Arc 10 Post 29: Old Scars
Old Scars
18th of December 2006 A.D.
"Payment on delivery," you counter after a moment's thought of how this could leave you in debt to her if something unexpected happens.
The Winter lady rises one pale eyebrow. "Are you not confident in your new abilities then?"
"I trust myself in works martial and magical, circumstances on the other hand, circumstances change and I'd rather not have my feet nailed to the floor when they do."
"That's not so bad," Maeve says, idly playing with a lock of hair that had escaped from behind her ear. "Being nailed to the floor I mean. Healing from cold iron poisoning, now that's just not worth it—" a knowing beat— "some kinks aren't worth the knots."
Though there is no obvious flaw in her mien the subtle shifts in her aura give away the game, she is trying to shock, to get back the control she lost a few minutes ago. She's messing with me. It's your turn to raise an eyebrow now. "On your feet you say... interesting."
The sound of small tools in small hands recedes more and more. By this point the Kabouter had decided to put half the warehouse's floor space between the themselves and the conversation, a fact Maeve seems to take some satisfaction in at least. "Fine then," she sniffs at your expression. "Payment on delivery. I hope that Vegas shall be more accommodating to you then it would be to most who pass into though gilded halls of false fortune."
With that formal declaration the Winter Lady makes a kind of sweeping exit that's mildly impressive in that outfit and sees herself out.
"Clippy, what time is it?"
"17: 31: 55"
Enough time to swing by Rosie's then.
***
"Oof, this just keeps getting more awkward doesn't it?" Your friend says getting into the back of the car. "I've just started letting things lie there when I drop them you know." She lapses into silence that grows morose as she settles in. "And mom just gives me this look like 'I never dropped things when I was pregnant with you' you know 'cause she was perfect."
Or you are seeing things. Even if it's true though the thought's not the least helpful so you just settle on. "Welp the baby will be out soon and so will you."
"I guess—" she trails off, then in a rush confesses: "I'm scared that I'll just mess it all up, that I'll mess her up. I don't know how to raise a kid. I've been reading books and stuff, but if that was all you needed to do there wouldn't be so many garbage parents around, would there? I can memorize all the bathing positions and feeding schedules, but that's just the bare minimum you know, the floor you are supposed to build up from to give your baby a happy healthy life. I'm not sure where all the pieces go, I don't even know what all the pieces are. " Her hands flutter flutter helplessly at her side. "That is the kind of thing you are supposed to count on family for right? When you have a kid young? But I don't... I don't want Mom around her telling her how much of a screw up I am or... or... making her feel like a burden."
"Hey, it's OK," you reach back to hold her hand. "We'll figure it out, I can be the magic godmother. How many kids have that?"
Rosie shakes her head, not so much in denial, but as though she does not know what to do with all the emotions she's been holding in. Finally she asks: "Can you find my dad? I want to talk to him at least, tell him about the baby."
By itself the question makes perfect sense, but for someone who has known Rosie for as long as you have it's like she had suddenly asked to find the Loch Ness monster. Rosie does not like to talk about her father. From what little you had been able to piece together they had a messy divorce, so much so that Ms Marcella, not yet Wilson had moved from Tallahassee to Chicago around the same time your family moved in. The start of your friendship with Rosie had been based around the shared awkwardness of being 'the new girls in school', though it had quickly grown and branched out into shared interests and an appreciation for each other. From those early days you had learned not to poke at her past. But since she was asking...
"You don't have a number?"
"He used to send me letters from prison," she answers, looking out the window with a fixed stare. "Got the last one when I was thirteen, he was about to get out. Said Mom and me would be better off without someone like him in our lives. Doesn't really seem like it does it?"
When you don't say anything she continues. "He was in for manslaughter. Hit a woman going eighty five miles an hour. Turns out he was drunk, turns out he was driving back from the house of a woman he was having an affair with." The words come out scarily toneless. "At least that is what my aunt Liza told me. She's the one who was passing the letters Mom won't talk about him ever. I just—" her voice catches— "wanna talk to him. He deserves to know right?"
What do you do?
[] Use the Crown on Rosie to find out where her father is
[] Try to search for him online
[] Try to find some other Crown focus
-[] Write in
OOC: Welp, Rosie did not roll so well in the background this time around, though it would have been much worse without all the work you guys put in to help her out.