WELCOME TO THE NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM.

    Larissa closes her eyes with pleasure. Millicent is very good with her hands (don't think about that), and she's been quite gentle with her hair; she thinks about the braids that appeared in her hair overnight, at Orkney, wonders how to induce that sort of time and attention, and admits to herself that she'd likely need to be unconscious.

    "Hm... I have two Master's degrees. English, and education. I'm no Millicent Clyde, Ph.D..." She opens her eyes again and tips her head so that Millicent can see she's smiling, even if only a little, and that it's kindly meant. "But I've thought about going back to school. Given all the time I have on my hands, these days." Her voice is a little dryer with that remark. There's another twinge of missing Nevermore, but it subsides, and she doesn't even well up; she supposes, given all that's gone on, she should consider that a triumph.

    "Literature isn't for everyone. You have so many other gifts." She hopes Millicent can hear that she isn't being sarcastic, but can make another private admission, which is that it's likely Millicent will decide it's an insult anyway. "I certainly couldn't do what you do." Since she isn't being insulting, she won't mention that that includes the killing, filleting, and stuffing.

    She shakes out her hair and shifts on the bed, sitting a little further back so she can turn toward Millicent. The sight of her is extremely arresting. Larissa hasn't seen so much of her at once, not even when they--and so much warm, beautiful skin, it's--and with her hair braided, and no suit on, the purpling marks of Larissa's teeth on her neck are obvious. She seems to recall a point at which she'd roughly pulled Millicent's skin between her lips, unthinking, then caught herself, tried to gentle herself, except that Millicent had grabbed her head and chanted, please, please, please--

why does she relax by playing with her collar in such a manner...?

millicent silently crawls back to her initial position behind larissa. instead of touching her hair, the back of her hand rises to larissa's cheek, then to her forehead. is that larissa that's warm? or is it millicent?

❛ two master's, ❜ she says uneasily, because she must say something. ❛ impressive. ❜ and it is, but she'd expect nothing less from larissa weems. it takes a visionary to run a school like that.

she tries, with her other hand, larissa's other cheek, the other side of her forehead. and she comes to the conclusion that larissa weems is likely not experiencing delirium.

with this information, she sits numbly, then resumes her work on larissa's hair. slowly, carefully, gently, she divides it and begins a braid much like her own, except it won't be bunches of unmanageable curls. it'll be that silky starlight she's dreamt of braiding again ever since orkney…

"There's no need to thank me." That sense of something underlying the behaviour recurs--something at a distance from the surface. Like a child that expects to be scolded and apologises for laughing too loud or playing too eagerly. She doesn't know if she can ask. Did your parents shout? Were your school friends cruel? Mine were, too. Or is it something to do with the thing that's happened in the past year--the fall that was reported in the news, the shadowy warnings Larissa's received?

She wants to know, of course. The same way Millicent wanted to know about her. She'd like to push; she'd like to dig. But prying at the shell of someone so obviously still wounded--who's retreated into that shell for self-defence...

She mirrors Millicent's earlier gesture, putting a hand on the table between them. Present, but not demanding. "Millicent," she says, "I like you quite a lot, and there's no need to apologise or be grateful that I'm here or talking with you and sharing with you. If you offended or disturbed me, I wouldn't be here." She searches her face, hoping for a moment of her gaze, so that Millicent can see her sincerity.

she replaces her glasses, then pulls her plate close again and begins eating. with one hand. her other clumsily rests on the table, on top of larissa's, and it's enough for now. she imagines that double-the-nerve-endings hand, cold, pale, alone, under harsh hospital lighting. the thought hurts.

❛ i would like to keep seeing you, ❜ she says, nearly pleading (and she doesn't know why — nothing larissa has done has indicated she wishes to withdraw from millicent, but it's that stupid, stupid fear that's always lingering). ❛ i hope you like — well, if you — er — i mean, if you spend the night, i hope you like me and… ❜ her cheeks flush (larissa seems to be blushing too). she has not been with anybody in months. and the thought of being with someone so irresistibly attractive makes millicent shiver.

she keeps eating. if they are to… then they'll need their strength. she draws her hand away so that she can focus on cutting chicken, feeding it to herself. and they'll need dessert, baked lovingly for larissa's liking. she seems like she could use some gentleness after everything she went through in the united states.

    Larissa hesitates. Her hands are cautious with the words that follow:

    "Nothing would make me happier. But..." She hesitates again. "Two women dancing together would look unusual to your peers." Millicent is already marked out by so many differences; none of them are her fault, but they've already made her time among these people tenuous and difficult, made it so that she's required to fight uphill for each step she takes toward her degree.

    But those dark, shining eyes... Can Larissa ever truly deny them? Could she ever resist giving Millicent something she wants--something they both want?

❛ then we'll dance. while everyone celebrates, we will too. ❜ she'd take her larissa's hand if she could, dreaming of pressing beside her, hot against cold, and strolling around like all the men with their wives. it saddens her…

    "And I'm sure you have room for dessert?"

    Larissa's voice is silkier than the smoothest panna cotta, more buttery-sweet than the crispiest kouign-amann. She oversaw, of course, the execution and delivery of the tasting menu, but she's since taken off her chef's coat, freshened up, slicked back her hair, and arrived at the table to enjoy (ha) the conclusion of her worst critic's meal, which will be provided by her excellent pastry chef, and requires nothing from Larissa except to be here and stare down @millicentclyde while she eats it. Her sous chef doesn't need her for the rest of service. She's heard him saying to the other staff that Chef gets sort of funny when Millicent Clyde is here.

    She pulls back the chair opposite Millicent's and takes a seat. She can privately admit that the sight of Millicent Clyde, with her lipstick mostly gone, after a lengthy experience of gustatory pleasure, is quite... Hm.

❛ it delights me you've taken my words to heart. ❜ her lips curl back. that last time — awful, simply awful. her palate had been RUINED through utter carelessness. and despite her consistently eh experiences at larissa's kitchen, millicent looks forward to her seasonal tastings. and — as much as millicent has always denied that key, final star — it seems patrons still flock to chef larissa's tables, either drawn by the admittedly excellent word-of-mouth or (millicent likes to think) her reviews. perhaps high society want to see for itself why larissa will never earn that coveted star.

The pad jumped out of nowhere, then a pen. Howard observed the quality of both, and decided that they were the kinds he saw on those headless ‘journal with me!’ videos on YouTube -- then watched as the world’s strangest laundry list began to appear on its soft surface from his vantage point.

Jesus our Lord help us, he prayed, we’re both weird.

“You can tell me to slow down if I’m going too fast for the list to keep up,” he teased, then blinked at her suggestion: the Savoy. It opened sixty-four years after he died, which meant that he had been there once or twice in its heyday, shuttling around England as the coven’s help. Between the two antediluvian existences, one of them served a long list of famous clientele, the other hid behind its tangerine walls, determined not to be seen. “I won’t take offence; in fact, it’s very hard to offend me, I should think.”

Careful not to add to the list before his audience managed to sort through and address every line of ideas, Howard managed to keep his mouth shut and listened to her answers one bullet point at a time. Much as he had the urge to worsen her day for the fun of it, he wasn’t born with a mean enough streak to follow it through. He did, however, quirk an eyebrow at the suggestion that he could perchance stay in (one of!) her guest bedrooms if the Savoy was unsuited or fully booked (hard pressed to believe a hotel charging a thousand quid a night would be burgeoning with patrons), and quickly backpedalling not because it was dangerous to be offering a man she did not know a room in her house, but that it was inappropriate. To whom he didn’t quite know; she clearly was wealthy enough not to care for societal rules.

“If you can afford the Savoy, you can afford a bit of impropriety. I’m rather adventurous, if the guest room is still on offer,” he shrugged, knowing neither of them understood the offer as if it was an invitation for something beyond a mattress under his rotting body. She meant what she said, and so did he, implied plainly via his matter-of-fact response. “Your call entirely; if the Savoy is on your mind then Savoy it is.”

“Ah, but the offer for the museum tour,” he raised a finger, “now that, I would not turn down so easily. It’d make my day, week even.” Howard’s face lifted in a childlike curiosity. “It’d be a fantastic way to wind down after all these years.”

He laughed at the fact that she’d grown to liken him to this image of a fried rat, and the blunt forgiveness that came after. “The rat's name’s Howard. I was a… special shipments and removals expert.” That covers all of it, didn’t it? “Now unemployed and unhoused, so quite frankly, I'm thankful for your company. I like conversing with you, there’s no beating around the bush, straight to the point; it’s quite refreshing. Shall we then?” he gestured mildly. “We can walk and talk, as they say. I’m sure you’re eager to leave this noisy station as I am.”

she slung her satchel across her body and stood. with one hand, she pulled her suitcase. in the other was her coffee. she frowned upon looking up. she was of above-average height and wearing heels and even so, she didn't come close to howard the rat.

❛ you can order us an uber to the museum, ❜ she decided, ❛ and while on our way, you can check the savoy's availability. if it's booked out, you can stay in one of my guest bedrooms. one of them has… well, it doesn't matter. ❜ hopefully the rat was a fan of taxidermies, because each guest room had a theme (though none were rat).

there were still a great many people outside the station, yet millicent relaxed when they stepped outside. she turned to him, then paused. he looked even worse. his skin had an odd quality to it, reminiscent of one of her assistant's when she showed him the proper way to gut a... well. she decided not to tell howard the rat he looked plagued (perhaps he already knew and she'd already told him he looked like a fried rat), but she'd monitor his condition.

as they waited, she sipped her coffee and tried to remember what was on her list, or else he'd decide to fill the silence up himself and give her a heart attack in the process with another epic monologue. family grievances, right? and he mentioned he was formerly a special shipments and removals expert?

❛ millicent. and to answer your question, yes, i'm a curator. zoology collection. ❜ the best collection. ❛ and you are… what shipments were you receiving? and what were you removing? ❜ without skipping a beat, she asked, ❛ and what are your family grievances? does your family hate you? did they do something to you, or did you do something to them? ❜