Irene Didn’t Sit Right Away. She Hovered By The Kitchen Island Instead, Letting The Smell Of The Takeout

Irene doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t need to. She just stands there for a second, letting the quiet settle. The weight of the question sits somewhere low — not heavy, not sharp, just… familiar. And when she answers, it’s not guarded or cold. It just is.

“My mom’s sick,” she says, plain and low. “So I read a lot.”

She doesn’t offer more than that. Doesn’t fill in the gaps or paint it prettier than it is. Just lets the silence take what it wants from it. There’s always been power in not explaining. Her eyes drift to the open door, to the sky that’s gone soft with dusk and too many unknowns. And she sighs. Not annoyed — not really. Just the tired kind. The kind that comes from caring more than you meant to.

Because she shouldn’t. Not like this. Not for someone who leaves pieces of herself in every corner of a room like she hopes someone else will pick them up. Not for someone who believes too easily and follows too far. But Irene’s never been good at drawing clean lines. Especially not when the danger’s real. Especially not when the girl looking up at her still thinks the night is something that’ll let her pass through it untouched.

“Fine,” she mutters, pushing the door all the way open. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t wait for thanks. Doesn’t say anything when their shoulders brush or when Allie keeps close enough that Irene can hear the soft drag of her sleeves with every step. “Just so we’re clear,” she says after a few blocks, tone dry but not distant, “This isn’t gonna be a thing. I don’t do nightly strolls.”

Still, she glances sideways. Just once. Just long enough to make sure the shadows behind them aren’t walking too.

        “ oh, sorry. ”  the pinch between her brows falls, slowly, the confusion melting into a fuzzy, almost acceptance. of course she believes irene, why would she lie? allie has this habit of leaving heaps of heavy hope in the arms of others, at least irene doesn’t have to carry them anymore. she refuses to let disappointment find her, and instead she finds something else to be excited about. she just works here, irene’s not a witch, it’s mostly just retail and she’s right but- the knowledge still has to be there, doesn’t it? it’s another bundle of questions that tucks near her heart, wraps around irene’s name.

        don’t sell yourself short. out of a few words, allie finds the world waiting for her. it’s so nice, the kind of nice she doesn’t deserve. because, really, it’s not true. she isn’t good for anything more than wishing. she keeps trying, it’s why the journals pages keep finding things to fill them. that’s her trying. to learn, and to grow, to be something more than lost. but it makes more sense the other way, for allie to stay a lost little thing. irene deserves more than speechlessness, but allie doesn’t want to argue anymore, and she can’t find anything to pull on, so she hopes her eyes say enough.

        her eyes flicker to watch the other’s movements. she puts space between them, fidgets with the little things around them irene’s trying to leave, allie, you have to let her go home-  “ how did you learn about it all? ”  she winds, unwinds a strand of her hair around a finger as the question cuts through, clear as the breaking day. like a sunlight that streams through an exhausted room, she can’t stop it. the curtain of curiosity won’t go back to where it belongs. she doesn’t mean to keep her here, daisy chained, really. she promises, she doesn’t. 

        allie holds out her hand, tries a soft offer that she hopes is just a gentle touch of clingy, not so much that it’s suffocating. irene always closes up when anything’s about her, and she’d barely made it through one wall, she can’t pry open another tonight. she doesn’t want to, anyways, you’re supposed to be let in. softly, allie tries, instead,  “ walk me home? ”  because she’s forgetful, because she slips into bouts of whimsy that has her ending up lost, because irene knows that, and she’s kind. another night, when allie hadn’t already messed up, they can try the other way. and it’ll be irene’s turn to share, again.

Irene didn’t flinch at the mention of imprisonment. Just blinked, slow and tired, like the word didn’t surprise her — or maybe like it just didn’t matter here. Plenty of people came through this town with things trailing behind them, and it wasn’t her job to follow any of it home.

“February,” she echoed, half to herself. That would’ve been after she got here. After she’d unpacked more than she meant to in a house that still felt as empty as the moment they walked in. She hadn’t touched her inheritance yet. Back then, she thought she’d be in and out, keep her head down, move on. Not still here, not letting the town get under her skin.

She caught sight of the tattoos when she moved — didn’t stare, didn’t ask — just noted the language like you do a warning carved into stone. Then her eyes dropped to the parcel. The mix didn’t surprise her, though the mention of wombs did. Irene’s jaw shifted slightly — a faint, reflexive tension — but she didn’t rise to it.

“Appreciate the warning,” she said, tone steady. “Won’t add it to the tea. That blend’s for the everyday folk. Not the kind looking to sink too deep.”

A pause. She finally reached forward and pulled the parcel the rest of the way toward her, careful not to jostle it too much.

“I’ll tag it for storage,” she added. “Stephens’ll know what to do with it, if it’s meant for her.” Her voice softened a little, though not by much. “She doesn’t write much down. But she remembers everything. Like a bad habit.”

Irene let the silence sit for a beat, then looked up again, brow just slightly furrowed. “She teach you much? Or were you mostly here for the night shift?”

"Briefly, when I came hitherto from imprisonment." She has always taken little and less care in masking her nature as something not altogether mundane. She makes no bones about either her nature as a witch nor at her prickly nature. She invites conflict, because conflict often feeds that which needs be fed. Besides, she's among allies here in Tumataru;

"Took my leave come 'round February, working the late shifts here for the nightfolk and latecomers. I find shop work dreadfully boring even if the goods aren't, much more fun, dancing for wandering eyes." She rests a hand, dotted with old ancient tattoo-work - symbols and glyphic signs that will make sense aught anyone else but her - on the parcel she's set down and slides it down the counter.

"Hemlock, hogsweed, and a bundle of oily snakeroot that might find home in your Dreamless Tea. Take care though, only a dram of that if you do, lest you accidentally fallow the womb of some poor woman who simply seeks help for night terrors."

Irene didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she just watched her—this slip of a person who moved like sunlight had stitched itself into her seams, even soaked and barefoot in the middle of the storm. Irene’s mouth twitched again, that not-quite-smile hanging on like it was waiting for permission.

“I’m not chasing anything,” she said, voice low and even. “I’m just walking.”

The rain had picked up, steady now, but she didn’t move to shield herself. Just let it bead and roll off her coat like she’d forgotten it was supposed to bother her. Maybe she had.

She glanced at Allie’s bare feet and added, “You’re gonna catch something worse than a broken neck out here, though. There’s mud in the drains and runoff like soup.”

A pause.

“But you look happy.” Not a question, not quite an observation —just a simple fact, dropped between them with no particular weight. Like Irene had noticed and decided it was worth naming. She shifted her stance, hands still buried deep in her coat. “Can’t decide if it’s comforting or dangerous.”

Her gaze flicked up to the sky —not the clouds, not the wind, but something behind both. Whatever it was, it wasn’t close yet. But it would be. “I’m not the kind who runs from storms,” she added, more to the sky than to Allie. “But I don’t usually dance in ‘em either.” Finally, her attention dropped back to Allie. Something in her expression had softened —barely, but there. Like moss on stone.

“...Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

         she feels the witch before she sees her, in between some jump and twirl when she catches a warm familiarity in the breeze. the wind’s growing sharper, and she’s not if it’s from the storm, or if it’s stemming from the magic that’s coming just a whisper closer. allie’s reaching for her before she realizes, welcoming her in before allie finds irene’s name written on the signature. allie perks up towards the sound of another voice, eyes bright and searching, her voice even brighter against the rain.  “ break my neck? ”  there’s a lot of things you can break while dancing, but she’d never thought about her neck. allie’s never been careful, but she doesn’t think she could manage that. clumsy, and delighted, she recognizes the voice as a friend. “ oh, irene! you’re here! ”

         with her shoes in her hand, allie nearly skips forward to greet her. even rain-soaked, there’s a warm excitement that blooms inside her. it might’ve been cold, but that didn’t matter nearly as much. besides, the sun was still peeking through, just a little bit. even if a storm was brewing, something big enough to scare her away, she could still enjoy the last glimpses of sunlight.

         “ oh my gosh, are you kidding? i love the rain! ”  her hands fasten, earnestly, behind her back as she rocks forward. with wide, curious eyes, she watches irene.  “ what else would i be chasing? oh, are you a rain chaser? ”  she hadn’t thought so, but she always sorta’ thinks irene’s chasing something. maybe not the rain, but something.

She didn’t flinch when he told her to take the boots off—just paused, took it in, then bent down and did it. No argument. No attitude. Just leather against fingers and a soft thud as they settled by the door like a quiet offering.

Irene knew when she was being measured. Not weighed, not judged —measured. Tetsuya Goju didn’t need words to take a person apart. She could feel it, that feather-light graze of something older than suspicion moving over her like smoke, like spellwork. She didn’t fight it. Let it come. Let it see. She had no illusions about what she looked like from the outside—fists wrapped in habit, a stare too practiced in the art of hard things, a body that only knew how to settle when it was bracing for impact.

Her bare feet touched the tatami like they weren’t sure they belonged, but she moved forward anyway. One step. Then another.

The silence in the dojo deepened with each one.

She didn’t bow. Not out of defiance —out of honesty. Irene didn’t lie about reverence. Didn’t fake what she didn’t carry. But she did nod, this time slower, and there was weight in it. A kind of understanding. A kind of respect.

She caught the layout as she moved—wing chun dummies, the kata markers on the floor, the polished edge of the bokken rack. A hunter would’ve gone for the weapons. Something with reach. Distance. Control.

Irene stopped in the center of the open mat.

“I don’t want a sword,” she said, voice low, almost soft, like the storm had worn itself out in her chest but left its echo behind. “I’ve had too many things in my hands that made it easy. I want to feel it. Every hit. Every miss.”

She looked over her shoulder, just enough to catch the curve of that almost-smile on his face.

Then she turned, faced him full.

The shape of her didn’t carry power like most hunters he’d trained. She didn’t posture. Didn’t square up or lean in or wear her strength like armor. What she had was older. Worn in. The kind that came from losing more fights than she’d won and learning how to stand up anyway. Quiet resilience. Dangerous only because it didn’t need to announce itself.

“I’m not here to be better,” she said simply. “Just... less breakable.”

There was no pride in it. No plea. Just fact.

She exhaled, steady now, the chaos in her chest pressed quiet by the room’s stillness. Then, bare feet planted firm on the mat, she met his gaze again—clear, level.

“So. Where do you want me?”

She's a new student. Her name is on paper in his office, but that means very little to him on a grander scale. The language of the soul, of the mind and the body speak volumes more than most ink will. Yet, Miyazaki cannot see the depth of her flesh as easily as most; he's always trusted his magic, even as it feathers along her, feeling out a stranger with a violent desire. But it lifts away when a dull thud of something that gives him a moment of pause. An energy that similar of the purging organisation Tetsuya has no interest in entertaining.

He has more of a weariness, suspicion about why a hunter may wish to train in his walls. There are plenty of things to hit so crassly in a city that the arrogant can break.

It's disrespectful that she treads boots on the tatami.

Even if it's merely a toe.

"Off." There is a gentle but firm motion of his hand, dismissive of her brazen display. If a hunter wishes to be welcome in his walls, then they will respect where they stand. Miyazaki would shatter every bone in her feet, if she did not abide the basic expectation. There needs to be no enlightenment, if that is not what she seeks. He is no enlightener; no kindness in the dark of whatever haunts her. The sensei does not have spare time to teach those unwilling to receive the knowledge he's willing to part with.

His hands fold behind his back as he lightly crosses the mats, because he does not allow himself indulgences that are distractions. If she would like something to hit, she has plenty choices on each end of the dojo; wing-chun, if she favours Hong Kong, and the kata. Maybe kendo, if she favours weaponry, like many hunters before her.

Him.

If she dares want an accurate target to strike. Something familiar in the way of what she hunts, but entirely out of her realm of ability. A smile forms out of his stoicism. He waits for her to slip her shoes off, and step into the field of practice. A real sign of her intention within the dojo. Tetsuya's quiet easier than his is disciplined. On this occasion, it speaks volumes of: Take your pick. He may enjoy watching another of this generations hunters.

It has every potential to be another solemn waste of his time.

Again, Irene didn’t answer right away.

The question wasn’t hard — not really. But the answer lived somewhere deeper than she usually let herself dig. So instead, she walked a few slow paces forward, the crunch of gravel under her boots muted by the rain. The coat stretched between them like a tether, soft and worn, the kind of fabric that remembered too many nights like this. And she held onto it — not for warmth, but for direction. For something to do with her hands that wasn’t reaching out too much, too fast.

The street around them was empty. A quiet slice of the world between thunder and breath. Dim porch lights flickering in distant windows, rainwater whispering down gutters. The kind of place where time felt thinner, like it could stretch or break if you breathed too hard. Irene finally tilted her head, gaze following the sky like it might give her the right words if she stared long enough. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But not hesitant.

“The storm’s honest,” she said. “Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Loud, violent, inconvenient. Beautiful if you’re far enough away. Dangerous if you’re not.” She exhaled through her nose, like the thought had weight. “But at least you know what you’re dealing with.”

She looked down at Allie then, pinkie still looped through hers, the smallness of that gesture settling deep in her chest like a stone sinking slow through water.

“I guess I come out here when I don’t know what else to do with myself,” she went on, soft and unhurried, like the words had been waiting a long time to be spoken. “When it gets too loud in my head. When I can’t stop circling the same five thoughts that won’t go anywhere. The storm… it hits louder than all of it. Forces everything else to hush up for a second.”

Her mouth twitched at the corner — not quite a smile, not quite not. “It’s not peaceful. But it’s quiet, in its own way. Makes me feel like I don’t have to hold so tight to everything.”

The rain clung to her hair, her lashes, her coat. She didn’t seem to notice.

She gave Allie’s pinkie the barest tug — gentle, grounding.

“Sorry I was late,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to let the storm catch you first.”

Her free hand drifted briefly to Allie’s shoulder, thumb brushing across the damp fabric of her dress like she could smooth out the worry underneath it.

“Next time you get the itch to go twirling in thunder, at least wait for me to bring a better coat.”

         she lets a childhood fear soak through her, when she’d hide from the storms, never the rain, but the lightning and the thunder used to send her under her covers. and then, when that wouldn’t work, she’d find the underside of her bed. the older she got, the more her bedroom door was found locked, leaving her nothing to do but hide.

         “ thank you. ”  it comes out as a quiet whisper against the storm, but she means it. a soft petal pressed down into irene’s palm, she means it. she doesn’t understand it, but she means it. not the danger, not why irene’s steering her away, why irene cares, but that means something, and she’s thankful for it. it means so much, that she cares, and she’s more scared of losing that than she is the storm, and it’s that fear that guides her away from the rain. her friend has all the warmth she needs, and allie melts into the hand that’s only just visiting. it’s irene, and she knows, even with allie’s cotton candy daydreams, she knows there’s something there that always stops her from letting allie in. and now, for just a moment, she has. it’s everything, and allie realizes that it’s not fear guiding her actions, it couldn’t be, she could never be scared of irene. just fondness, the love she has for a blooming friendship.

         even with the pouting, she doesn’t argue anymore, she lets irene warn her and follows along, like she gets it.  “ ‘kay, all done now, promise. ”  it’s still that same quiet, coated in a kind of soft guilt. i’m sorry i’m not where i’m supposed to be, i’m sorry you had to come get me, i’m sorry i’m like this. none of that falls from her, but she reaches for irene’s hand where it’s drawn around her shoulder, hovering with the coat. she links their pinkies, earnestly.  “ pinkie promise. ”

         there’s a blink of silence. allie has no sense of direction, she’s not thinking about where they’re going, only that they’re going together.  “ if it’s- if the storm’s so bad, why are you out in it? ”

Irene blinked against the brightness of the laundromat lights, the hum of the machines loud enough to fill the silence between them. Her jacket still smelled faintly of dried mugwort and something acrid from the burner at work —something half-finished she hadn’t meant to forget.

She didn’t meet Shiv’s eyes right away, just stepped in and let the door fall shut behind her.

“Nothing,” she said after a second, like the word had to work its way through a wall first. “Maybe I just need to wash some clothes.”

It was a lie. The kind that didn’t even try to convince.

She hated asking favors. In general, she hated asking anyone for anything. It made her feel like she owed something back, like she'd cracked open a door she couldn’t close again. But the Shahs… her dad had trusted them. Said it more than once, like a scratched-up record he couldn’t stop playing. If anything happens to me, find the Shahs.

It was even in the will. Right there with the money he left her and a half-page of careful handwriting that tried too hard not to sound like a goodbye.

So maybe it meant something. It had to.

She dropped a small canvas bag beside one of the empty machines, but didn’t open it. Arms crossed loosely, fingers tucked beneath sleeves like they might betray more than she was willing to admit.

“Place felt quiet tonight,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Too quiet. I figured I’d go train for a bit.”

There was a pause. Not quite hesitation—more like a space to breathe.

“You feel like joining?” she asked, finally glancing his way. “Could use the company. Or, I don’t know... maybe just the noise.”

WHO: @ireneclermont WHERE/WHEN: Wash Tub Laundry / Late Evening

If Shiv had a nickel for every secret Brotherhood witch they knew and had a detailed case file for, they’d have two nickels. Two nickels with uniquely different baggage Shiv had no clue where to begin with. 

Gemma’s case was less cause for immediate concern. If things blew out of water, Gemma still had her brother and father to cover for her. That wasn’t the case for Irene. She’s an outsider coming in; Irene has no one within Port Leiry’s Brotherhood Sect to come to her aid in the worst case scenario... No one except Shiv that is. 

Technically all that Asim wanted in his will was a watchful eye on the Clermont Girl but Shiv found themself acting as their fellow hunter’s keeper unprompted. Not that Shiv's father could blame them. Compassion is a Shah bad habit: plucking up weary hunters and taking them under their wing like stray cats needing a home.

Tonight Irene comes into the laundromat with a glint in her eye. The kind of glint that gives Shiv pause. “Clermont.” Shiv stands up from where they were sitting behind the front desk, turning their full attention to the young hunter. “Working late again, I see. How can I help you?”

WHO: @cutthroat-service WHERE: thera's place

The tower was quiet this late —just the hum of stillness and the weight of too many hours folded into the dark. Irene hadn’t said much when she arrived. She never really did. Thera had opened the door without a word, like she’d been expecting her. Maybe she had. Irene hadn’t asked how.

Now it was just her, the steady rise and fall of Shiv’s breathing, and the thrum of something still clinging to them—like a wire pulled too tight and left humming in the wind.

She moved slowly, boots soundless on the floor as she crossed to the bed, pulling the chair closer. Her coat was still damp from the walk. A long shift, a longer night, and now this—whatever this was going to be.

Irene sat, eyes soft but tired, and let her hand hover for a second over Shiv’s face. Cold fingers, colder than usual. She touched their forehead lightly, thumb brushing against damp skin.

“Hey,” she murmured, low enough it didn’t have to be answered. “I’m gonna try something.”

She didn’t know if they could hear her. Didn’t know if they’d recognize her even if they did. The file had been thin. The fear, thicker.

Her eyes closed. Her body stayed behind.

But her mind slipped forward—past breath, past waking—toward the quiet edges of a dream she hadn’t built yet.

Toward Shiv. Wherever they were. Whatever they were seeing. She was going to find them.

The breath she took before slipping under was shallow—more habit than need. Like she could brace herself for something she couldn’t see. Like that ever worked. Irene had walked through a lot of dreams. Built some from nothing, pulled others back from the brink. But this was different.

This one wasn’t hers.

This one had teeth. It had magic, and it was the wrong kind.

Shiv’s mind wasn’t open so much as cracked. The kind of break that didn’t bleed but never really healed, either. And she could feel it the second she stepped in —like walking barefoot onto glass. The air didn’t smell right. Not dream-sweet, not unreal. Just off. Wrong in a way she couldn’t name.

She stood in the dark for a moment, the place slow to take shape. This wasn’t a memory, not exactly. It shifted like sand under her thoughts. Sounds crept through the silence —muffled, tinny. A phone ringing somewhere too far to reach.

Irene frowned and took a step forward.

She didn’t know what she was walking into.

Didn’t know if Shiv would know her.

Didn’t even know if she’d know him in here.

But the connection was still there —fragile and thin as a spider’s thread, tied to her body back in that quiet room, tied to his heartbeat, still going.

She followed it.

Because someone had to.

Irene didn’t flinch when Shiv’s hand landed on her shoulder — the weight of it familiar, grounding. She let it sit there for a second, two, before her gaze shifted, sharp eyes scanning the shimmering horizon behind them.

The sand still whispered wrong beneath her feet. Magic in too many layers. Riven’s magic. It stirred like oil just beneath the surface — thick, slick, and sour-sweet. Something about the way it pulsed made her stomach pull tight.

This wasn’t just a trap. This was a loop. But why?

She never wished to be in their head. Not now, not ever.. and yet, here they were.

Her fingers flexed slightly around Shiv’s wrist.

“You're not the type that needs tracking,” she murmured, almost more to herself than to them. “But you went missing anyway.”

Her tone was even, but her jaw stayed set. Beneath her skin, the hum of too many unanswered questions burned like static.

Then—Thera?

She heard the name echo back at her, and for a moment, Irene just looked at Shiv. Really looked. Their confusion was real — not acted, not played for deflection. There was an absence there that hadn’t been there before. Like someone had gone through and cut out whole hours of their memory with surgical precision.

Her heart dropped, low and hard. She didn’t show it.

Instead, her lips pressed into a line and her eyes flicked to the edge of the dunes again — reflexive now, like she expected something to claw its way through. But it was just heat and mirage and silence.

Not the good kind.

She stepped a little closer, keeping hold of their wrist. The contact was starting to buzz now — faint, like a wire fraying somewhere between them.

“You don’t remember her.” It wasn’t a question.

Irene’s breath went out soft, deliberate. Her other hand rose, gentle but sure, brushing a line just above Shiv’s temple — not quite touching skin, but close enough to feel the threads of magic humming underneath. Weakened. Strained.

Instead, she looked Shiv in the eye and said, “What do you mean? Thera’s keeping you alive right now.”

She didn’t wait for the weight of that to settle. There wasn’t time. The sand behind them had started shifting again — just slightly, but enough to make Irene’s pulse tick faster at the base of her throat. She hated this place. Too bright, too open, too... unreal.

She reached down and took Shiv’s hand in hers, firm and warm and real.

“We can talk more when we’re out of here,” she said, nodding toward the faint outline of an archway shimmering in the distance — a door forming, slowly, between dunes. A weakness in the fold. Maybe even a way out.

“Do you like the beach?” she asked, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t stitched to a hundred memories of nights spent escaping and surviving and forgetting how to breathe.

Her grip on their hand tightened just slightly.

“Let’s walk. Keep your mind open. Just enough for me to hold on. I’ll handle the rest.”

She glanced back once, the heat behind them already thickening into something with teeth. Her voice was low, steady — a whisper, not a plea. She'd answer their questions, as long as they were somewhere safer.

“Don’t let go.”

Irene makes contact and the sand underneath Shiv’s feet feels just a little more solid, grounded. Maybe it’s just a placebo effect, the false reassurance of having someone they can touch and see as supposed to voices in the wind and a phantom’s touch against their skin. But, placebo or nay, they'll take it. 

“Since when have I been the type that needs tracking?” Shiv shakes their head as they laugh and smile, “Seriously, it's good to see you. I mean it.” Shiv plants a hand on the younger hunter’s shoulder with a firm grip. “Fantastic work.” 

Despite what the dream would have them believe, they don't actually have all the time in the world. If they did, Shiv would have taken a moment to give Irene her flowers, additional words of praise and notes of improvement every hunter needs to continue the onslaught.

Unfortunately, they don't have the time nor brain power to ask Irene how she got here. Shiv’s already got so much to wrap their head around as it is. Instead they nod along. “Right. Steady…Steady?” 

They fail to hide their confusion, their smile becoming nervously forced and uneasy. What does steady mean in this context? Steady as in stable? If so, mentally or physically stable? It’s hard to say if they can achieve either at this rate.

The confusion on Shiv’s face multiplies as Irene mentions another person. An accomplice maybe? Brows furrow, body slightly leaning forward as they parrot back, “Thera?”

The name feels familiar on their tongue but any and all tangible memory is missing. 

Despite how hard they try to think or recall in that moment, there is simply nothing there. No link. No connection. Just the same all-consuming static that comes when Shiv tries to remember how they got into this mess in the first place. 

“I-I mean, yeah. Yeah. I’m okay. Obviously could be better- I’m sorry, are you okay?" Before they know it, the panicked dread weighing on Shiv bleeds into their voice, "Are you hurt? What of Sammy? Or the twins? Is the rest of the Brotherhood alright? Have we been breached?”

“...And who’s Thera?”

Irene didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t rise to meet the bait like so many did — like Briar wanted her to. She just kept her eyes on the other woman, the corner of the worn label finally peeling back beneath her thumb like paper tired of keeping secrets.

“For fun?” she echoed, tone flat enough to skip.

She set the jar down with a soft clink. Not careless, not reverent — just exact. As if even glass had a place, and she wasn’t in the habit of misplacing things.

“I mend things that don’t belong to me,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I walk places people don’t think to look. I make sure what’s buried stays that way.”

A pause, but not because she was searching for anything. She just wanted the silence to sit there for a moment, thick and quiet and full of things unsaid.

“I’m not here to amuse you,” Irene added, finally lifting her gaze fully to Briar’s. There was no heat in it — just clarity, cool as the bottom of a well.

“And I don’t trade in curiosities.”

She stepped back behind the counter, rolling her sleeves down one at a time, slow and methodical like it was the end of something, not the beginning.

“But you asked. So that’s it. That’s your favor.”

Her hands moved to the ledger again, pen flicking once to mark a line through something unseen, invisible to everyone but her.

“No refunds. No rerolls. If you wanted stories, you should’ve asked for something easier to return.”

Briar's confused by all the obfuscation; ledger this, ledger that. Goodwoman Stephens is brave indeed, dealing with this sort of orderly chaos. Were she to start her own public facing endeavor she'd not last the week before she was caught trafficking in sleep aids because some neck-tied hoglet a city over wanted his cut of the coin. Of course should the police come for her they'd all be quite dead in short order; food for the root, but that would beruin the point; the girl is overcautious.

Still, whether it's the 1720s or the 2020s she supposes a pig's only ever good for carving.

"But asking games are such fun!" She muses. "Tch. You've so serious a tone. I'll wager too that you're quite the stickler aren't you? How about this, as I've no need for any materiel; Tell me, what do you do for fun? Outside this shop I mean. Otherwise, I simply won't believe you know how to have it. That's the favor I ask."

The tablet made a quiet thunk as Irene set it aside. She didn’t speak right away—just sat there for a moment, watching the woman through the dim light like she was weighing the effort it would take to say no against whatever her own bones were asking of her tonight.

“It’s fine,” she said finally, voice softer than before, if still tinged with fatigue. “You’re already half inside. Might as well finish the job.”

She reached across the counter, palm open without fanfare. “Let’s see it.”

Her gaze skimmed the paper quickly, practiced. She didn’t react outright—just let her eyes pause on the larger quantities, the odd placements, the way none of it seemed to belong together until maybe it very much did. Verbena stood out the most, of course. Not just the amount, but the shape of the scrawl around it. Like the hand that wrote it hesitated, then leaned in.

Irene’s brow ticked, barely. Not suspicion exactly. Just attention, sharpened.

“You making tea,” she asked, deadpan, “or trying to banish someone politely?”

She handed the list back, already stepping toward the shelf-lined wall.

“We’ve got most of this. One of the berries might be low—I’ll check in the back.” She paused at the threshold of the back room, glancing over her shoulder with a dry look. “No promises on the verbena. That much, you might need to pre-order unless you’ve got friends who forage on private land.”

Then she was gone a moment, the quiet of the shop resettling in her absence. When she returned, she had a worn basket in one hand, already filling with a few small paper packets.

“Couple of these are in stock now,” she said, setting the basket on the counter. “I can hold the rest for pickup tomorrow if you want. Won’t charge ‘til it’s all in.”

And then, more gently, like it just occurred to her, “You alright walking back this late?”

We closed five minutes ago. The words hit Juniper like a sack of bricks as she has one foot in the door and the other still out in the dark and damp. Sage on her shoulder and a series of bags on her left arm, she had been shopping all day. She peeks her head out to look at the sign on the door, then down to the watch on the inside of her wrist. This motion repeats a couple times as she comes to terms with the fact that… yup. She was too late. 

“Scheiße.” she cursed under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was still getting used to navigating at an appropriate speed for her condition and she had vastly underestimated how long her errands would actually take. Running a hand through her hair she took a breath, the subtle earthy note within the shop's air doing wonders to settle her frustrations. 

“That’s… unfortunate. Sorry for the intrusion. I saw the lights and assumed I wasn’t too late. Thank you. It certainly isn’t so urgent it can’t wait till tomorrow. I just-” She hesitated. Not wanting to bother a person off the clock. But her bones ache and the idea of having to walk all the way back here in the morning was less than inviting. “I am so sorry. Would it be too much trouble to just take a look at this list. I don’t need to buy anything tonight. I’d just like to save myself the trek tomorrow if something is currently out of stock.” 

She waited with bated breath for any form of confirmation before going inside and handing over the small piece of paper. Scrawled onto it was a variety of herbs, spices, dried berries and the like, an impressive variety but no single ingredient had a strong or obvious purpose when places next to the others. Most notable among them was verbena. In a rather large quantity.