Heaven help the fool who falls in love

“Naomi and I are taking a bet on whether Terry will cry at the wedding, do you want to join in?” Tilda asks, only half joking. The thought has crossed her mind to bet on it, but she hasn’t yet staked any money on it. She frowns, glancing around, but the old man hasn’t made an appearance since her arrival twenty minutes beforehand. “Terry not around, or is he still out sniffing for anything about the werewolves who attacked the bar?” She sounds annoyed, clearly still a little miffed that she didn’t know about it until much later. “I’d help him drag whoever did it through the mud, but my current project is a little too time consuming, I had to pass it to someone else. Probably for the best, I’m too personal.” She makes quotes in the air, rolling her eyes, even if she knows it’s best for her attention to be on Hugh’s assignment anyhow.

Naomi looks down at their daughter now bouncing in her lap, sticking one hand in her mouth while the other reaches for some of Naomi’s braids. The witch sighs, catching the chubby hand mid act before it manages to tug down on her hair. She smiles gently, feeling a bit braver. “You’re right on both accounts. I hate reading and you know me better than your hands. I know your hands well, though, probably better than my own at this point. And I know you,” she adds softly, reaching out to take one of Tilda’s hands. “So I know this is probably… weird. And scary, because I’m being weird. I promise, it’s nothing about you, us, or this. We’re perfect. You’re perfect,” Naomi smiles and gives her fiancee’s hand a light squeeze before she lets it go to steady a wobbly Layla in her lap. 

They have one perfect child…so why does Naomi need to rock the boat with another? Ugh. Ugh. Because she really wants another kid. Being a mother isn’t something she wanted or expected, but…it’s the best thing that’s happened to her besides Tilda. Without this little family of their’s, well…Naomi has no idea where she would have ended up. Nowhere good, that’s for certain. Her lips curve into an awkward smile when she finally releases her big news, the twitch in her eye from nerves as she watches Tilda’s reaction. Surprised for sure, but happy? Excited about the idea? “If I was joking my heart wouldn’t be pounding out of my chest right now from telling you,” she insists with a nervous laugh, looking Tilda over. There’s no turning back now that it’s out in the open. The decision is there…even if she changes her mind down the road, there’s the potential for disappointment, resentment, letting the person she loves down…shit. Naomi can feel her mouth going dry and her upper brow begin to sweat as fear sets in. “I want it, I do,” the witch nods, finally meeting her finacee’s gaze. “I’m just fucking terrified. Sorry- er…whatever, I already said it. Layla, don’t say that word,” she says, pointing down to their infant before looking back up at Tilda. “It’s definitely not how I planned to spring this on you either, you just sort of busted me,” Naomi chuckles with a wave of her hand, “But here we are. I’m glad you found out, I’ve been…I’m nervous. So I’ve been doing research, asking some others on how to tell you or talk about, I don’t know.” Naomi gives a light shrug, looking down at Layla again. “I love being a mom. I love being a mom a lot more than I thought I would. We both know I had no interest at first, too. But things have changed. I’ve changed, we both have. And I want to have another kid.” 

Naomi knows her very well to read all of these thoughts off her face without Tilda saying a word, and even better to say all the things that let the little knot of worry ease. The touch erases any lingering doubts, and it’s easier for Tilda to listen to Naomi without anxiety over the past hanging over their heads. “You don’t have to be wary about telling me anything, I promise to always listen to you,” she tells her, serious but for a moment, and then a grin tugs at the sides of her lips as she finishes, “I’ll only judge after you’ve said your part.” In truth, her mind is still racing through the possibilities. Is now the right time for another child? She’s got her work, and Naomi has hers, and how much harder will it be for them to chase Layla around the house if Naomi has a belly in the way? And yet... The picture of their family in the future flashes through her mind: two of them on the couch, side by side, two children strewn across their lap as they watch a movie, a tangle of limbs.

“When I was younger, I always promised myself I would give my kids the family and childhood I never had. Skipped around for a while, always thinking kids were around the corner and then thinking they were never going to happen.” Between the army, between Theo, between the years afterwards when she didn’t feel comfortable in her own skin, let alone with someone else, it seemed a farfetched dream. It isn’t, though, it’s right here. Tilda smiles, reaching across the table, her hand resting on Naomi’s, both settled on top of Layla’s hair. Their daughter doesn’t protest short of her little hum of confusion, tugging lightly on Naomi’s hair. “Nothing in our life seems to be going to plan, but I think we’ve turned out well. We’ve got her, and we’ve got each other, and we’ve got our work. Can’t imagine I’d ever find something I’d want to put ahead of work, either.” Her work is important to her, but it’s still weird sometimes to know she’d walk away from work for them. Thankfully, that’s not required. “I love you and I love our family, if anyone could handle another kid and love another kid, it would be us. I’m scared of something happen, but... I’d like another baby, too.” She studies her a moment longer, frowning slightly. “Am I that unnerving to ask or...?” she wonders, not annoyed, but curious.

Hugh raises a brow, mirroring hers. He did hear the news– small town, rumors travel fast– but he didn’t have time to properly congratulate Tilda and Naomi. “I’m not afraid of your fiancee. She’s gonna have to do worse than some hexes on my wardrobe.” He smirks with his chin lifted in the haughtiest way one could imagine, obviously joking. Naomi Clover is a powerful witch and he doesn’t need her ire on his back. If only he had power like that… but Hugh shoves off the intrusive thoughts in his head. “What can I say, I’m a busy man.” He says as he bites into the fruit. He doesn’t even like them, to be honest. It’s just an easy meal. “I don’t care what happened at the gala two years ago. I wasn’t even on the Council back then. I actually enjoyed reading your article.” More accurately, he enjoyed the way Delilah reacted to the said article. Even though their lunch meeting is tacitly off-the-record, Hugh doesn’t divulge his actual position on the gala. He trusts Tilda– doesn’t mean he trusts others in the media. “I want you to have this…” he starts as he pulls out a small, rectangular box from his jacket and hands it to her, “and continue to do what you are amazing at.” Inside is an ornate fountain pen, and a USB, containing whatever dirt his informant could find on Maksim Kozlov. “Consider it an engagement present.” All this cloak and dagger aren’t his preferred style, but considering the risk, he has to be cautious.

Tilda laughs. “Don’t tell her that, she’ll take it as a challenge and then you’ll never get peace from her. She’ll try to make you eat your words - and then I’ll never get any peace trying to avoid getting roped in,” she jests. “Though maybe it’ll persuade you to take a break, you look worse than I do and I’ve got a toddler at home learning to walk.” And break things. Half of their home as charms on it to keep it from breaking, and caps on sharp corners where it’s unavoidable. Her observation, however, has less to do with her own tiredness of motherhood and everything to do with the look on Hugh’s face. His default is tired, and while this is similar shtick, she can’t help finding it off. “Appealing to my pride? Alright, you’ve got my attention, I did think you’d want to do damage control with your new position. I’ve already gotten calls from Sarkissian in that regard.” Her eyes roll at the notion. Everyone knows her love for the council is limited to the ones she knows on it, and even then she tends to regard Hugh’s position as an unfortunate evil. She takes the box from his hands, frowning, though she doesn’t lift the lid on it beyond a fraction before closing it at the first glimpse inside. “Expensive gift, you shouldn’t have,” she says carefully, holding it in her lap. Which person? “Sure you want to do it? There’s no taking this back in a couple weeks if you get cold feet. I’d hate to get on the wrong side of your lover, either.” It shouldn’t take long to dig through whatever he has on it, enough to slap article up before the gala--Hm. Tilda’s lips quirk with amusement. “Could stir the weather so close to the gala. Don’t really care myself, but do you?”

Date: May 10th, 2021 Location: The garden behind Azalea Gallery and Art Studio Time: 9PM

@tildaballantine​

“I mean, you gotta start small to start at all, Tilda. Nothin’ shabby about doing something basic when you’re getting your grip on a new thing.” Jonas said, flicking a switch by the back door that turned on the garden lights before he rolled outside. He realized belatedly that he sounded like one of those motivational pamphlets at the church where he held his AA meetings, then decided to let the thought go. Either Tilda would call him out on it and they’d have a nice laugh or she’d ignore it, but tonight was about her. There was a cardboard box full of odds and ends on his lap and he sat it on a low stone bench. The candles he arranged in an even line, the rest he sat aside. One hurdle at a time, he reminded himself. “I was drilled in this shit from the time I could talk in full sentences, that’s an unfair advantage over most. You’re smart, you’re capable as all hell, and I think you’ll do just fine.” Jonas rolled back towards the garden wall to give her some leeway, then flashed her a smile. In all honesty he had been surprised that she had been willing to let him tutor her in magic, but he’d take it as a compliment if nothing else. Naomi was one of his dearest friends, it only followed that he should try to cultivate a friendship with her partner too. “Don’t matter which candle you light either, okay?”

“I hope you’re still saying that when both of us are missing eyebrows at the end of this.” Another response buds on her lips, half natural sarcasm and half bravado, but she silences it with little more than a grunt of acknowledgement. It’s jarring for anyone to teach something she’s long since given up on, let alone someone for which she has little cares, but it’s the best course. Can’t worry about disappointing someone she knows more through Naomi than anything. The garden is brightly lit, flowers beginning to bloom. “Evi’s work, huh? You really did let her run with whatever caught her eye. It suits this place,” she says, more a distraction from what she has to do than any real question. “She going to be okay if some of this ends up burning? Probably shouldn’t have started-- Alright, fine.” She promised Naomi, Layla, and herself that she would give this genuine effort. Her eyes narrow on the line of candles, sucking in a deep breath. Her magic often feels like a limb not quite connected to her, and Tilda has only ever used it enough to stave off the headaches that come from not using it. Reaching for it now feels like she’s plunging hands first into murky, icy water: it surges to her and through her, leaving her feeling cold and clammy. One of the candles flicker. She glares more. It flickers more, a small burst of flame, before spluttering out as though pinched. “Fuck,” she murmurs, rubbing her face. Embarrassment is creeping through her at the inability to do this simple thing and she shuffles it along into the somewhat sharp question. She’s always been better at asking questions. “How do you do it? What does your magic feel like when you use it?”

“So, so much.” Fiona laughs with a shrug. “It’s a fun hobby, plus I like sharing things with everyone. If you want me to stop, I can! But I feel like I know someone who wouldn’t want that.” She bends over to make a face at Layla, only to laugh at the sight of her, asleep. “Whoops. Well, I’ll just take her word for it.” Straightening up, Fiona’s halfway toward one joke or another when Tilda’s concern hits her hard, especially thanks to the gentle touch on her arm. She doesn’t begrudge the nudge, simply crossing the street, though she still follows Tilda’s gaze. “Who…” Her eyes are searching, but then turns back to Tilda, quirking a brow. “Can’t say I know too much about the old days, but that’s good to know,” she laughs, though it fades as she turns once more and finally catches a glance at the man. With those secondhand memories brought back to the forefront of her mind, Fiona’s steps stutter and stop. The fae blinks hard once, twice, her brow furrowed. “I know him.” He’s approaching them with some haste, this man so much taller than both of them, and Fiona puts herself between Tilda with the stroller and this man – what is his name – without a second thought. He’s making some comment about wondering when he’d next find a Meadowes, but she’s hardly paying attention. “We should go,” Fiona murmurs to her company and is almost horrified by the laugh the comment receives in response. “And dash away from my questions about why my life is bein’ pried into these days by some do-good reporter? Seems awful rude to me. How’s the family, by the way, Fiona?”

“Are you bribing my daughter with sweets? Sneaky of you, it doesn’t get you out of pointing out you’ve got a sweet tooth to rival Rafael at that bakery of his. The Sweet Spot, he’s the owner there,” she clarifies simply, as she’s decided to do for things that Fiona might not remember, trying to keep the levity of the situation going. Paranoia is unbecoming of her, but she can’t help thinking of the last time she and Fiona had only gone for a walk. A scar for Tilda, hearing loss for Fiona. Her brows quirk, their steps faltering. “You know him?” How? Tilda can’t recognize a thing about him, not even as he comes closer. Handsome, sure, and the sort of smile that she might have found charming if it weren’t for the way Fiona - Fiona, of all people! - slides between them like her instincts are screaming as Tilda’s are. Her eyes land on Fiona’s shoulder warily. Her eyes narrow on him as he talks, pieces of recognition flaring to life as she recalls him from the article Avery wrote weeks ago, the very person she had started investigating herself. “Do you have something to say or are you just trying to intimidate us, Daniel? I’ve got a pen, I’m willing to take a quote,” she snarks, stepping in front of the stroller, mind racing. She’s shoulder to shoulder with Fiona, as if they might form a human shield. Fiona is taller than her by a few inches. It doesn’t fill her with confidence next to Daniel who dwarfs them both by nearly a foot. Her brain scrambles for a magical solution, knowing her fists are little useful against the tell-tale paleness of his face. Vampire, she thinks the article said. No magic comes to mind, not even a sputter of it at her fists. “If not, we’ve got places to go, my dad is expecting us.” Leave, leave, leave, her brain chants, face stony. From the look on his face, he’s torn between amusement and annoyance, gaze swiveling between them. “Her family is fine. Go away.”

Date: 10 May 2021 Time: 12:02 PM Location: Lethean Times

Hugh arrived 2 minutes before the lunch break at the Lethean Times lobby. He has been standing there without a word, making the receptionist very uncomfortable. In his hand is a brown bag, and he stares at his wristwatch until Tilda Ballantine shows up. “It is quite unbecoming of a proper lady to keep your date waiting, Ms. Ballantine.” He jokes dryly. They both know this is a business call, but Hugh is savvy enough to mask it as a harmless lunch date. Without wasting a second, he strides out of the lobby toward a secluded bench around the building. He flops down and opens up his bag, pulling out a granola bar, an apple and a banana, a can of Redbull which is his lunch. “So, I’ve got a favor to ask you.” He cuts to the chase, peeling off the banana. 

Hugh in good humor isn’t a rare sight, but it still makes her arch a brow, amusement crossing her face. “Didn’t you hear? I’m engaged now so unless you want her to hex your shoes or your perfect ties, you’ll have to be more careful during our secret rendezvous,” she tells him with a laugh, mindful of the receptionist watching them. No one in the Lethean Times can be fully trusted to not gossip, and she’s relieved Hugh is wise enough to know it. All the same, her thoughts swirl with possibilities until they take a seat. She shrugs, unwrapping her sandwich. “I figured as much, you don’t ask to meet me so often unless there’s a reason. What is it? If it’s about the article rehashing last time Lethe had a gala and it’s horrible end - as in someone literally dying - I can’t take it back.” Nor would she. Tilda has no fondness for the council, despite the fact that her friendship with Hugh is, perhaps, one of her few strong friendships.

The sound of Tilda’s voice would normally delight Naomi, but today it nearly causes her to just ten feet across the room. After recovering from the jump that knocks over several of her pregnancy books and a scone, Naomi smooths back her braids and clears her throat. “H-hm? What am I doing? I’m reading before work!” She shrugs innocently, thanking her lucky stars most of the pregnancy books were knocked onto the floor. The one in her hands, however, is still displayed right in front of them. Ah….well. Well. Panic takes over as sweat drips down the witches brow (seriously?!), and she tries to come up with some excuse as to why she has a stack of pregnancy books when they have a nearly two year old daughter. 

Naomi laughs a little too loudly at Tilda’s joke, sweating a little more when it earns her a look. Jesus fucking Christ… “I had a craving for lemon scones and a matcha latte, don’t judge me,” she grumbles, feeling more than a little defeated by her partner. Well, this isn’t exactly how she wanted to talk to Tilda about it, but now is as good a time as any, right? Naomi sighs, watching her fiancee struggle with the stroller’s buckle for a few seconds before their daughter is let loose. Seconds later there’s a toddler trying to climb into her lap, and a shoe slams a little too hard into her vagina. “Oh-kay,” the witch grunts as she leans down to pick Layla up. “Yeah,” Naomi nods once Layla’s settled in her lap, “you know, just some light reading before work. All jokes aside, Til, I….well, I didn’t want to talk to you about it this way, but when have we ever done anything the way we’ve planned it?” She chuckles with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway,” Naomi smiles down at her cooing daughter, offering one of her braids as tribute to fiddle with. “I…want to have another one. I want a second kid. And before you say anything, I know it’s a lot of work. One is a lot already, but I…I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how this may be my last chance to do it. To get pregnant, I mean.” 

Her smile falters for a moment, a frown taking its place that she attempts to smother. It’s not trust, they’ve overcome such things in the last few years, but Tilda can’t help thinking of another person who panicked when she appeared in the room out of the blue. The resurgence of old memories brings a sour taste to her mouth and she buries it all the more, uncaring of the worry it brings. “Pretty sure you hate reading,” she points out uselessly, crouching to pick up the books on the floor. Magic can do it, sure, but Tilda leans on the reliable things in times of question - and the sight of more pregnancy books is all the more reason to feel a swirl of panic. No, she chides herself, catching sight of the ring on her finger, glinting in the light. No distrust, no secrets. Tilda straightens, smiling at the way her daughter flings herself into Naomi’s arms and then laughing at the grimace on Naomi’s face. “You are a terrible liar under pressure, love. I know your face better than my own hands.”

Tilda slips into the seat across from her, eyebrows raising. No, nothing in their lives were planned, but it’s the most ominous way to start a sentence. What things in life aren’t planned? Bad things, she thinks, until she catches sight of Layla running her chubby fingers over Naomi’s hair and a smile tugs at her lips. Thought derails an instant later. “Another kid?” She blurts out, looking from Layla to Naomi with confusion. Tilda isn’t opposed to the idea, but she doesn’t relish the thought of being pregnant again, and she isn’t-- Oh, well, that’s easier to figure out, she thinks. This isn’t bad, this is just... different and unexpected and-- Well, didn’t Tilda spring the same thing on her with Layla? “Just to be clear, this isn’t an elaborate joke to get back at me for telling you about Layla the way I did?” Out of the blue isn’t strong enough to explain their last talk involving a pregnancy, but life hardly waits for opportune moments. Tilda taps her fingers on the table between them and then steals a lemon scone off Naomi’s plate. “Are you sure about this? I don’t want you to think this is something you absolutely have to do, it should be something you want.” Tilda tries to catch her eyes. “You stuck with me when I wanted to do something, I’m not going to do any less. I’ve always wanted more kids, and Layla would love a sibling. Just... Another kid, wow. You really weren’t kidding, this is really not how I planned on us thinking about it.” She leans back in her seat, shrugging. “Not that I considered it much either.”

Date: May 9th, 2021 Location: Ground Up Cafe Time: 10 am Status: Open

Naomi thought a little ‘light reading’ before work may ease her peace of mind about this whole, ‘pregnancy,’ thing. For months she’s been mulling it over in her head, the idea of becoming pregnant with what would be her and Tilda’s second child. She likes the idea of having another child, even of being the biological mother of said child. But this fear has been looming over her family’s heads since her birth. And Naomi wonders if it’s even possible for that fear to go away. Starting with a baby book (or two) may help, she thinks, having checked out about seven different books on ‘being pregnant,’ from the local library. She flips through them now before work, eyes going wider and wider once she gets to the pages showing pictures of what her vagina will look like during birth. An hour in and Naomi finally breaks. “Oh, my god….Jesus Christ, it can stretch like that?!” The witch blinks, feeling a little light headed. “No. Nope, no. No, no, no, no, no,” Naomi grumbles loudly to herself, head shaking wildly. She’s being far too loud in such a crowded place, people have begun to stare, but goddammit, this woman’s vagina is being ripped in half on page 106! 

It’s a rare day off. Since taking on the position of editor alongside her normal duties, the small side-effect of Naomi’s business somewhat collapsing all those weeks ago, and the fact that Layla is a full-time responsibility, Tilda hasn’t had a moment of peace. “Just how much baking have you been doing, Fiona?” she asks, amused, taking the covered tray of cookies and tucking it beneath Layla’s stroller. It feels like it’s been a while since she had a moment with Fiona, and sometimes she can forget that her bubbly friend isn’t quite the same mother hen she used to be. Layla sleeps, tuckered out from her mischief with Naomi that morning. “Hmm,” Tilda murmurs, setting a hand on Fiona’s arm and nudging her to cross the street as they reach the end of the sidewalk. It’s only when they reach the other side that she sighs, still frowning at a figure near the end of the road. “Sorry, that idiot has been following us for a little while. I’m tempted to lead him straight to Terrance’s and see how he likes following people then.” She shakes her head, annoyed. “In the old days, I would just punch him, but...” Kid, and all, Tilda finishes silently, chin tilting towards the stroller.

That compliment earns Tilda kiss, which Naomi promptly gives her. She even lingers a little longer than she normally would in a restaurant setting, savoring this small moment of happiness among an ongoing storm. Maybe shit hasn’t completely hit the fan yet, but a bit was flung their way when that arsonist set her shop ablaze. Now it looks like an overdone crème brûlée. “Do I? You’re the writer…maybe I learned from you,” she smiles, tapping the edge of Tilda’s nose with her index finger. It’s nearly impossible to think about losing this person in front of her, this person she loves so much and has a kid with. At this point, worry is like another layer of skin on her body. She’s used to it, it’s always there, and no matter how much it scars, it always grows back. But they’ve proven themselves as partners and now mothers time and time again, stronger than everything else trying to tear them down. It’s easy to forget with all the clutter in their lives now that they both started out proving themselves as survivors. Naomi sighs, “you’re right. If not you or me than Terry, because we know he’s has success with kids in the past. He may not have made you, but he raised you and you…you’re perfect.” The hand closest to Tilda, the one she’s fiddling with, reaches out and takes hers, squeezing her palm gently. “They’re probably playing spaghetti monsters right now as we speak.” 

Clearly they’re both winning by Tilda’s choice in attire, and quite frankly she’s sweating at the idea that there could be more. Matilda Ballantine in a short little nighty? Sign me the fuck up, Naomi thinks, licking her lips as they pull away from a rather heated kiss. Later, later, she reminds herself, trying to appear a little less eager than she actually is. They can make it through dinner… maybe. “Oh god. If she’s anything like me in high school, we may want to put bar on her windows…magical ones, sturdy ones.” But, if she’s anything like Naomi in high school, even with bars on the window, she would find a way. Picturing baby Layla as a teenager in a tube top and short shorts yelling at them for being too ‘lame’ is definitely a wake up call Naomi did not need. She shakes it away, instead focusing on the wine list in front of them. She squints, “maybe a Merlot? I’m thinking about getting the grilled chicken and this place is so fancy it has wine pairings with the meal. Did you see that? Look at this,” Naomi leans over, pointing to her menu. There is in fact, in the corner of each menu item, a wine listed that would go best with said item. “I bet the bathroom has little mints and perfumes too- oh fuck, do you think I’ll have to tip someone when we go in there? It really freaks me out when they have bathroom attendance just in there with hand towels…they just…listen to you go to the bathroom, Til.” 

The kiss is unexpected, but not unwelcome and she relishes the chance to kiss Naomi without worrying about something else. Is even a little sad when she breaks away, even if its a good thing when the waiter is blushing red from the table over. Tilda smothers a laugh, and her nose crinkles as Naomi taps it. “Oh, alright, if you want to shower me with compliments, I’ll accept it. I’m a damn good writer, and they deserved the smack down I gave them,” she says with a shrug, thinking to her article on the arsonist and the council not long after Naomi’s attack. “I know, I know, it was dangerous, but it was necessary.” She knows its better to show teeth before someone bites you first. She prefers this topic of writing, of words, rather than the worry underneath it at all. She hadn’t missed the way Naomi kissed her, and the fear underneath all the enthusiasm, as if worried one kiss might be their last. No, Tilda thinks they deserve better than worrying about things like that. She smiles, pleased and near glowing with happiness at the sweetness of her words; no one has ever considered her worthy, let alone perfect, and she forgets sometimes how heady it is to be wanted the way Naomi wants her, the way she wants Naomi. “You’ve already succeeded in wooing me, Clover, I’ll take off my dress willingly when we’re in private,” she teases. She links their fingers, and then gives into the temptation, leaning across the table to kiss her again. Its a coincidence that the waiter is returning for their wine order and promptly disappears again, making her laugh against Naomi’s lips and drawback.

Pleased with herself, she lets go of her hand to look at the menu, skimming over the listed items. Focus, she has to remember, even if she’s antsy for when dinner is done and they can head onto the next adventure of the weekend. “What, you want to turn our daughter into Harry Potter?” she asks, blinking, amused at the notion. “And if she’s anything like you, she’ll find a way around some bars on her window. Face it, we’re fucked. We’re going to be too old to be cool.” She shouldn’t find the notion so entertaining. Sure, its worrying, and a little weird to imagine their baby as a teenager, rolling her eyes at them, but as Tilda lowers the menu back to the table, a grin is on her face. “I think I’ll get the steak, I’ll steal chicken off yours, and merlot goes with anything,” she decides with a nod. Naomi’s worry is so normal, so different than all their other ones so far that when the waiter comes to take their orders, she’s too busy laughing to speak properly and Naomi is left to handle him. When he leaves, head shaking, she’s composed herself again, but still looks amused. “I know Lethe is desperate for jobs to give people, but I can’t imagine they have bathroom attendants. I mean, that’s just extreme! Is this place that nice?” she casts a critical eye around, but, well, she supposes it is.

“I appreciate your faith in me, Matilda, though I fear it’s simply because you’re seeking a favor.” Nina tosses over her shoulder, tone light enough despite her bluntness. She’s done nothing to earn her merit as of late, and Tilda is here seeking a favor. Doling out compliments won’t make the magic any more cooperative, though. Nina should know. She’s tried it. Still, she’s sympathetic. A woman with a baby comes to you pleading for help. How could she say no, even with her past with the Ballantines? Can’t say no. Not really. So Nina simply sighs, nodding. “Well, I’ll give you what I can, then. Won’t promise much — certainly don’t want you getting your hopes up. But… I’ll give it a go.” First, though, she pours the tea and hands over a cup and saucer, trading off for the flier of Fiona. Pity, really, the thought of this smiling thing shivering in the woods somewhere. “I haven’t myself, but I had a tutor as a child who did. All sorts of magic lessons, really, but I do remember some of the divining process that she described. Have been doing a bit of reading, too. Plenty of time nowadays to try and light that simmering spark.” It’s a halfhearted story as she squints at Fiona’s photo then nods. “This will do for now. Follow me, won’t you?” The women enter a back room, well lit thanks to tall windows, though Nina is quick to draw the shades. “Oh, the darkness is just for me. Tend to have a terrible headache after this sort of thing if I’m squinting in sunlight.” She then sighs, sitting in what some would almost certainly deem an almost gaudy armchair behind a shining quartz ball, gesturing for Tilda and Layla to sit opposite. “Now. Ah, tell me about Fiona, I suppose. I recognize her face somewhat, but it helps to know what I’m seeking beyond the blonde hair and the freckles, charming as they are. Will help me seek out her… energy, if you will. What is she like?”

Tilda doesn’t speak for several seconds, and the way her eyes linger on Nina’s face, flashing as she decides and discards various answers, its obvious she’s thinking of a polite way to respond. “I am asking a favor, and I imagine its a big one given we don’t hear much about you and your visions,” she decides with a shrug. “But I’m also not lying. Talent doesn’t dry up, it gets blocked - up to you why its happening.” She doesn’t know, and doesn’t care, if she’s honest, though sympathy wells up in her. Tilda isn’t known for any sort of magic, but she’s got a reputation in Lethe for her journalism, and she doesn’t want to imagine a day where she draws her computer towards her and feels no urge to write. She holds onto the tea, sipping it slowly, more to be polite than any urge to drink, waiting for whatever verdict Nina will come up with. With relief, she follows her into the backroom and Tilda helps her close the curtains while Nina settles in an interesting armchair. The crystal ball is... equally interesting, and Tilda bites her tongue to hold back questions, channeling the Tilda of her youth, who watched silently and did what she was told. Layla twines a hand in her hair, and holds tight to it, but Tilda pays no mind, a thoughtful frown on her face. “Have you ever met a person that’s just good? Not good once in a while, or good to you, or good in that heroic save the world sense, but someone who is just always happy to help? That’s who she is. Not always in a cheerful mood, but she’s pretty good at putting someone else in one.” She searches her brain for something to say, some other quality about Fiona. She can’t even tell if Nina is listening, both of their eyes are focused on the crystal ball, and her words are slow coming, and quiet, unwilling to break the atmosphere in the room. Layla, too, seems content to watch. Tilda squints, unable to see anything in the ball’s swirling depths.

Evi simply raises a brow at the mention of religious affiliation, then gives a shrug. “Really do learn new things every day.” She’d never known much about the Ballantines, anyway, even if the name had been tossed around her house a fair amount during her youth. No matter — what’s past is past. Or so she can hope, anyway. The next comment earns a laugh and a shake of the head. “No, if I remember right, neither of us were very good at conforming. Think we’d both stick out like sore thumbs, but what’s new?” The banter is easy and light, or so it seems until Evi observes the darkening expression on Tilda’s face. This is something heavy, then. She’s never been fond of a high pressure magic situation. Always seems to disappoint with those. But hell if she won’t try. “Can’t say I know her personally. But she rings a bell, and besides, it’s fairly difficult to miss those posters.” A blonde, blue-eyed thing, beaming under bold font: ‘MISSING.’ Had been for at least a couple of weeks, or so Evi had observed from the dates on the poster. A shame, certainly, but how is she meant to help? No flower or fern can fix this sort of thing. She’ll try, though, for her old friend more than the missing fae girl, really. 

“Alright. Well. Let’s think.” Evi wanders down the aisle then, though she’s thinking outside the box, arms folded and lips pursed. It’s only after a moment of contemplation that she reaches out, grabbing a pendant. “Give me a second.” She’s quick to duck into the back room, emerging with a weathered tome that she lays out on the counter. Opening it makes her cough, and Evi frowns. “Kak — you’re lucky I like you. Should charge you for flaring up my allergies.” But she runs a finger down a dusty table of contents before flipping a fair number of pages, then announcing: “Ah, here we are. The pendant itself could work, but it’s not ideal. This should do the trick. Used this once myself when I lost a necklace of my mother’s. Might be better with objects, but it’s worth a try, I think.” The pendant is pulled from her pocket and she exhales noisily before laying it flat and covering it with her palm. A muttered incantation there, something soft but still said aloud. Verbal spells are more consistent. Once the metal has warmed beneath her hand, once that rush has eased, Evi opens her eyes and holds out the charmed tracking device toward Tilda. “That’s that. But I’m guessing you’d probably like some company in your search, wouldn’t you?”

Her lips quirk. “Not important knowledge to anyone, not many people in this town are religious. Or not many that I have seen,” she amends, knowing the ins-and-outs of religion in Lethe aren’t really her area of expertise. Her investigations don’t often overlap with it, after all, and she shrugs lightly, dismissively. “We get into enough trouble with that as is, but I think we’re a little too old to be bothered by it.” Should be, and yet the wounds can fester still, especially in moments where they are brought up randomly, as this conversation seems to be going. Tilda shakes her head. She isn’t here to catch up, much as she would enjoy the conversation some other day. “She’s my friend, and my kid’s god-mother. I... Look, you know I’m shit at magic, I tried a summoning charm the other day and lost an eyebrow. Yes, Naomi fixed it,” she counters, as if expecting the question. “You must know something? If not, I have to ask Nina Ismail for help again, and I probably pushed my luck with that already.” It’s not that she expects Evi to know much more, but... Well, she might know something. She tries not to look as desperate as she feels.

Tilda follows along with her as they scan the shelves, and the quiet murmurs of magic are lost at her. She feels like an idiot, and a failure, and yet both are traits she’s had hurled at her since she was a child, and she ignores it. Easier said than done when Evi disappears into the backroom. Her voice is faint, but Tilda catches some of it. “It’s worth a try,” she calls back, knowing little about pendants. The petals Layla tries to grasp start to fall, the magic holding them afloat fading as Evi focuses on something else, and Tilda narrows her eyes at them, trying to keep them afloat. They do, shakily, and it makes her head hurt, so she looks up with relief when she follows Evi into the back, a pendant in hand. She shifts Layla to her other arm, taking the pendant in her hand. It’s warm, and she can feel the magic emitting from it. She looks up at Evi, and lets out a small laugh. “Do I look that idiotic and lost?” she asks, less of a question that expects an answer and more of a fact. Her head tilts, contemplating Evi for a moment, unsure of whether it’s pity or something else that drives her to help. She nods, a little tightly, and the flowers choose that moment to fall at their feet, and her smile turns a little grim. “If you aren’t busy, another set of eyes might be nice. I’m sure you could see more sunlight before it’s gone, too.” 

“As a founder, Tilda. Singular. And that’s hardly a boon anymore. Look at Odette, at August, founders both. One has stepped away from power only to have lamia after lamia step into his place, all ill suited, and Odette…” Kate didn’t want to speak ill of Odette, her quasi daughter and her confidante, but she could be realistic to suit her audience. Matilda would likely accept nothing else. Edmund needed to die, Edmund was a burden and a danger, but the way it had gone down had very clearly damaged Odette’s standing amongst the council if not also the townsfolk. “Odette has the loyalty of a select few, and those few hold little clout these days. The townsfolk love to tell stories about the founders, believe whatever rumor floats their way, but there is no reverence. No real power. People may listen to what I say, but without truth behind it, even that attention crumbles.” Wherever Tilda had gotten that notion Kate couldn’t say, but it was necessary to disabuse her of it now. What did she want for Lethe? Quite a interesting question, and one that Kate didn’t have a concrete answer for yet. Just concepts, ideas, thoughts cooked up as she tried to relax on the boat that she and Patrick had rented for their trip. “To be honest? I’m not a hundred percent sure yet. But that can be easily solved by soliciting the ideas of my staff, the masses, but most importantly you. We need the ideas first, then we can build the bridges towards them. What do you think Lethe needs most, Tilda? Truly?”

“You underestimate what people think of you. You weren’t even active in my lifetime, and they still feared what you could do.” Therein lies the issue, but Tilda does not point this out, it’s unnecessary when Katherine knows the results of her seclusion. Power is meaningless if you don’t use it for something, and when it collects dust and people remember how much more they can achieve without it... Well, no one goes asking somebody else to wear a crown. She frowns, taking in Katherine’s words. “You are right, of course. I hardly good things about the founders these days, not unless it’s from some of the older folk who believe in things like divine rights. Have you told anyone your story? Your real one, and not the bits you’ve had to use for the council.” This is what they need. The real reason for Lethe’s existence in the eyes of one of its original makers. Her eyes are narrowed, the logistics of it floating through her head. It is, after all, not possible to tell the story without pieces from the others, but Katherine will do for now. She blinks from it at the question, a little surprised to find it spun back to her when she expects Katherine to be brimming with ideas. “My...” girlfriend, wife, partner. What is Naomi, other than her a piece of her? “I want my partner to be safe. I want my daughter to be safe. Lethe needs to figure out what it can do to keep innocent people from being hurt, to hell with the rest until we figure out this piece. But I am no law-maker.”

“I could see Theo bringing you here, probably to impress you,” the witch adds with a snort, gently squeezing her partner’s hand. “I’m obviously preferable!” They’re both fiddlers, picking at anything they can get their hands on. Now that Naomi crafts custom jewelry, they have more things to fiddle with. Luckily Tilda taking hold of her hand gives Naomi the excuse to drop her phone back into her back. Less fiddling and no calling Terry to check up on Layla. She’s fine. They’re fine. The fires have them on edge, especially considering both have made trips to the hospital in the last three months. But it doesn’t seem like the police or the council or anywhere near close to finding the person or individuals responsible. “It’s because she’s so little and vulnerable. She’s a part of us, she’s ours to protect. Of course we were bound to fall head over heels for that kid,” Naomi shakes her head, snorting in spite of their situation. This little family they’ve created is one of the most, if not the most, important things in her life right now. She can’t lose that.

Naomi takes Tilda’s phone and stuffs it into her bag before pushing the whole thing deeper into the booth. “Oh he’d probably yell, ‘it’s fine!’ into the phone before hanging up after like, the third call. That man has taken care of more children than Sesame Street. And kids are raised on that shit, Til,” Naomi points out as she looks over the menu. They’ve been doing so much chatting, she nearly forgot their waiter would be back to take their order any minute now. However her lovely date and partner, the incomparable Matilda Ballantine, is thoroughly distracting the witch from picking an entrée, much less deciding on a wine. “Hm,” Naomi hums, eyes trailing over her date until they reach her eyes again. “I do deserve a treat, don’t I?” She smirks back, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Tilda’s lips. “I’d say you’re spoiling me, but I want to be spoiled. I’m already thoroughly wowed, Tilda. I can’t imagine what else you have under all that.” Does she bite on her lip to keep from whistling? Yes. That would be too much, and she doesn’t want to cause too much for a scene in such a fancy place. Keep it PG, she thinks, looking down at their hands when Tilda’s grip suddenly tightens. Their eyes meet again and Naomi frowns, searching her gaze. Worrying is her best bet, there has to be a lot of Tilda’s mind. First the scare at the parade, then Fiona goes missing, now this…it’s a lot to handle for one person. Naomi’s a little too aware of what that feels like. She rolls her eyes, “I did not such thing! I blame Terry. He lets her do anything! Bite, kick, scratch, he thinks it’s funny. One time I watched her bite his earlobe and he cackled and booped her nose. Cackled and booped her nose, Matilda,” Naomi’s finger wags in the air, the smile on her lips slightly growing. Talking about their daughter has that effect. “Yeah, you like? I went to that shop near the café we like, the one we keep saying we have to go in but never do. Can’t fucking remember the name but I gotta say,” she sighs, looking down at herself. “They know how to really tailor a dress to fit you like a fucking glove. But I agree we really have to stop finding ourselves in that damn hospital. I have too many visitor passes and now I have a bracelet to match. Anyway, what kind of wine do you want, babe? Red, white? We obviously have to go all out.”

“You are more preferable than all the people in this town combined,” she assures her with a return squeeze, amused. It probably was with Theo, given he’s the only person in Lethe she can remember having romantic inclinations for in the first place. Funny how things change, she hasn’t been happier in her life than she is now. With Naomi, and Layla, and their little family, even with all the troubles coming Lethe. She agrees with a light hum. “See, you have a way with words. That’s exactly it, she’s a part of us - a little bit of me and little bit of you.” Their daughter, no matter what biology says about it all. In fact, she can already see the little ways Layla is like Naomi, the little quirks that she mimics from the people she loves most. She snorts, returning to her spinning of a piece of jewelry on Naomi’s wrist. “I think it means we need to work on our paranoia. If anyone would protect our baby with their life, it’s Terry, so I think she will be okay. And she’ll have fun, he’ll make spaghetti again and she’ll make a mess with it,” she says firmly, nodding her head with certainty at the idea. Terry raised her, in so much as one could when Tilda couldn’t escape from her family’s clutches often, and he knows what he’s doing. Still, it eats at her.

Tilda settles back into her seat, but only briefly, enjoying the way Naomi’s eyes flicker over her. “You’ve been through hell of a lot lately, I think you deserve to be spoiled a little bit. And I miss this, so, really, it’s all for my benefit clearly.” She smiles against her lips, and all too soon the two are torn apart, reminded of the very public location of their date. Maybe it’s good, to distract from the worries prodding at them, demanding attention. Tilda shakes her head, dismissing them, and instead moves to the rest. “It sounds like Terry, but I don’t doubt you and your mischief, Naomi Clover. Just wait until she gets into half the antics you did in school, we’ll want to rip our hair out. But anyway, we are definitely going to those tailors more often if they have gifts like this,” she promises, grinning. “Uh...” She hasn’t even looked at the menu and she makes a face as she lets go of Naomi’s hand to reach for her own. Anything works, but they deserve a treat, no? “We haven’t been out in a while so definitely the red one. The only people we have to be responsible for tonight are ourselves, I think we can get away with it.” Hell, if they end up stumbling to their next destination drunk, at least it can be called nostalgia for their first honest meeting.

Date: December 6th, 2020 Location: Ramon’s (Restaurant) Time: 6:45pm Status: Closed @tildaballantine

“You know I knew this place existed but I don’t think I’ve ever been in it. It’s nice, kinda boujee too.” As long as she’s lived in Lethe which…well, has been most of her life, Naomi has never once stepped foot in Ramon’s. None of her dates ended up here, it’s…well, at the time it was too fancy for her. Now, it’s the perfect spot to start her and Tilda’s little weekend alone together. “I keep wanting to check for Layla but she’s not here. It’s been…fuck, I don’t know how long since we’ve had a night alone. Now we get a whole weekend. Oh, and I can say the word ‘fuck.’ God I miss saying ‘fuck.’” At first it felt a little strange without Layla attached to her hip. Lately Naomi’s been taking her everywhere, and she blames it on the loss of her shop and having to work from home, but really, it’s out of fear. At least if she can see Layla, she can know she’s alright. Speaking of which…it wouldn’t hurt to check up on her, right? “Speaking of Layla, maybe I should call Terry and check in, you know, it is a long time to have her,” Naomi justifies, more to herself than to Tilda.

About halfway through dialing she stops herself, letting out a light sigh. “I’m doing it again. Okay, okay. Layla will be all right with Terry for a weekend. It’s two days. Barely,” she adds as she drops her phone back into her bag. “Nope. No, we’re putting it away for now. They’re okay. We,” she smiles, reaching over across the table to take Tilda’s hands in her own; “are on a date. Finally, fuck. It’s about time. I missed seeing you dress up for me. This, what you have on, is,” Naomi puts her fingers to her lips and kisses the air, “amazing, divine, sexy, you look fantastic, babe.” Sometimes, quite honestly, she can’t believe the woman sitting across from her is her girlfriend.  It’s…yeah. It blows Naomi’s mind. “And it’s incredible I was able to get myself into this getup without hurting myself.  You know they said it takes like…six weeks for a fractured rib to heal? Layla kicked my stomach yesterday and I thought I was going to die, Til. We need to get like a pillow to attach to my stomach or something, the little one gets excited and she just can’t help herself…”

“I think I’ve been here before, maybe once or so, but the company can’t have been that good if I don’t remember any of it,” she admits, squinting at the decor, trying to let the pieces of it bring something to mind. With Theo, with someone else? Probably, but Tilda doesn’t care enough to continue searching and only shrugs as the two witches squeeze into a booth tucked away in the corner. “You are much preferable.” Her hand reach for Naomi’s, playing as much with the jewelry on her wrists as she is with her fingers, laughter escaping her lips. She knows exactly what Naomi means, because its the same thing that has her eyes flickering to the empty seat beside her for a moment before she looks Naomi’s way once more. “I keep turning my head to check on her and see if she’s alright. Its... different. I mean, how can you know someone for such a short amount of time and decide you would do anything for them? Fucking crazy.” She shakes her head, a little amazed. Naomi reaches for her phone, and Tilda is half-tempted to let her finish dialing, if only because her fingers are twitching with the need to call Terry as well.

She sighs, and pulls her phone out of her pocket, pushing it across the table to her. “Better take mine, too. I don’t know if Terry will like us calling him nonstop, I can hear his complaints now, like he hasn’t taken care of a baby before.” Maybe its for the best, too. Tilda has no wish for them to be a couple that can talk about nothing if their child isn’t around, she doesn’t want them to fizzle out like a soda left out overnight. Doesn’t think they will, but, well, she’s understandably worried once in a while. Less so when Naomi is looking at her that way, sending a wave of happiness through her. “We deserved a treat, I bought things specifically for this weekend. Prepare to be wowed,” she teases, a smirk playing across her lips. They haven’t had a weekend to themselves in over a year, she’s willing to splurge a tad on making it special. Her smile falters, still remembering the hellish day when she heard the news about Naomi and Naomi’s shop. She’s never considered punching a nurse before - not when Fiona is fresh on the mind, after all - but being kept out of Naomi’s room had been pushing her to the limit. Tilda’s grip tightens on her hand a fraction, but stops and strokes over the soft skin instead, nodding. “You taught her the roughhousing, this is all on you, babe. Reap the rewards,” she points out, brows arched. Her gaze slides over Naomi slowly and pointedly, and the smile returns to her lips. “Oh, you look amazing still. Bruised ribs don’t stop you - mind you, I think we should stop collecting bruises, it’s hell of a way to end this year.”