Cup Running Over
13th of February 2007 A.D.
Thinking quickly you ask what you're pretty sure has to be at least one of the top ten questions one is not supposed to ask a cop: "
How OK are you with lying exactly?"
"Rick's a cop and a good one at that, he won't have forgotten... a face?" The sentence ends on a question as you slip on a mask, another mask you should say, having put on a black mirror incarnation in the morning that is a duplicate of your face, just in case you meet someone sensitive walking their dog. Margret Smith though is distinctly not you, she's older, more confident and just a an inch or so taller, the farthest thing from the scared girl in that interrogation room.
Lost 1 Essence -> Now at 17/18 (BMI)
"Margret Smith," you whisper hurriedly as you get out of the car. "I'm working on my PhD, we met through father Forthil and he decided to tag along when we found the missing peppers at the archdiocese. I'm originally from Saint Louis which is how I got into this whole thing, make this a detective story and it should distract detectives."
"You can do that with
anyone?" Detective Murphy's voice is a harsh whisper as you cross the yard, aware she shouldn't keep talking about this and unable to let it go.
"Anyone I can picture," you explain, already affixing a restrained but warm smile on your face.
As the door creaks open, at least to your ears, you are greeted with the sight of Murphy's mother looking at her daughter, starting to frown and say something... then stopping herself at the sight of Father Forthil, She greets him first, giving you a chance to give her a unobstructed once over: tiny stud earnings and that look that most men think is what women look like without makeup when it really takes longer to put on than the alternative. She moves like someone who had picked her lane in life and by gosh she is the fastest, meanest driver in that lane.
"Mrs Murphy good afternoon, my name is Margret Smith..." The smile the handshake, everything goes down very well. You get invited in 'out of the cold' —admittedly you might have been a bit light on the illusory wardrobe, but it's getting harder to remember how cold you
should be— and then it happens.
It's not that a three year old running with a poorly-covered cup is unheard of, you can still remember that one school photo day when Leech covered your uniform in orange juice and Mom had to pull a borderline miracle to clean it in time. But most kids are either clever enough not to try to run past an adult like that into a pair of strange adults or good enough not to try. Not this tyke.
"Aunt Karin! Aunt Karin, look what
I can do!" He proceeds to try to blow a bubble of gum having just drank some juice, to predictable results.
Alas you you cannot save everything from a grape colored fate without introducing the Murphy clan at large to the concept of telekinesis, but you manage to grab it such that it only spills about a third of the contents onto the carpet rather all of it onto a frozen-in-place... you can't really call her Murphy
here can you?
Karin?
Contemplation aside you instinctively get a good grip on the squirming kid with your other hand and, handing off the cup to Father Forthil —"I've got this!"— whack him on the back to get the gum out. Thankfully it does flying all the way out into the yard.
"And that's why we don't drink juice and chew bubble gum at the same time, 'K buddy?" you say in autonomous big-sister mode, wondering all the while who the heck gave him gum to start with, never mind that
and a juice cup with a flimsy lid.
Said kid whose face had briefly scrunched up for a cry looks vaguely sheepish... which is unfortunately more than can be said for the scream that comes from inside the living room: "What are you doing to my Liam!"
"Preventing a choking hazard Lisa!" Lieutenant Murphy had recovered just in time to announce in a very un-Lieutenant-Murphy-tone. You suspect she would have liked to say more but she manages to bite it back into curt politeness.
"Little fellow's right as rain, Mrs..." you trail off with a rueful smile.
Your kid your rules, even if they are dumb.
"
Boughton," she pronounces it like it's French, causing her husband to shift uncomfortably, though not her mother who's far too busy fussing over the now pouting toddler.
Settling down after that is
a process, but you're not in a hurry and Margret Smith's not supposed to be either so you just sit through it, exchanging looks with Father Forthil while Mama Murphy moves on from fussing over her grandson to fussing about Murphy 'eating alright' then if she's still in 'that posting'. From the vaguely sympathetic 'harrumph' of a mostly silent and shockingly red-haired Sam Murphy who is sitting just far enough from both his sisters to make it very clear he wants no part of any argument between them, you'd guess that's a common occurrence. Finally you get to the reason why you're here:
"Father John Murphy you said, your great-grandfather's brother, oh I've got far better than that, I've got his journal, though..." Mrs Murphy trails off embarrassed. "It's hard to read in places."
"Might be gibberish, might be code," Sam interjects, obviously very happy at the change of subject. "I'm no historian, but I
have done a course in handwriting analyses and that is not the hand of a man who writes gibberish so code's my guess. Though what a priest would need code for..." he glances over at Father Forthil like he's expecting him to admit that Dan Brown was right all along.
"I am as curious as you are my son," the priest admits, entirely honestly.
So you wait patiently over a cup of coffee, making smalltalk with Sam and the oblivious Rich, fleshing out your story, while Marion, as you find Lieutenant Murphy's mother is called, goes to get the papers.
Lost 1 Essence -> Now at 16/18 (Subterfuge Excellency)
Rather than go straight for the journal you look through the handful of letters, most of it is very mundane, the kind of thing you'd write about to catch family up on your life in another state, but once 1869 rolls around they start to have an air of solemnity to them, at once heavier and lighter... a man settling accounts, you recognize, a chill running down your spine.
Lost 1 Essence -> Now at 15/18 (Empathy Excellency)
Then comes the journal, you pick it up gingery and look at Sam for pointers on where you might find the 'code' and... it's spells, all of it is spells, taken safely apart so that the act of a magician putting down words that they've used to channel power before does not set the page on fire or imprint it with magic some other way. Father John Murphy had been a sorcerer if not a proper wizard.
What do you do?
[] Try to get them to give you the book, that is not safe just laying around here
-[] Write in arguments from Margret Smith's perspective
[] Snap pictures of every page so you can study it later, leave the book here
[] Write in
OOC: Molly is starting to appreciate how drama free her family is.
