower in. Never fear; I will be quick."

Nick
"All right."  His arms tighten around her even as she sighs; he too has been watching the clock, knowing that sooner or later he'll have to rise out of the chair and get ready to be engaging, and yet.  They slacken again and fall away to give her space to get up.  "I'll be ready when you get back."

Pen
He doesn’t need to watch the clock: Does he? Conversant with the sphere of Time as he is? Pen has probably asked him about Timing and the applications there-of since he has begun trying to teach her about Time. When you’re late, are you late on purpose? Are you actually arriving precisely on time? Or do you just feel time lengthening, getting away from you, you getting lost in time like time is a labyrinth, unable to effect the things which keep you from point A and point B? What I mean, Nicholas, is that time we met up at the Drawn & Quartered to hear Penny Dreadful play and you didn’t show up until halfway through the set, was that on purpose? Did you time yourself precisely? Can you time yourself exactly so you step into the hall just when I do? Temporis and Fortunae. Can you delay an Effect until hours later?

His arms slacken and fall away to give her space to get up; she does not linger, as one might expect her to. She ruffles Nicholas’s hair and shucks her robe in one quick gesture, lets it fall on Nicholas matter of fact and leaves the tiny pile of dirty dishes where they stand on the dining room table. Can she be quick? Pen can be quick. She takes a cold shower, gasping when the water hits her needles and pins and pins and needles, rinses her hair and then cheats with a practiced rote that will (mostly) dry her off conjures up a zephyr. One of the first things her mentor ever had her practice, futilely because she had not the understanding yet, nor the grasp on her own power, was to conjure up a wind without moving so much as a single blade of grass. That exercise continued over the years with variations: conjure up a wind without moving so much as one piece of paper; the papers were invariably notes for an assignment that she had to complete within a tight time limit, and if she failed, if she failed — there were never any consequences except to her pride, except to knowing that someone else was doing better than she was doing, that she had disappointed herself and her master.

Pen can name a number of winds, can even remember sometimes the promises one owes to the Order of Hermes because of some great mage many years ago, can remember hearing about this barter-system of master-and-slave of Prosperos and Ariels and can remember wondering at it thinking hard about it. Conjure up a wind with such force that it will bruise flesh, will batter a bird to the ground, will turn a car over on its side, will suck away all breath and blind one’s enemies and strangle them with their own hair.

Conjure up a wind with such care that it will provide the right ambiance to a swirl of a robe or a cape. Conjure up a wind which will erase tracks and bury the site of a duel.

Conjure up the wind which eats all crossbow bolts.

When she meets Nicholas downstairs — or maybe she meets him in the hall; maybe he times it just right! —  she is trailing that sense of Ardent Daring, Resplendent. Penelope Mercury Mars, ready to study: she is wearing dark indigo pants which lace up at the sides, tall boots with a pattern on them subtle and difficult to make out, and inside them a sigil of mercury drawn in ink dusted with gold because gold is pure and pure swiftness is what she wants when she wears these boots, a leather jacket which is silver-studded a line of studs along the bottom along the shoulders along the motorcycle roguish unzipped lapels and which has flowers painted on the back (armor [mail] water-drops, dew-drops transfigured) and bees on the upper arms. Her bangs have been brushed; her hair has been braided, quickly and without frills, into a coronet high on the crown of her head, a halo that will be squashed under her helmet. Rings on three fingers today, only. A series of necklaces moving at her collar, compass needles pointing downward. She zips the jacket up and gives Nick a smile like a suggestion to follow her (into this tree — this one right here; or maybe this crystal cave, where we will be unmoored from Time), like a promise.

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And she will come see him around his lunch hour, although her timing isn’t perfect and they won’t have much time at all in the end before he has to get back to work, and if her eyes are weary: well. She’ll come, bearing gifts (hipster gifts) culled from who knows where: a tiny shadow box, backed by the page out a book on which someone has painted a hooded figure, standing above a misty shore; green and blues and purples in the dark smudged shadows, the frame made of found-wood, a bone hidden inside and a stone with a figure inside it, dyed and colored fabric (paper? difficult to tell without Matter) hardened stiffened glinting somehow with something wrapped so that it looks like a river or like metal or like both : washing it all away.

And look, a little cross-stitch still in its embroidery hoop of a frog in a frock coat playing a penny whistle with a fly tied up in a pot in front of it.

And look, a little violin made of cardboard, which has been painted a bright cerulean blue by whoever it is painted it, and has a sticker of Frida Kahlo's face near the scroll and a sticker of a medieval dolphin by the base.