On An Average Day, What Can Be Found In Your Character’s Pockets?

She doesn’t flinch under the weight of his stare. Don’t look away either. Just watches him, steady, like maybe if she looked long enough, the shape of him might make more sense. It doesn’t.

His laugh isn’t funny. But neither is the fact that she hasn’t really breathed in weeks. Not properly. Not without it catching somewhere just beneath her ribs, like her own lungs are playing tricks.

The grocery bag shifts against her leg again. The handles are digging in now. She doesn’t move to fix it.

“I know I’m here,” she says finally, low and even. “You think I don’t?”

That’s all he gets. That’s all she owes.

The truth isn’t something she’s ready to let out in the open —not in the salt-slick dark, not under the eye of a storm that already feels like it knows too much. Home hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Her father's face doesn’t sit right in her memory anymore. Like someone rearranged the pieces when she wasn’t looking. Her mother is not the person she once knew. Even the air inside that house feels secondhand, like it's already been used up.

But she doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, she stays where she is, soaked and cold and choosing, for some reason, not to walk away. Maybe because there’s nowhere else to go. Maybe because the sea isn’t the only thing with pull.

“You’re not the only one the storm likes,” she adds after a beat, voice quieter now. Not a challenge. Not quite a confession either.

Just a fact. One of many they don’t have names for yet.

        césar does like the sea, he does find solace in its violence. though, he’s far from it. peace, solace, safety, calm. he has no use for them, the effort of reaching them isn’t worth the stretch because this war-torn wild body is all he knows. the sea, at least, has her moments. césar does not. his waves never find a gentle lapping at the bay, they never curl delicately. his beauty is a furious chaos. and today, through this storm, so is the sea’s. he hopes she swallows him whole. he doesn’t want to swim, he wants to go straight down. 

        in the storm, everything blurs together into rough crevices of water and madness. the pockets of light don’t mean much underneath the clouds, illuminating scarcely anything. with his nose stuffed full with the smell of rain- wet dog -and magic, his senses gather next to nothing. césar doesn’t see, or smell, or hear the woman until she speaks, and it produces another dry laugh from him.  “ can’t it be both? ”  insane, and looking to get dragged into the harbor. yeah, it sums up césar pretty neatly, and it almost draws another laugh from him.  “ ‘cause, well, it’s both, chiquita. ”  ever his father’s son, his pride roars inside his chest. but the wrath is louder, greedier, hungrier, and so it always wins out. besides, he’s standing here, dark curls strung down in his eyes by the rain. pathetic, perhaps, but terrifying, ravenous. césar meets her eyes from across the street, through the storm, tearing away from the sight of the drowning docks.  “ it is funny, you’re just not in on the joke. ”  at first, it’s like a stubborn instance, piercing into the blue of her eyes like, eventually, she’s just going to get it. but he’s not avi. he doesn’t care. avi’s playing leader to his group of mutts and teo’s off the grid and so here he is, alone, bone-cold, seeking vengeance from the sea for an act he wanted to do him-fucking-self.  “ big fuckass storm’s the best thing’s to happen here since i got back, hardee-har-har. ”

        dark gaze had migrated back to the water, though it finds its way back to miss judgy blue eyes.  “ and, anyways, ”  césar makes a point, something he’s sure she’s already realized.  “ you’re here too. ” 

Irene watched as the little creature was hoisted back onto Juniper’s shoulder, head tilting slightly in that quiet way of hers — like she was filing something away, not for judgment, just understanding. “She’s better trained than most customers,” she said dryly, a flick of something faintly amused in her voice. “Still, smart to keep her on your good side. I’ve seen people do worse damage with less motive than an empty stomach.”

She glanced at the basket again, making a quick mental inventory of the contents before nodding. “It’ll be safe here overnight. Counter’s got charms enough to keep anything from nosing in where it shouldn’t.”

At the mention of disorder and charm, something in her expression shifted — not quite a smile, but the hint of one in the corner of her mouth. “Some of the chaos has charm,” she allowed. “The rest just makes restocking hell.” Her gaze moved to a shelf where two nearly identical jars sat side by side, one faintly crooked. She didn’t move to fix it. “But I get what you mean. Places like this remember people. It’s better when they’re a little wild.”

Juniper’s next words slowed her hands. Not stopped them — Irene always kept moving, even when listening — but the gesture she’d started smoothing the corner of a label became more deliberate. She didn’t interrupt, just let the compliment settle in the space between them. There was no outward shift in her face, not much that could be called softness. But there was a kind of stillness that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Maybe the kind people give when something lands close to a wound, even if it doesn’t cut.

She shook her head slightly at the offer, the faintest scoff under her breath — more at herself than at Juniper. “Pretty sure Stephens would have my head if she came in and caught a customer sweeping the floor,” she said. “Might accuse me of conscripting labor again.”

But there was a flicker in her tone now — dry affection, maybe, or something like it. The offer had landed. Irene just didn’t always know what to do with kindness unless it came in the form of clean inventory or a labeled drawer.

“Still,” she added, eyes flicking briefly back toward Juniper. “It’s a good offer. And I appreciate it.”

A pause, then, “Don’t worry about it. Most of this I can catch up on in the morning. Just the usual close — lock the till, count the chamomile, wonder how it got this late again.”

She glanced toward the windows, where the light from the street painted streaks through the misted glass. Her voice dipped quieter, almost distracted: “Place likes to stretch time once it’s quiet.”

If she meant it to be a warning or just a remark, it wasn’t clear.

Then, she turned slightly, shoulders shifting, one hand already reaching for the last list to double check. “I’ll be out soon,” she said. “Walk’s better with company. And fewer surprises.”

Not a favor. Not even exactly an invitation.

But it was enough.

She laughed as she picked up Sage by scruff and returned her to her shoulder. “That is a very good point. She is surprisingly good about not eating things she shouldn’t. But it’s been a long day and I owe her a treat for sticking through it without being a pain. Best not to tempt a young and hungry stomach.” She rubbed her cheek against the furry creature affectionately. 

She nodded when the other offered to keep the basket overnight. That would free up her arms more which was never a bad thing. “A little disorder gives places like this personality. And there is no accounting for personal taste when it comes to organization. Either way it’s lovely and well taken care of.” 

She could tell Irene wasn’t much for conversation. Whether that was personal preference or professional habit she didn’t know. But there was clearly no hostility in the few words she spoke. And Juniper would be remiss if she didn’t even silently acknowledge the others' delicate care for those around her. It wasn’t personal, it wasn’t profitable. It was just her own good nature. Juniper liked that. An apothecary run by someone without care for their fellow man was an apothecary run by the wrong person. 

“If I’m overstepping, feel free to tell me off or charge me more; but I do feel awful extending the end of your day, especially when you have been so accommodating. If there is anything I can do to shave time off that 15 so you can get home faster. It would be my pleasure. Four hands make lighter work than two.” She wasn’t sure if Irene would take her up on the offer. It was an odd one, she wouldn't blame her for being off put. Not many people these days are willing to work for the simple pleasure of making something easier for someone else. But this place reminded her of her grandmother, it made her feel warm and it was nice to see old practices still holding up.

She doesn't roll her eyes, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t flinch — doesn’t give him what he wants, and that’s a kind of answer all its own. Irene just watches him for a breath too long, like she’s measuring something invisible in the space between them. Not his strength. Not his bite. But the shape of the wall he’s built and how high he plans to throw rocks from it.

“Spare me the theatrics,” she says, voice low, even. “You’re not the storm, and this isn’t your stage.”

She doesn’t say it unkindly. That would take more energy than she’s willing to give him. Just the plain truth, laid out between them like salt lines on wet stone.

“Cirque du soleil: hurricane,” she repeats, tone dry enough to blister. “Cute.”

She glanced over at him, then back to the dark waters.

“I’ve seen better shows from driftwood and ghost light,” she adds, and there’s something bone-dry in the way she says it — not quite a joke, not quite mockery, but something with teeth behind it. “You burn loud. Doesn’t mean you burn long.”

She shifts the bag again, not because it’s heavy now, but because she’s starting to feel the distance she’ll have to walk. Doesn’t make a move to leave yet. Maybe because something in him still smells like salt and loss, and she’s not done parsing the difference between danger and damage.

“If you want the sea to clap for you,” she says, eyes narrowing just slightly, “— you’d better know how to swim when it pulls you under.”

Then she turns. Not quick — nothing dramatic — but with the slow certainty of someone who already knows if he follows, he’ll talk again. And if he doesn’t, the wind will say enough.

         he rolls his eyes, “ yeah, alright, chiquita. saw that in those judgy lil’ eyes of yours, don’t need to tell me. ”  you talk to much, just you fuckin’ wait. if she’s not walking away by the end of this, he hadn’t succeeded in pissing her off enough. césar’s goal jumps from entertainment to making her ears bleed. it’s likely she’ll turn on her heel, stick that ski slope nose in the air and stomp off. but he’s more interested in what she’ll do if she stays. if he’s earned himself a taste of ice, or if she burns, like he does. césar waves her off, like he’s heard her, like he’s listening. he hasn’t, he isn’t. spite burns instead of understanding, but it’s fierce enough to keep his interest, his attention.

         sure, she doesn’t care about being liked. césar imagined he did, once. knows he did, once, but it’s a time that’s so far away that he hadn’t dare touch it, let alone reach for the memory. eventually, when you’re pushed out, enough, caring fizzles into fury. but it doesn’t mean that anyone else’s opinion matters, only that they should suffer for it. “ what’s earning it look like to you, huh? you want a show? ”  he could give her a show. there’s a thousand dangerous, incredible things someone can do in the water. drowning takes the tippy top of the list for césar, but, well, he’s always been told he has terrible taste. he doesn’t really care, though. the air tastes of magic, the ports to be ruined, that’s enough show for him.  “ cirque du soleil: hurricane? ”

WHO: @sammykeels WHERE: his house.

The bikes were the first thing she saw —two of them, sprawled across the lawn like they’d collapsed mid-flight, one still spinning a back wheel in lazy half-turns. Irene stood at the edge of the driveway, one hand in the pocket of her coat, the other curled loosely around a paper bag that smelled faintly of garlic and plastic takeout. She hadn’t knocked yet.

There was a familiarity to the scene; the scuffed-up sidewalk chalk ghosts, the chipped welcome mat, the smell of someone's early dinner drifting out a cracked window. Safe things. Quiet things. They didn’t suit the tightness still coiled low in her chest.

But then again, neither did this visit.

She adjusted her grip on the bag and stepped forward.

The front door wasn’t locked. It never was when Sammy was around. She didn’t go in, just knocked once —soft, measured—and then pushed it open enough to call into the threshold.

“Sammy?”

Her voice carried, quiet but certain.

No answer right away.

She waited. Then she saw movement down the hall —his familiar frame, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, sneakers squeaking faintly on the wood.

“Hey.” Her tone shifted as soon as he was close enough to see clearly. Not warm, not yet. But not her usual clipped chill either. Something in-between. Careful. “Didn’t mean to ambush you.”

She lifted the paper bag slightly. “Brought food. You’ve got that look on your face like you skipped lunch again.”

A beat.

“I went.”

Simple. No name. No details. But he’d know. And she didn’t follow it with a lie —not She’s safe, not It’ll be okay. Just that.

She stepped inside then, giving him the space to back away or shut her out, but not leaving. Never that.

“I know you told me about her because I needed to know,” Irene said, setting the bag on the counter like it didn’t weigh a thousand things. “And I’m not going to ask what else you know. Not unless you want to tell me.”

She looked at him again —really looked. His face a little drawn, shoulders tighter than usual.

“I just wanted to see you with my own eyes. Make sure you’re okay.”

Another beat. Then, quieter, just for him.

“So? Are you okay?”

The bathroom door creaked open, and Irene blinked as the girl stepped out —mud-slicked, bloodstained, and stitched together with a kind of too-bright smile that didn’t touch her eyes. Irene didn’t move right away. She just stood there in her long coat, one hand shoved in a pocket, the other cradling a half-empty thermos of coffee gone cold.

Her gaze did what it always did—took in the shape of the girl, the uneven breathing, the way her hair was carefully arranged like a curtain. Irene didn’t need to see what was behind it to know what was there.

She’d seen that look before. In mirrors. In alleyways. In morgues.

The question made her tilt her head a little. A gym. It was such a soft, almost laughable request, spoken with the kind of desperation that tried to pass for casual. Irene didn’t laugh.

“Nearest gym’s about five miles and three lifetimes from here,” she said, voice flat, but not unkind. “And even if you found one, they’d probably want a membership card. Or at least shoes that don’t look like they got in a fight with the terrain and lost.”

She took a slow sip of her lukewarm coffee, eyes not leaving the girl’s face. The park light above them buzzed faintly, casting shadows under her eyes, giving everything that washed-out glow that made the world feel just a little too thin.

“You’re not from around here,” Irene said, not a question. Just a fact laid out neat and quiet between them.

Her tone wasn’t accusing. Just observant. Just practiced.

She shifted, letting the pause stretch a moment too long before offering, “There’s a community center down past Willow and 9th. Showers. Heat. No one’ll look too hard if you don’t give them reason to.”

A beat passed.

“You hurt anywhere bad?” Her eyes flicked to the girl's arm, where dried blood clung to torn fabric. “The kind that’s not healing like it should.”

Another beat.

Then, in that same even tone—quiet enough not to scare, sharp enough to be heard—she added, “You’ll want to watch what trails you take out here. Woods can be… unpredictable. Things stick to you.”

She didn’t say what things. Didn’t need to.

Instead, she shifted back just enough to clear the doorway, giving the girl space to pass. Her gaze lingered a moment longer on the edge of that hair curtain, but she didn’t press. Not yet.

“I’m Irene,” she said finally, like it mattered. “If you’re lost, I know my way around.”

She gave a slight nod, like she wasn’t just talking about directions.

open: to cor residents where: overlook park

   the journey to get to the city wasn't exactly how camila thought it'd go. she was new to town and didn't know a thing about where to go or who to see; if there even was a plan? either way, she was quite literally a mess. having to hitch hike in the middle of the night, and leave everything she once knew behind wasn't easy. she could still feel that...thing biting her neck. and she could still see the bodies of her parents. she also missed her...their family.

getting lost in the woods however, was the icing on top of the cake for camila as she wasn't exactly the 'hiking' type. she almost always relied on....her, to guide her through on camping trips. with no source of light, camila had managed to trip and stumble down a rather steep incline which led to a few bruises and scratches — which seemed to be healing? too freaked out to think of that, she shakily took the paper towel & ran it under the tap. 'the dried blood and mud on her clothes wouldn't budge, but she could at least clean up her face' she thought to herself.

camping out nearby, she heard knocking on the bathroom door. "i'm...i'll be out in a minute!" she said aloud, as the park washroom wasn't the most ideal place for her to try clean herself. but with her money running low and the car she had to abandon on the highway, she'd make do. putting a fake smile on her face, she used her hair to cover her neck before she's unlocking the door.

"sorry, i'll get out of your hair - uh. do you know where the nearest gym would be?" camila asked quickly, trying not to draw too much attention to herself.

Irene didn’t sit right away. She hovered by the kitchen island instead, letting the smell of the takeout do most of the work as Sammy rifled through it, eyes already brighter for something warm and edible. It helped to have something to do with his hands — she could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, just a little, just enough.

The light through the window was slipping golden across the floorboards, catching in her hair and her coat like dust. She let it settle in the silence for a few breaths before answering.

“He’s not worse,” she said first, which wasn’t the same thing as better, but also wasn’t nothing. Her voice didn’t waver, didn’t hedge — just delivered it straight. Measured. Quiet.

She finally pulled out a chair and sat across from him, shrugging off her coat like it weighed too much. The sleeves of her shirt were pushed up just far enough to show faint smudges of ash and something glittery — residue of something that wasn’t quite spellwork, but close. She didn’t explain it.

When she looked up again, her eyes were rimmed darker than usual. Not in the dramatic, witchy way people always assumed. Just… tired. Deep-set, like sleep had been a luxury out of reach for more than a few nights. But her face didn’t crack. It never did.

“He’s not alone in there,” she said simply. Her fingers ghosted over the side of a napkin, folding one corner with idle precision. “That matters.”

She didn’t say what it had cost — not just the magic, but the time. The strain. The hours spent crouched beside a still body with salt lining her lashes and the smell of scorched rosemary in the walls.

And she definitely didn’t say how wrong it had felt to sense Riven’s signature in the sandscape of Shiv’s unconscious — familiar and twisted and present. That stayed between her, Shiv, and Thera.

But she met Sammy’s eyes across the kitchen table, and there was no flinch in her voice when she added, “He’s going to be okay.”

There was a steadiness to the words. Not bravado. Not blind optimism. Just a thing spoken because it was true — even if she couldn’t tell him how she knew. “You know I wouldn’t bullshit you,” she said softly. “Not about something like this.”

And maybe it wasn’t enough to erase the circles under her eyes or the tension she still carried in her shoulders. But it was the best she could offer, short of dragging him into the dream herself — and she wasn’t ready to open that door to anyone else. Not yet. Too fragile. Too... unfinished.

She let her gaze drift toward the back window, where the twins shrieked over some messy game involving sticks and a bucket of water. The sound didn’t ease the coil in her chest, but it grounded her.

“You’re doing the right thing, staying with them,” she said, voice softer now. “They need you more than he does, in this moment.”

A beat.

“But when he wakes up, he’s probably going to ask what took you so long.”

That, at least, earned a tiny smile — thin and crooked, barely there, but real.

“How are you holding up?”

The front door didn’t need to be locked, not when the twins were running between the front and back yards faster than he could follow. He’d taken to pacing in the kitchen, only occasionally glancing out the window to make sure his step-siblings were still making potions out of mud and leaves in the backyard, his mind on other things. 

The situation with Mr. Shiv was a royal fuck-up. Two weeks, and he’d let himself think that he was just on an extended hunt. He should have raised the alarm days ago, should have at least asked around! He should have done something, not just— 

A voice from the hall pulled him out of his train of thought. Irene was standing in his front hall, a takeout bag in hand. 

Irene was nice. Good to work with, if a bit spooky and ominous. After getting the news of Mr. Shiv’s injury to Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Castillo, she was the next (and only) person he told. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust any other hunters, just... Irene was a lot more discreet than them. He couldn’t really picture Nico reacting in a calm and measured way to the news that a hunter in a coma was being taken care of in a shop run by a witch for the past two weeks. Irene, at the very least, was discreet and clever, and was nice enough to lurk in the threshold so she could easily turn and leave if she wasn’t wanted. 

She was wanted. Especially with food, an easy reminder that, yeah, he had definitely forgotten to make himself lunch when he’d made the twins their sandwiches earlier. It was easier to ignore his body’s signals to eat and rest when he was worrying. ”Sorry, I didn’t hear you, come in! Yeah, I got distracted, thank you.”

He ushered her in, over towards the chairs around the kitchen island, where he was able to keep an eye on the twins out the windows as they spoke. He shrugged away any attempt to ask after his own well being, instead focusing on picking over the takeout food gratefully.

“You saw him? Any changes? I dropped by the day I got the note, he seemed like a 4 on the Glasgow coma scale, which is, uh...” He trailed off. A score of 4, after two weeks? That was more often than not a sign to start getting a funeral plan in order. “Bad. Really bad, for an injury. Magic might make it better, or different, but by regular medical scales, he should be in a long-term ward. Is he doing any better? Responsive, moving, even reacting at all to touch or noise?”

WHO: @therawend WHERE: thera's house

The tower loomed taller than she thought.

Worn brick stacked like the silence she’d carried since Sammy had shown her the letter — hands tight around the edges, voice low like he wasn’t sure how to say it out loud. She has Shiv. That part was clear. The rest? Not so much.

She’d read Thera’s handwriting three times over, each loop and slash more frustrating than the last. Thera. Thera, of all people. Irene hadn’t known they were connected —Shiv and her—but the letter didn’t lie. And Sammy wouldn’t have brought it to her if it wasn’t serious.

She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once, tucked the paper before handing it back, and left before the weight of it could settle. Maybe she should’ve been more surprised. But confusion only went so far when Shiv was in danger. Shiv was never in danger, how could this be?

Irene knew where to go.

The walk from the bus stop had been long. Her legs were tired, her thoughts louder than usual. But she didn’t slow down, not even when the trees grew dense and the shadows pooled a little heavier. The path to Thera’s was always quiet in that strange, in-between kind of way —too calm, too out of time. Like the world didn’t quite reach here. It was probably safer that way.

By the time she reached the front door, she looked like hell. Pale and drawn, magic twitching raw just under her skin from days without rest. Her hair was still braided from work but messy now, a few pins lost along the walk. In her hands, nothing but her necklace, the charm she always held when grounding herself, when reaching into dreams.

She didn’t knock. Just let her fingers graze the worn doorframe before she pushed it open.

“Thera?” Her voice was low, not quite sure if it belonged here yet. “Sammy told me.”

A pause. She glanced inside, half-expecting the air to be thick with incense or stitched spells or whatever strange magic always clung to this place like dust.

“I thought… maybe you could use help.” Her tone stayed flat, guarded, but her eyes said something else. Something quieter.

And she meant it. Even if her hands shook. They were going to be alright, right?

WHO: open to all. WHERE: tūmatarau apothecary

The shop smelled like rosemary and old paper—faint, but enough to catch in your coat and ride home with you. The door creaked open, the chime overhead giving a half-hearted jingle. Wind, maybe. Or someone too late. Irene didn’t look up.

“We closed five minutes ago,” she said, voice flat.

She was bent over a worn-out tablet, the screen casting a cold light across her face. Her thumb drifted down the page —slow, distracted— past rows of items she already knew were running low. She let out a sigh. Not dramatic, not loud. Just tired. The kind you let go of when you're too worn down to hold it in.

Silence followed. Not quite empty, not quite still. The kind of quiet that settles in places where magic hasn’t quite gone to sleep. “Unless it’s urgent,” she said after a moment, slower this time. “And I mean actually urgent. Not I forgot my dreamless tea urgent.”

Irene doesn’t look up right away. Just busies herself behind the counter — adjusting the jar of salt that doesn’t need adjusting, flicking the lamp switch one more time as if that’ll stop the buzzing (it won’t). But mostly, she gives herself a beat. A breath. Just long enough to make sure the lie stays smooth on her tongue, as effortless and worn-in as it’s always been. “I’m not a witch,” she says again, steady, like she’s said it a thousand times — because she has. To strangers. To threats. To people who cared too much or not at all. It never mattered which. It always had to sound the same. “I just work here.” She shrugs, easy and practiced. Like it’s all just coincidence. Like she’s just a woman with a few too many books and a mild intolerance for nonsense.

“Most of it’s just retail.” Her voice is lighter now, teasing around the edges — not mocking, not with Allie — but carefully disarming. “Witches don’t exactly come with HR departments, but someone’s still got to track the moon cycles on the wall calendar.”

The spell wrapped around her hums, faint but firm — the kind that runs deep in the bones, silent and airtight. Designed to slip under notice, to keep the sharp edges of her magic hidden beneath skin and smile and plausible deniability. No slip. No shimmer. Nothing for Allie to feel but what Irene allows.

And that’s safer. For both of them.

Still, the way Allie’s looking at her — bright and soft and full of unguarded belief — makes something uncomfortable shift beneath her ribs. Not guilt, not exactly. Just the ache of being seen too closely, even through a lie.

Her eyes flick to the notebook again when Allie speaks, and for a second, something gentler passes over Irene’s face. Just a flicker. Almost fond. Almost sad.

“You’re better at more than just wishing,” she says quietly, almost like she’s saying it to herself. Then, a little clearer: “Don’t sell yourself short.”

It’s not the kind of thing Irene says often. She doesn’t do comfort well — not the sweet kind, anyway. But for Allie, she tries. Maybe because Allie’s the only person she’s ever met who could make magic out of other people’s words and believe it was enough.

A breath passes, and Irene clears her throat, nudging a candle wick back into place with the edge of a matchstick.

“Still. Keep an eye on what you write in that thing,” she adds, back to dry again. But not cold. “The walls here like to listen. And your kind of magic… the hopeful kind? That’s the sort that sticks.”

She glances up, finally meeting Allie’s gaze, steady and unreadable.

“And trust me — not everything you wish for is something you want coming true.”

        as soon as she lets go, she finds she regrets it. not holding on just a touch longer, not squeezing her harder, not softening like she knows how important it is that irene doesn’t push her away. it’s cherished, and gone entirely too soon. now, she’s holding the little notebook. it fits a little easier, but that doesn’t matter so much to allie. she glides a thumb across the pages, the edges of them. it’s an absent-minded movement, a brush or the gentle pad of her finger, but even that centers her, grounds her memories to something solid. 

        it’s not long, though, as she’s looking to irene with a hopeful kind of curiosity, that allie’s grip loosens on truth, on predictability, and falls dizzy.  “ what? ”  her brown pinches, she whirls to follow irene to where she goes behind the counter. she doesn’t breach that barrier, too afraid of earning irene pushing her away, this time, but she does follow her there, big blue eyes wild with confusion.   “ what do you mean you’re not a witch? this is- this is the witch store. why are you working at the witch store if you’re not a witch? ”  she can’t help but let it feel like another wall, allie’s standing on her tiptoes to try and see over it, reach for it. of course, it makes her impossibly curious, in addition to the total lack of sense it makes. hadn’t she felt irene, like witches feel each other? had she made that all up? she must’ve, because irene says she’s not and even if it doesn’t make any sense at all, she believes her, if only because irene said to.

        her eyes stay soft and round as she listens, a peek of the sun shining through as irene nods towards the journal, her gaze flickers down to look at it, before it goes right back to irene. like she’s looking for … something, but she doesn’t know what it is.  “ oh it’s not really … anything important. i mean it’s all important to me, but it’s, like … just little stuff. anything i hear that i want to remember. like, stuff kiri says, or … um, ”  there’s more names waiting on her tongue, but she leaves them to rest in her heart, instead. irene probably doesn’t care, she doesn’t want to make her listen.  “ but i hope it comes true, whatever it is. wishing’s probably the only thing i am good at. ”

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."