widowshill | tell me what you want me to say.

He says, "So, I think you should have this."

Roger dangles the chain and pendant in front of her. He can't tell her where he got it; it's not new, obvious by the tarnish on the chain and the few tiny, tiny stones missing. But it's very, very real (Roger learned quickly to identify that; it makes all the difference when you're selling it), and - perhaps more importantly - it didn't belong to Laura. Elizabeth's, Julia's, or from a woman's pocket at the last party he was at, he can't remember.

"Come on, it's just a gift." he urges after a pause. She's going to reject it. He already knows it, and it's not that it's a romantic gesture - at least, it's not meant to be. Some sort of bait or insurance, perhaps. Worm his way into her good graces and presumably back into his own family's, and all that. He has to start somewhere.

Roger has to start somewhere, that much is true, though Ariadne would argue — quickly and relentlessly — that this particular juncture isn't the best place. To his credit, the offer does make her smile (albeit in a rueful, long-suffering sort of way); to his discredit, they haven't known each other for very long, so the fact that Ariadne's already found herself at long-suffering isn't a particularly good sign.

"It's not a gift, it's an insurance policy," she says with a laugh — not cruel, but matter-of-fact, her eyebrows lifted in an attempt to just get Roger to roll over and admit. After all, they were both adults (granted, him moreso than her) and they both knew precisely what was going on here (which begged the question why Ariadne was still around, a question she's yet to properly entertain).

Lifting a hand she presses two fingers to the side of Roger's hand and pushes the necklace away, the pendant swinging on its chain, catching the light and fracturing it a dozen different ways. "It's sweet though, I guess. Ten out of ten for trying."

He lets the pendant swing in his hand before pulling up on the chain and letting it swing into his hand like some sort of terribly expensive makeshift yo-yo. He doesn't look particularly wounded, and he's not; the expected reaction just means that he has to try harder. But there's time.

"Insurance policy?" Roger asks as his hand lowers and he sets the jewelry on the table beside him before crossing his arms, observing her across the way. When in doubt, after all, what better thing to do than to play dumb? What better way to keep trying to reel something in? "What do I need that for?"

Of course, there's no reeling to be done here. They might still be just two bars above strangers, but Roger already knows that Ariadne's above that. Had he been aware in the first place, he'd've gotten out of that arrangement before it begain, but there's some credit for trying. Ten for ten, right?

Again Ariadne laughs and, truth told, there's a part of her that genuinely finds Roger amusing. Not that delusion and self-deception is anything to laugh at (she's seen what it's capable of, what it can tear down). But despite Roger's perpetual insistence towards ignorance, she can tell that he's as aware of the situation as she is. (Not much of an appeal, she knows, but Roger's case is shoddy at best and can take all the help it can get.)

Leaning forward, settling her elbow upon the table, Ariadne settles the soft point of her chin into the seat of her hand. She regards Roger with the same look she always gives him — a mix of incredulity and bemusement, curiosity mingled with exasperation. "You need it because trying isn't actually succeeding, Roger," she tells him, her smile pinching at her words, her tone admonishing him like you should know better. Lifting her eyebrows, she continues: "If I ask where you got that, would you give me a straight answer?"

"I didn't have to do that," he chides, his voice too low for something that's supposed to be an innocent conversation. He leans forward as well, but catches himself after a moment and brings himself back, rolling his shoulders and straightening his neck. "I didn't have to do anything."

Roger's aware of the situation, oh yes; perhaps not the smartest of his family but he'd quite literally have to be blind to ignore it, practically written in neon as it is, a sign hanging in every window and every bar wall. What he isn't aware of is why he has to take every single shot. None have rendered him out of the game yet, of course, but with every conversation that passes he becomes more riddled with holes and knows it's coming. The question makes him freeze, sends an anvil straight into his stomach and no, he will not let this turn into an interrogation. Not again.

He's not quite sure what other option there is, though. Hasn't thought that far.

"Why? Do you wanna know?"

Roger sets his jaw and the story forming inside his head is surely as good as printed.

Roger may not want this to become an interrogation but Ariadne's a natural at them; they're her default setting. Though not completely adverse to talking about herself she finds little interest there in comparison to her curiosity for others. If asked Ariadne would say that there's nothing inside herself she wants to know that she doesn't now already. Whether that's bold talk or simple self-awareness has never really been brought into question before. (Whose fault that is, she doesn't know.)

Though her expression clearly reads stop trying to buy time Ariadne still sounds good-natured about it when she replies: "Would I ask if I didn't want to know?" She'd point out that answering a question — like he'd just done — is obvious signs towards evasion; there is the counterargument that she'd just done it herself, however, and the last thing she needs to do is give Roger an inch of wiggle room.

She's dealt with men with Roger in the past — okay, maybe not exactly like Roger, but with a few broad strokes in common. Professional thieves, professional liars — these are the kinds of people that Ariadne considers her friends and acquaintances. The main difference is that they have the decency to say flat out no to her face, while Roger's still convinced a kind of song and dance will somehow save him in the end. "You could just say you don't want to say. It'd be a hundred times less insulting if you did, you know."

"It's just a question," he says with a shrug, and then he's all casual, all smooth, and, "You act like you don't trust me with it, or something." Never mind that it's well within her right. Never mind that he still hasn't mastered the art of subtlety - and likely never will. No, Roger Collins sees himself as a genius in these regards, a veritable antihero, suave and motivated, and a few lies painted white never hurt a soul.

"It's an heirloom," the story begins, rolling off his tongue. "Part of a whole set, passed down in my family. There's a set of earrings that go with it to. My sister's got those." That's plausible. Its lack of age he can explain away by stories of going to the jewelers, having the stones replaced and the silver magically untarnished. Never mind that he doesn't know his family tree back far enough to tell where it originated. The Collins family has its share of legends. What's the harm in making up another to go with it.

With a sigh, he leans forward in his chair, elbows on the table, and says, "I just don't have any use for it, is what I'm saying. Doesn't suit me." Or his grin.

Quentin hasn't always been afraid of storms. He remembers a time, almost too long ago, when he'd walk through town in a downpour and brace himself against the wind, chuckling as the shops closed as quickly as they could and parents dragged their children inside. But that was before, and while he's a far cry from a whimpering dog hiding in a corner, the lightning strikes and the awareness prickles up his back and neck.

"It lights up like that and you almost think it's fireworks," he muses, almost to himself before he points at the sky as another shock fades and he looks over at her. When he lowers his hand, he narrows his eyes at her; he's not going to turn her away, of course, but there's a chance he can't remember how she came to be there with him, lost as he was in his own thoughts.

But he turns and waves her forward with him as he turns toward town. The clouds are gathering and the lightning sending down brief moments of daylight, but the thunder and rain can't be far off. "Come on, we shouldn't be out here."

She hasn't told him yet but she will eventually: Stranger, I'm looking for a wolf. Not the kind with claws and pinned backed ears, but silver-templed in the moonlight. Big black eyes and a gravel voice and the sweetest, sharpest smile you've ever seen. Oh, what big teeth you have! she'd once said to that exact same wolf in another life; he'd been big and bad then, bigger and badder than he's ever come since, but she still calls him that these days (Big Bad) and wears the right to like a badge of honor.

She's on her way to find him again when she finds herself caught in the storm with a stranger. Big Bad had sent a letter two weeks back talking about a cabin by a lake near the shore, all the clues obvious and laid out like huge red circles on a map, as good as invitation (chase me, hunt me, bring me your head). The weather's an inconvenience, but a temporary one, so Red takes the rain and the lightning all in stride. Pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up over her head she follows, her pale face painted by the occasional peal of light above. Stealing a glance at her companion, she smiles carnivorously (wolf teeth).

"Are you afraid?" she teases.

"No." It's said too quickly accompanied with a shake of his head, but the fact that he doesn't look at her probably speaks more than he could hope to. It's not the rain or the lightning - that much is clear - but the thunder. Rumbling and low that somehow shakes his bones. The idea of it hurting him is irrational, that much Quentin knows - even scoffs at himself for it - but he'd rather be inside. That's it. Inside with a lock on the door with four walls around him where the noise can rock the sky but can't shatter him.

"Are you?" And when Quentin finally does turn to her, he grins in return.

A short walk back to town is all it'll take. He can see the lights just past the sidewalk and it visibly relaxes him. He doesn't even know what town they're in, only that it's one he hasn't seen before and after all this traveling, that's a rarity. But there's a bar nearby - there always is - and if there's not, there's surely a bus station to take him to somewhere a little more conventional about those sorts of things. Hands shoved in his pockets. She seems complacent, almost. Untroubled, more like, and Quentin's never been one for awkward silences, especially not with a lady.

"You never said what brought you out here."

"Oh, no," the woman says with dark delight when he returns the question and asks: are you. She shakes her head for emphasis, her posture shifting as if to accomodate the laugh that fills her lungs, the sound of it lifting up high into the air, as if looking to defy the raucous brewing overhead. Despite the lightning and the distant thunder, despite the rain that begins to fall in shifting patters, Red declares breezily: "I'm not afraid of anything, stranger." (Not the weather, not the dark, not the unknown. Who's afraid of the Big Bad wolf? the children had asked once, and she had told them: not I, not I.) "Least of all a little rain." Catching his eye, she winks. "It'll take more to put a damper on my day."

The pun's middling at best, but she seems more than aware of that fact and so when Red laughs it's more at how maudlin her joke's turned out and less at the joke itself. She's still smiling when they cross into town, the village itself so small that only a few blocks sees them well within the borders and nearing the city center.

"No, I don't think that particular conversation came up," Red says, her eyebrows lifting in idle curiosity. A moment passes and it seems as though she's not going to tell without a bit of niggling, but in the end she doesn't bother holding out. With another one of her grins: "I'm on my way to see a man about a wolf."

Quentin laughs. It's loud and sudden and actually not at her attempt at a pun. 'I'm not afraid of anything,' she'd said, as though she had something to prove - loud and clear and, true to her words, completely unafraid. Perhaps she means it, but Quentin knows firsthand how famous last words work, how weary one becomes with a mantra like that hanging over them. It's not that he means to mock, but it's an impulse when he thinks himself knowing and wise about these matters. A stubborn old man with a nice disguise.

At her curiosity, he's quick to shrug, even pausing for a moment in the sidewalk as he peers at her, willing her to continue. If she's hesitant, he doesn't see a reason for there to be; too few cars going down the streets, nothing to be seen yet but city buildings and a single parking garage. That's how conversation works, isn't it? Prying, of course not. But yes. Usually prying.

"A wolf, huh?" he finally says, letting the comment roll off of him as easily as the raindrops. But he shuffles his feet and he's never seen her before today; it shouldn't hit him like a punch. "You sure you're in the right place? I don't know if there are any around this area." And those words are too easy, too deflective, but it's all in the instincts that he's got no choice but to obey.

Edited 2013-01-07 08:37 (UTC)

A final twirl of his flute between his fingers and Nicholas drops it unceremoniously into his pocket - a makeshift sheath for the weapon it's become. The fact that this wasn't carried out with malice or by request changes nothing - though a return to his former 'good' deeds is a welcome change of pace. Nostalgic, even, by the twinge above his ribcage.

The children are in Neverland now; he's seen to it himself, though he was back through the whirlpool before he could ensure that Peter got to them before the pirates. He rocks forward on his feet, once more acclimating himself to the feel of the solid ground and soft grass before he turns on his heel and marches forward and -

Peers at her. Whether she was with the original group, he can't remember, but a child of the village, alone in these surrounding? Or lack thereof?

"Did I forget you?" Nicholas asks, and it comes out as more of a mutter. His hand reaches into his pocket again, fingertips on the pipe immediately.

Her story starts the way most sad stories do: with a family oblivious to the evils of the wide world, living in a quaint little house at the edge of the wood. And like most sad stories, there was a knock at the door one evening, on a night without stars and a terrible storm shivering it way through the forest. What happened in the quaint little house on that dark and stormy night, no one knows for certain. No one except her, the daughter they'd squirreled away beneath the floorboards in a last bid of desperation; her and the ones that had gone knock, knock on the door. (There are things that live in the woods, they say. Things that should never be allowed in out of the rain.)

She'd been young then but she's older now — not yet a woman, though her face holds the suggestion of a woman's beauty. Nicholas peers at her and she stares back with pale eyes, the color of lightning. When he reaches into his pocket, she lifts a hand to halt him.

"I'm not lost," the girl tells him (meaning, I'm not one of the others). Parentless she may be, she does not not wander; no, the girl has purpose. It's there, in those storm grey eyes. "I know exactly where I'm meant to be.

"They say people come to you when they have thing that needs doing." The girl blinks then quirks her head, bird-like. "Is it true?"

There's a look of surprise and how did you find me? is what he wants to ask; he isn't used to being caught off guard, snuck up on. Was she waiting there for him to return? He's used to messages - even before the witch and the wrong child and the disappearance of his own family. Even before his questionable bargains and the banishment of innocuous people by his own hand, he remembers letters, people banging on his door at night in desperation. Pleas and promises and of course he agrees.

"Depends," he says with a shrug. His hand does not move from the flute in his pocket, as though that will grant him some security, keep him with the upper hand in the deal sure to follow. His eyes narrow before darting around her, in spite of himself. A strange line of business requires him to be wary; surely she'd understand. But there's no one else, asserting their isolation even out in the open like this.

"What is it that you need done?"

She is used to the Piper's look of surprise; it's one she's seen many times over the years, cloudy with concern on the faces of strangers. Whenever they learn of her business, they often tell her she's looking for trouble, that she's asking after very bad men, but Hansi is not dissuaded, not even by the most convincing argument. For years now, she has looked and asked and followed, making her way as both pauper and princess as circumstance has passed her from house to field to alleyway. It makes for a sad, disjointed existence but she does not complain and no longer cries. (She's older now and there is nothing for it. Vengeance isn't a reward won by tears.)

"I'm looking for a band of men. They travel together and do very bad things." Hansi's tone is straight-forward, almost detached, though something glimmers brightly in her eyes. "Years ago they took something from me. I'm looking to return the favor."

Rumor has it that the man with the flute understands this sort of loss, that he once had something very precious stolen from him in the night. She's convinced: despite his caution, he must help her — otherwise turn his back on that great loss and the source of his grief.

And understand, he does. Nicholas nods as he replays the words and stares the girl down.

"How old are you?" he asks. It's genuine curiosity mixed with something else. Not so much shock as the reality of what she's asking. She's sought him out knowing - because of his assumed profession, whether it's forest pests or angry ogres or begrudged humans he locks away in other realms. But she's young. The idea of a girl - and a girl she is, in his eyes - hiring him for such a task is one that chills him. She should still be learning, frolicking, even; having as few cares as possible. Certainly not enough to want to see men suffer.

But a job is a job, that much Nicholas knows. And time that he can fill is time that he can't use to stalk out a witch and send her past oblivion, time he can't use to track down what's lost, jumping from world to world and searching until he's nothing more than dust.

"So you want them gone?" he asks. He lifts the flute from his pocket and once again spins it in his hand. An inconspicuous wooden thing, even he can't tell the magic that compels others to follow its melody. "I'm not a thief, you know."

"Yes, you are," the girl says without barely a blink, her face craning towards his, her gaze darting back and forth (again, like a bird) between the wooden flute in his hands and that unsettled look in his eyes. "To kill a something, to make it gone — that's like stealing, only it's a person instead of a watch or a bit of coin. That's taking a life and putting it where it's not meant to be." In the ground, in the sky, in the world that not theirs. "You make it so that it can never go back."

(Yes, as far as the girl can tell, the Pied Piper is a thief through and through.)

Not that there is any judgment in the way she says any of these things. If anything, they seem to endear her to him, seem to make a part of her open up and blossom modestly like a late-blooming flower, the way a girl her age should. Although Hansi's last hope was lost with her family, she's still capable of a sentiment that follows a similar outline — good or bad, coming or going, vengeance is still something to look forward to.

Eventually she straightens, tries to make herself look taller. The girl is certainly tall already, possessed of a swan-like neck and spindly arms; but she's capable of a higher grace, when she's so inclined. Tipping her chin proudly, she declares: "Fifteen. Going on sixteen, if I make it to winter."

He chuckles. That's all it is - not a scoff, not a noise of disbelief. "Who told you I kill them?" A shake of his head before, "They were mistaken." But Nicholas knows it's as good as the truth. No matter where they end up when he's through with them, they aren't in this world anymore. Therefore, by logic, and by anyone's guess, they no longer exist. In a sense, he supposes it could be stealing. Stealing the life they knew away. Stealing their home and giving them a new place to peace together. It's a stretch, Nicholas thinks, but it's one that Nicholas is willing to reach for in all intents and purposes.

"And make it you shall, without those men to bother you." It's as good as a confirmation, an agreement to take the job. The Piper thinks nothing of it, actively forcing any negative thought from his mind - any thought that this could be more than he bargained for. The ideas are louder and brighter than usual, but he's grown used to ignoring them, to shoving them into silence. Locking them up and purposely losing the key. But he slouches in spite of it, in contrast to her higher stance. They don't match in height, of course, but the droop of his shoulders puts them that much closer.

"I'll need names," he says simply. "If not descriptions. Those help." Nicholas chooses not to pry more into the situation - at least, not right away. Among her first words were ones of self-assurance; perhaps he should stop any pity and start believing.

Hansi's mouth purses slightly in dissatisfaction when the Piper laughs. He's not being cruel, or even unkind, but even the most worldweary child remains a child underneath all of their grief, their sudden maturity acting both as shield and succor to small, still-beating heart beneath. Girlish insecurity makes Hansi's posture temporarily tense (she will not wilt, she tells herself, and so she stiffens instead) and for a brief moment Hansi seems to be more her actual age (an orphan, a bitter one, asking a stranger to make bad men get gone).

She's stil half-frowning when she goes rummaging through her satchel. What else she has in there is anyone's guess but it's the entirety of her life, bundled up and carried on her back. The loss of family makes other things — material things — seem insignificant and small in their loss. And so Hansi had taught herself how to make do with very little — though arguably she has nothing, nothing except her vengeance. After a good dig she finally withdraws a little notebook, its pages tattered and worn, some threatening to fall out from where they've come loose from the binding. Inside is page after page of drawing, the first primitive and frightening (the drawings of a child), the later developed and more mature but menacing nevertheless. If the Piper flips through the pages, he'll find five faces altogether, the fifth little more than silhouette and shadow (the most terrible of the lot, with a kerchief drawn over his face; the leader of this menacing gang).

"No names yet," she tells him, her eyes darting between her own work and the Piper's eyes in an attempt to gage his reaction. "Some people don't like talking death and dark deeds with girls. But you, they'll talk to. The names won't be hard."

"You don't know them, then?" he asks. A hesitant hand, an arch of an eyebrow. Certainly, they're still able to be found. If they're out there in this realm he can find them, through enchantments and charms and whatever else is necessary. It's only the fact that names are simpler, at times more direct. Names call less attention than magic, Nicholas has found, and the less obvious he is in his work, perhaps the better.

Not that it stops the interested from finding him, but they're the ones who truly need things done. It's better that way, for the client and for Nicholas' peace of mind.

Carefully, he thumbs through the pages given to him by the girl, only observing. Looking as the drawings become more distinctive, features sharper, but not commenting until the very end and he says, "How long've you been looking for these men?"

Years ago, she'd said, but their senses of time must be different, as Nicholas has had more time to grow accustomed to the years passing. Shorter and shorter they seem, while to the girl in front of him, they must feel like ages. The drawings answer more of his question the more he considers it, but he prefers to deal in definites as often as he can.

He closes the notebook and holds it delicately, appraising it and her all at once. It's unclear whether or not he's meant to take it with him, or whether he should brand them to his memory to give her back her belonging.

"Just name the place," Nicholas says. His arms spread wide, the entirety of the cliff and the choppy waves below on display. Picturesque, but he doesn't tell her of the children he's led through the whirlpools, the sailors falling overboard at the ghostly sounds of a siren. A grin cracks across his face and he looks down at the flute in his hands, making a show of inspecting it. A second passes before his eyes flick up at her again. "Or the person."

A nagging, gnawing voice in his head reminds him that he doesn't know the reason for her visit. But it doesn't matter. He thinks the odds are overwhelmingly in his favor, if she made the effort of seeking him out like this, that a change in scenery (of sorts) is on her mind - for herself or someone else.

A mysterious man had pointed her in the Pied Piper's direction. A particularly mysterious man, as a matter of fact.

But such thoughts don't often linger in her head as she must make room for new ones. It is a shame, some have said, that such a beauty has lived such a small and gloomy life, mostly kept from prying eyes and broken before she could explore what the world has to offer. She is simple, now, and unsteady.

Still, Rapunzel is smart enough to have chosen a location far from where her brother may find her. "You can find anyone? Is that what you do?"

The Piper considers the woman in front of him with a look somewhere between bewilderment and appraisal. The idea that someone who's looked for him and hasn't heard is - well - it isn't what he's used to. He's used to people finding him and launching into sob stories and pleas and tales of conspiracy. Certainly not questions. He can't help but laugh.

"Anyone," he says through it, with a deep nod. "A wonder what you can do with a name and a description." His work can take a while, of course, but it's worth it in the end. For the customer. So he'd like to think.

The poor lady hasn't an inkling. She hadn't stopped to question or doubt either. Be it impulsive or blind, at least (and this is what she told herself) she is taking action. And with the world off-balance, and the Baker tense as a wire and determined to protect their family almost as much as --

Well.

"You can simply find a person? And bring them to me?" she wants to clarify, making no apologies for her own ignorance. "I just want to find her and see if I can - well, I just want to find one woman."

"Bring them -" he can't help but crane his head toward her, eyebrows knitted together. "Bring them to you?"

That wasn't usually part of the deal. A few times, customers have asked him for a brief meeting with the target, and some have wished to observe as they follow him and his flute to wherever they went, and perhaps he's made a mistake in assuming she'd be blunt about the whole thing. But the woman in front of him seems determined, if a bit unclear, and tact feels awkward coming out of his mouth. He's not used to walking on eggshells.

"I can," he says slowly. Involuntarily, he scratches the back of his neck. "Generally, though, I get people away from you. Not - to you."

"If - if there is reason for harm, I will, um, probably. Most likely. Need your services to get this person away from me and my family."

It is taking her some time, growing accustomed to the fact that the woman who raised her didn't know her at all. Though she would (most likely) not put a curse on to Rapunzel herself, there was no telling what she would do to anyone else, if called upon after all these years.

"My mother has disappeared since I got married," the blonde explains quietly, twisting her hands anxiously, "I think she can be of, um, some help in this time."

Nicholas finds himself at a loss. There's no reason why he can't fulfill the request, of course - especially when the logic of the situation is applied. The only difference would be the lack of throwing her mother to - well, wherever, and it would seem that the little project would still have a definite resolution.

"And I'll still be paid, correct?" Just to get the formalities out of the way. Rarely does the Pied Piper go on missions for free, after all, and what with the unexpected differences in the case, he does find there to be need for clarification. "Finding your mother after that shouldn't be a problem."

The people of Collinsport throw things away. Too many, for Victoria's taste. She sees the supposedly-offending objects lined up by the beach week after week and she can't explain how she feels. The idea that the ocean will sweep them away and do with them what the owners had no time for is ludicrous. And so she finds herself on the beach, week after week, collecting things and taking them home. Adopting them, as it were. It's not stealing if they've been abandoned anyway, and with a bit of polish and a place to display them, they're practically as good as new.

There's a pile of lamps out there today, hidden under the dock as though the former owners knew she'd come after them - to give her a challenge. But Victoria finds them quickly, gesturing to the girl with her. "They're over here."

She ducks under, eyes scanning them all until one catches her fancy: a large one - with a pink cover that's too big and too frilly and won't go with anything in her room, but she grins anyway and looks over.

"Find anything?"

Anna is not a typical drifter; meaning, she was not a hippie who had somehow wandered into the seemingly charming seaside town of Collinsport. She, who was good, had never done a single thing to step out of line. It often made her laugh, knowing that it was a boy from her childhood who had inspired her to catch the first bus out of New York for the summer, instead of spending it in Germany with her parents.

And that was the most exciting it had been. (But then again, she has only been town for roughly a day.)

Meeting Victoria upon arrival proves to be lucky, however, because now she has a curious companion with curious tastes. Anna balances along the the jagged rocks, arms spread gracefully as she tiptoes along, looking for anything of importance. "Mostly broken green glass. Utterly misleading," Anna sighs.

"It's not all broken," she's quick to argue - calmly, as ever, and with a light shrug as she continues to look. Anna's right; there's not too terribly much on closer inspection. But the comment still stings, ever-so-slightly. It's childish, really, but Victoria remembers that Maggie was never given many chances to be childish. She'll take her treasure hunting excursions now, thank you very much.

"There's usually more," Victoria admits. She still has the lamp with her, cord wound around the body of the thing, carefully balancing the ostentatious lampshade against her shoulder. It's bulky and she's sure she looks comical with it. She adds, "Sorry it's not more exciting," and wiggles her way out of her shoes. They're on a beach, after all. No sense in not acting like it.

"Do you suppose that will still work?" Anna asks once she's caught up to Victoria. Not that she had to rush, but at least she is close enough to inspect her finding, lightly brushing her fingers along the frills of the funny old lamp. "I don't suppose someone would simply leave it to the ocean if it didn't serve a purpose in their home."

And that's Anna, pragmatic and optimistic all at once. To think that people would toss things instead of giving them to others who would put these miscellany to better use, well, it made her feel uncomfortable.

She's just realized that she never responded to Victoria's apology and she smiles with a roll of her shoulders. "I like this, honestly. And I promise that I am looking for treasures. Just not well enough."

She shrugs and considers it and, "I don't see why not." It's not terribly wet and the pile wasn't there yesterday, so really she's just hoping for the best. "Maybe they're moving. Maybe they're from a store and didn't sell. There's plenty of reasons." It makes Victoria ever-so-slightly uncomfortable too, despite the fact that she's probably reaching and taking things too personally. Things thrown away, gotten rid of because they just didn't work? Oh, she has stories.

But Victoria laughs it off and grins over at Anna and says, "Really, there's not much to do around here. Not until later at night. And even then - there's a theater and a fisherman's bar." Not that she minds; the slowness of small-town life suits her well. Even if her days have to be a little boring to make up for it.

"That's just what I wanted."

Anna gathers her skirt around her knees, then crouches to brush some dirt off a smooth surface that has caught her eye. Now that seems interesting. She will dig a little more, unworried about dirtying her clean nails.

"It has been a busy time, for me," Anna explains, using her shoulder to brush some hair away from her ear, "and this is an excellent escape from the, ah, hustle and bustle. I think that is the phrase I want."

"Where'd you say you were from, again?" she asks, head tilting to the side before she's distracted just like Anna - at whatever's under the sand. "I definitely won't say it's a bad change, just - different." And there's a decisive nod from her. Collinsport hadn't been what she'd expected, but really, what was there to expect from a tiny town she'd never heard of?

She kneels down next to Anna, sand latching onto her stockings, but she can change later, if need be. Victoria peers at the glass and takes the time to help her, moving sand by the handful. "What is that?"

"Germany," comes her absentminded reply.

She has busied herself with digging with her hands, kneeling on the sand as well, the flecks digging into her bare knees. "I attend school in New York," Anna adds eventually, finding a handle to latch onto - she shifts the item gently, wriggling it out slowly.

"A vase, I think"

Victoria continues digging around the object, helping free whatever it is, and when she mentions New York, she only says, "Oh." She gives no indication that she's ever set foot there, though for a moment she focuses on the sand below.

And then the moment's over, thank goodness, and Victoria looks at the vase with a grin.

"See?" she says happily. It's something she's never found her - and, granted, something she likely wouldn't pick up. Not when the new garden around Collinwood hasn't sprouted anything just yet - and pumpkins aren't exactly ideal decoration. "Are you going to take it?"

tell me what you want me to say.

( R O G E R )

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( Q U E N T I N )

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( t h e P I E D p i p e r )

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piper::

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victoria (maggie)::

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