2024-12-08 - Fairy Foods & Kids Who Watch 'The Wire'

A late Sunday afternoon is hardly the peak time at a coffee and book shop, especially one in the middle of a magical amusement park with a thousand other things to do. But with a thousand other things to do, some of them quite literally magical, sometimes the mundane, the ordinary, is the exotic and extraordinary. Or sometimes it's just comforting -- a constant, in a time ripe with change and evolution where there are very few constants.

For whatever reason, there are some people doing business at the Winding Vine, if just enough to justify the skeleton crew working the counters of the coffee shop-bookstore. Sully's done his part to make it worth their while, having bought a couple of books up stairs already, before retreating downstairs to grab a coffee and a pain au chocolat, both set to the side as he writes in a brand new journal he's just cracked open.

He's not due at work today at all; the muscular man can often be seen coming or going from work on the ferry in the deep-blue scrubs he tends to wear while "in the office," -- or the clinic. Instead, he looks like he might be a veteran member of a biker gang in his faded jeans, worn leather jacket, and threadbare gray v-neck that shows off the ink on his chest.

A bookstore isn't a library, but there's still a certain decorum when it comes to volume -- one that the woman coming down the stairs seems to be attempting to observe, based on the hushed pitch of her voice as she speaks into a phone tucked precariously between her ear and shoulder. And yet she's audible almost the entire way down the stairs, clear as a bell, her heavily scuffed vintage Doc Martens coming into sight first, followed by her bare legs -- made to look longer by how short her definitely too short for normal Michigan winters plaid skirt is -- and then the rest of her. Her long black hair is a windblown mass of chaos, dark against a deep cranberry red sweater that slouches loose enough to edge close to one shoulder.

"Juliet, my love, we both know that I can and am willing to talk your da into just about anything, and that I know that you know I have had more piercing experience than I'm going to admit to you until you are older---and no, I will not clarify--but there is no universe of any multiverse where I am going to convince your father to let you get a nose ring at fourteen. Mmmhmm. Yes, I know. But you have called me, your dear, mildly mad auntie, specifically for tactical advice, and my advice is this -- get the biggest, gaudiest magnetic one you can find that is temporary and let him get used to it for a day or two, and you'll have an easier time of convincing him of a small one when you're sixteen at the earliest." This entire monologue takes her from the top of the second floor to the bottom, clomping step by clomping step, an equally precarious stack of paperbacks balanced in her arms, which is what is keeping her from holding her phone properly.

It's a recipe for disaster, but luckily for Cait, disaster waits until the last step of the staircase to strike -- the top book on her stack begins to slide and as she reflexively flinches to grab it, her foot misses the last step by a fraction of an inch and she topples, books flying everywhere and her phone following suit as she smacks into the ground knees first with a proper thud and a startled yelp of surprise and alarm.

The conversation floats down to Sully, who can't help but overhear; he doesn't look up, but he smirks a little as the details -- and lack of details -- make their way to his accidentally eavesdropping ears. He could be smiling at what he's writing, sure, but the odds are unlikely he'd gone from pensive to grinning without some catalyst.

At the first sound of trouble, the first of the books landing on the stairs, likely, the doctor turns around just in time to see the rest of the accident as it takes place; he's already on his feet by the time Cait hits the ground. He picks up the phone first, as it happens to be partly between himself and the stairwell, and he speaks into it. "Juliet, your auntie will call you back in a lil bit, pet. She's fine, I promise, and don't you dare get anything pierced illegally if your da says no. Trust me on that one. I'm a doctor."

He doesn't wait for Juliet's follow up questions, as he's now kneeling beside Cait. "That was quite a drop. Does anything feel broken?" He hands her the phone.

"Is she DEAAAAAAD--oh, all right, wait, who are you--?" chirps tinnily from the phone before the call ends, and there's an almost immediate buzz of text messages that start up afterwards from a teenager who absolutely should have better things to do.

The auntie in question, on the other hand, simply groans dramatically and declares, "My pride and dignity, but they've been on death's door for years now, so it's an expected yet tragic loss..." It's at about this point when Cait actually lifts her head from her grimacing survey of her poor battered self to look at him, purely out of social reflex, but with a brief blink of surprised blue eyes at the picture he presents. In terms of injuries, she's fine -- just some bruised knees and a tender wrist -- and she's quick to say as much, too. "No major harm done, I think. Nothing that some ice and a little rest won't put right."

She pulls herself together and starts to get up, wincing as much in embarrassment as discomfort, and as her glance catches the phone she huffs a breath of laughter, "Well, that's my cool aunt status done for. It's hard enough keeping up with a teenager's expectations. Thank you, though. She'll have more questions about you than about what happened. Maybe it'll distract her from whatever death scene scenario she's about to spread on the family chats at warp speed."

"If falling down means the death of pride and dignity, I've lost mine a thousand times over. But," Sully says, offering her a hand to help her get to her feet, "I can ease the pain a bit for you so the time and ice have less work to do. Time heals most wounds, but it has better things to do, I'm sure of it."

He tips his head, to where he was sitting before he abandoned his books, coffee, and pastry. "Come sit down and I'll gather your books for you. You know they have these things called bags?" The question comes with a grin, before he leads her the few steps to the seats where she can rest. "Don't you go stealing my snack, though. I'm watching you." He points to his eyes, then hers.

He isn't watching though. He turns his back on her to go about collecting the books from the various places they've fallen, glancing at each cover curiously as he goes, and making no pretense not to.

"Ah, pride and dignity have a bit of the phoenix to them -- they might expire in glorious flame, but they'll be back again all the same," Cait says, a lilt to her voice that's less an accent than it is a sort of melodic cadence of its own, one accompanied by a cheeky (if mildly pained) grin that brings out dimples in her cheeks as she accepts the hand up. She's only an inch or so over five feet, so in a sense she didn't have quite as far to fall as most would have anyway.

As for her booty -- that is, the books -- they're a motley assortment of lurid romances with werewolves and sword women on the covers, noir-ish mysteries that practically ooze mid century jazz and femme fatales, and three books on origami, all from the used section, their covers gently worn from past hands.

"If I put the books in my bag before I pay for them, there's this terrible thing where they haul me off to the pokey and I have to talk my way out of trouble, I've found," she quips, a sort of flutter of one hand suggesting she's largely joking. "I meant to stop after the first few, but you know a good bookstore. The books practically hop off the shelf into my arms, desperate to go home with me. How can I refuse them? Poor souls, lonely as can be."

She hobbles over to the offered chair and drops into it with a grateful sigh, taking a moment before she leans forward to inspect her knees. Red though they are, they're not scraped up, so there's no great hurry on her part to deal with wounds and the like. "As for your snack, I'd be a true scoundrel to pilfer a treat from someone who's gone out of their way to help me, perish the thought."

There's a slight sigh at one of the werewolf titles, or perhaps covers, but other than that, there's no commentary, before he brings the books to the table to set down beside her.

"I suppose not buying them first might make bagging them questionable, but a good market bag might work in that case, along with acting completely not-guilty as you do it so if someone comes up, you tell them you plan to buy the book on your way out," he suggests, before gesturing to her wrist. "You want me to take a look at your wrist? Your knees look like they'll be all right, but I can still take the edge off, if you like."

He wiggles his fingers. "I was already a doctor on staff, but the powers that be decided I should step up my game, I guess -- so long as I stay here." He offers his right hand to her to shake. "Sully."

With an experimental flex of her injured wrist, Cait hums in soft appraisal before she smiles and tilts her head, accepting the offer. "That'd be kind of you, thanks -- I do plenty of flourishes when I'm performing, and it is a little sorer than I'd like for that."

She demonstrates, a practiced little swirl of her hand that seemingly summons a flurry of tiny paper butterflies to peel free of the books, their wings decorated not in scintillating colors but in words and texts. Not one is bigger than a quarter, and they flutter gently above the table before coming to rest on cups and book spines and for one, daringly atop the pain au chocolat. They don't linger long, though, only wafting their wings gently for a minute or so before fading away into nothing.

Reaching out, she takes his hand with a smile that brightens her eyes. "Cait. Caitrin, technically, but only my grandmother calls me that, and it's usually more like, 'Caitrin'." The last is a credible imitation of a deeply exasperated Irish granny, albeit one whose accent had worn off by a few decades of Chicago living.

Her sore wrist is her left, thankfully, so she dutifully holds it out for proper inspection. "I knew the park had doctors, but how lucky am I to fall on my face right in front of one? I should buy a lottery ticket."

He watches those little butterflies flit around and alight on the books, brows lifting and lips curving into a smile that lingers after they've faded. "That's a pretty gift, that. One of mine's useful and the other less useful but more fun, so I've come out of it all right, I suppose. Nothing as showy as that, though."

At the mention of her name and that impersonation of her gran, Sully chuckles, and places a hand on his chest. "Shannon, but only to my ma and na. Even my dad calls me Sully. Some people call me Shan, but more people just call me Doc or Sully. If you yell Shannon in a crowd, I'm going to assume you're talking to some lady tourist, and not me."

He takes her wrist gently in his large hands, his fingers lightly feeling for any obvious breaks, but there's so many little bones it'd be a hard task without a scan. He lifts his finger to indicate to give him a moment. He closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, then exhales. There's no obvious healing, though the pain dulls a little -- still present, but it will slowly fade to nothing by the time she needs to use her wrist to flourish tomorrow.

Once that's done, Sully moves to flop into the seat across from her, reaching for his coffee. "Luck of the Irish, obviously," he says with a grin. "I'm glad it wasn't worse, though. Where do you perform?"

His legal name gets an impish little lift of her brows, but with her wrist in his hands it seems as though Cait's instinct for mischief loses to her appreciation of his skill and gift -- even if the quirk of her smile tilts upwards a little more on one side in a suggestion that she's quite tempted. Instead, she repeats, "Sully, then. Best to have a name that feels right than one someone else stamps on you, or at least that's what I think. I don't mind mine, luckily enough, though having to spell it half the time I say it is a bit irksome."

Her features are expressive enough that the appearance of a thought and the rapid fire way it pops out of her mouth are practically a measurable phenomenon, as she laughs (at herself) and admits, "And then I went and chose the name 'Scheherazade the Traveler' for my stage name, like a fool who likes spelling things out loud. I'm a storyteller, over at River Village. Imagine my surprise when I started spinning a tale about the tortoise and the hare and the little beasties popped out of a bush and started running laps around me. Illusions, of course, but the children love it." A softness filters across her features at the mention of the kids, and she shifts in her seat to change the subject, glancing at his books (as he's had plenty of time to eyeball hers).

"I can imagine. I'm lucky my parents didn't go with the Gaelic spelling of my own name, or I'd never have made it out of primary school," he quips, breaking off a bit of his pastry, to bring to his mouth.

He huffs a laugh as she tells him her stage name, and he smiles at the mention of the tortoise an the hare coming to "life" with the sudden emergence of her magical gifts. "I'm sure they do, though I bet you spun up plenty of imaginations just by your tale telling alone -- at least in those with vivid imaginations. I used to dream up quite a lot of vivid things just listening to a story read to me, when I was a wean." While his accent mostly sounds like it hales from Boston, now and then the Irish brogue creeps in, especially on Irishisms.

As for his book pile, it's a little smaller than hers, with just three books aside from the fresh journal -- it's an eclectic mix, with I Heard There Was a Secret Chord: Music as Medicine, a book of Ocean Vuong poetry, and some sort of thriller, the kind meant to be entertaining in the moment rather than making too lasting of an impression.

"You worked here long? Going on five months here. Long enough to start feeling like I'm not on vacation, I guess."

"Oh, I don't know. You seem a resourceful fellow -- but I'm glad you didn't have the burden of Gaelic spelling added to your plate. I swear, it's largely meant to annoy the English, which I can respect, but it's murder on a child just trying to figure out how to use a pencil properly. The English might've earned that spiteful spelling, but the poor little ones," Cait shakes her head, tutting softly in sympathy, like she wasn't one of the cursed. Still, a Catherine variant is no Saoirse or Siobhan.

She gives her wrist a pleased sort of wiggle and admires it for a moment before the question of tenure comes up, "Oh, not so long as some, not so few as others. I'm comfortably middling, or at least enough so that I've had some time to practice all this." The wiggle extends to suggest the healing and the butterflies, illustratively. Given how much she talks with her hands, a wrist injury really would've been debilitating to power through. "The only other knack I've turned up is a bit silly, all things considered. Healing's a good sight more useful by far. I owe you a good turn, certainly."

"And then you have the Yanks who deliberately spelled things differently than the Brits just to be mavericks, those mad lads," Sully says with a chuckle. "Who needs these u's? Let's add some zeds!" He flicks his own wrist in a flourish, as if he were adding and obliterating letters at whim.

He watches her test her wrist, smiling at the mention of it being 'useful.' "It's one of the more practical ones, but only interesting if you have a vested interest in it working, I think. Much more interesting to fly or talk with animals or something like that."

The talk of hers being silly, though, finds him lifting a shoulder. "So's mine. I can shift into a wolf. Nothing else yet, despite my effort to try to turn into something that can fly. I can't think of much of a practical use for being a wolf, but it's a load of fun, so that's useful enough for me. The powers that be probably realized that after dealing with the sort of injuries that come from a magical theme park, I would want to run away from humanity for a bit every now and then, I figure." His brows lift, a tacit invitation to share her other silly power.

There is an instant scoff of jealousy as Cait leans back, "A wolf? God, that's amazing. I'd love to just go for a run and dig a nice satisfying hole somewhere, but no, I'm stuck on two legs. No, I have a little bit of divination. You know, ask me a question and I'll tell you a tale, that sort of thing. It's daft, but I can demonstrate. Here." She makes a 'gimme' gesture with her fingers, nodding towards his hand, a little imperious but smiling as she does. "I'll ask something silly and little, don't worry."

There's a musing thoughtfulness that shifts into her expression, then, and she wonders, "What do you suppose chooses? The magic, I mean? Everyone's got a theory, but I suppose the easiest is inclination. It's as much like having good pitch or a knack for cooking, maybe. Which I reckon makes our different sorts of magic something of a personality test, if that's the way it works -- but then, maybe it's simpler, and it's just what someone happened to be interested in at the moment a bit of fairy dust drifted by. Who's to say?"

The fact that her first instinct as a wolf would be to dig a hole draws a grin and a laugh from him. "Hole digging is pretty great, I'll admit. Mostly just the running. I jog in human form sometimes but reluctantly. It's tedious and I feel my body's limitations in every step, but as a wolf? It's a whole different Oprah for sure. Nothing like it. I can't really put it in words. It's just primitive and pure, you know?"

But there she is wiggling her fingers at him, so he offers his hand, brows lifting as he looks from her hand up to her face. "Yeah, be gentle with me. I never went in for psychics or tarot or any of that stuff before being here but I also didn't believe in shapeshifters and people who could fly, or ghosts, or any of the other stuff that's apparently true," he admits, a little chagrined. "I believe you can, for the record. I just never had anyone tell me my fortune before, other than a fortune cookie or something like it."

As for how it works, he shakes his head. "I'm not sure. There's a couple people I've met who wouldn't like the idea that it's like a personality test, that you get what suits you. Might take some offense at that. So maybe the second idea. Or maybe a combination." Sully reaches for his coffee with his free hand, lifting it for another sip, watching her over the rim.

"Who hasn't wanted to stand on a rock and howl? I get it, and am envious. I run when chased, but if I'm exercising," her nose crinkles at the word, but with the dismay of someone who has accepted the necessity of the business, "I prefer swimming. Or just walking everywhere, to be honest. I love a good walk. Perfect for clearing the mind and in the States, it's good practice for dodging homicidal drivers and risking your life as a daredevil."

Taking his hand in an echo of his handling of hers earlier, Cait smiles and leans forward to study his palm with only mildly theatrical gravity. There's a little whisp of power -- nothing too aggressive, really, by the standards of the islands -- and she speaks with a measured, clear tone the question of the moment: "What, O Fates, is this fine gentleman's favorite meal?"

It's a silly, lightweight sort of question, and quite specific, so there isn't that much in the way of heavy lifting to go around, and with the faintest of sparkling stars in her eyes, she looks up and through him before she puckers her lips and lets out a puff of air, "Oh, mm -- it's spicy. Tangy. I don't know it, I don't think, but it feels like -- sunshine? Citrus. And chicken." Then she shakes her head, dispelling whatever effect she was under, and smiles again as she gently folds his fingers back, patting them as if to say she's done studying his palm for now.

"How'd I do, doc?"

"Tell me about it. I came up in Boston. Pedestrianism is an extreme sport there," Sully says, grinning; his eyes crinkle around the corners and his face is a merry one, broad and open, when he smiles. "I box, so I usually get my cardio in there, but sometimes you need to get away from everyone and howl, and it's best not to do that in the ring in a friendly spar."

He watches her as she scrutinizes his palms -- they're not the soft and nimble hands of a surgeon but calloused and strong. When she answers, his gaze comes up to meet hers, he smiles at the description, and makes a noise of dismay. "You're making me hungry, now, in a way this croissant won't satisfy," he says in a mock growl. "Yassa, or yassa poulet. Senegalese dish, though you can get it other places, too. Delicious. I've tried to make it myself but it's just not quite the same as it is there."

Coffee is swallowed, and the mug set down. "You? I can't see your answer, so you'll have to tell me instead."

Bright delight flashes as Cait finds out she was right, and she looks very satisfied with herself. "I've never heard of it, but it seems delicious. Not to impugn your lovely pain au chocolat, of course."

When he mentions boxing, she looks down at his hands, as if studying the rough spots and the knuckles that hint at the practice, and smiles as she leans on the table, chin propped on one hand, "Oh, hmm, now that's a question. My favorite meal -- today, at least, and I don't think I'd swear in court on it per se, given my changeable whims -- is sfeeha, the way my grandpa used to make them. They're these little handpies, really savory and delicious. He'd bake up a bunch, and wrap them up in wax paper, and take them for lunch in his cab. And I'd always get a few warm from the oven. Best treat ever."

Tilting her head, she studies him openly. "So, what were you doing in Senegal? Let me guess..." Another head tilt, back the other way, and she posits, "Doctors Without Borders? French Foreign Legion? Ooh, you followed a rock band on their North Africa tour and got a little turned around in Marrakesh?"

"I do like pie and all of its brethren," Sully says with a grin. "That's what... Lebanese I think? I haven't been there. I had some neighbors who made kibbeh, but that's a little different I think, yeah? More..." he gestures with his hands to make the shape of a football with those weathered hands of his. "I don't know how the fillings differ, though. I'll have to try them the next time I'm anywhere that cooks that sort of cuisine."

The guesses as to his trip abroad draw a smirk from him, and he squints one eye, holding up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "So warm. Less warm. Frigid," he says as she rattles off three choices. "Peace Corps, actually. Before you go lauding my philanthropy, I was not a volunteer but an employee. When I got back here, it ws hard to fathom working in a hospital or private practice, so I figured I'd work here until I figured out the next plan or trip... and so here I am."

His brows lift, and he nods toward her. "And you? Did you come here for the rumors of magic, or were you here when the weird shit hit the weird fan?"

"Yeah, he was from Lebanon. He emigrated to Ireland, and then met my grandma, and then they both came to the States -- it was a little awkward for an Irish-Catholic girl to marry a Lebanese atheist, you know? Kibbeh's a little more bready and fried. No tomatoes. Sfeeha has this pomegranate molasses in it that's just," Cait kisses her finger tips, rapturous. "Perfect."

The further off her guesses go, the more she looks dismayed, until she sighs, "Drat -- but I can't be right all the time or else no one will think I'm fun at parties, which is a horrible fate indeed. But Peace Corps sounds good. Useful and important, even if you didn't make the big altruistic swing. How long were you doing that? Do they do tours, like in the Navy? It feels like they do tours."

She straightens up in her seat. "Oh, no, I just came for the work -- and then," she widens her eyes, making little explosion gestures with her hands, "Magic. Whoosh. No, I was working touring shows and Renaissance Fairs, and when this place came up, I thought it'd be nice to settle in one place for a while." The brightness of her dims very slightly before her smile returns and she says airily, "Entertainment is a demanding business, and it's not always kinder the longer you've been at it. And I love surprising the kids."

"You really are making me hungry," Sully says with a laugh, but on that note, he breaks the pain au chocolate in half, and slides her half of it on the little plate. "I like the kibbeh, though, too. And the licorice powdered sugar cookies, whatever those are called."

Her questions draw a nod. "Yeah, usually two years at a time, plus a few months training. I did two, one in Senegal and the other in Peru. It was rewarding, but I needed a change. This is about as different as you can get, and that's even before the magic," he spreads his hands like Spongebob making a rainbow (something she could actually do, but for him it's just the little nod to the meme).

"It takes a special lot to perform, I think. More power to you. It bet it's nice to see kids at their happiest instead of their worst, which is usually when I get them," he adds, making a face. "Yesterday's grand adventures for me included a kid who stuck a jelly bean up his nose."

The mention again of hunger focuses her attention and Cait sits up a little, looking thoughtfully at the two halves of the pastry for a moment -- before she takes in a little breath and moves her hands, and with a flicker like the sunlight dappling through leafy trees, the half of a pain au chocolat in front of them both is replaced by a sfeeha, one for each of them. Faint steam, fragrant and warm, rises in the air, and it carries the fragrance of lamb and chili and tomatoes, and a hint of something sweeter; pomegranate molasses. She smiles as she picks hers up and takes a bite, as if testing it, and lets out a soft sigh on parted lips as it (apparently) meets with her satisfaction.

"I don't think these will last very long, but," she can't help the bright crinkle of her smile, "it's pretty close to what I remember. And it won't ruin your diet -- but you definitely want to get some actual food pretty soon, in my experience. Fairy food tastes wonderful, but you'll be hungry again inside the hour, every time."

She pauses, still holding the pastry, and envisions a kid with a jelly bean up his nose and can't help but laugh, "Why is it always sticking things up their noses? Or licking? It makes no sense. They're so gooey, but," she shrugs, still laughing softly, "Ah, well, I still enjoy them. They have interesting perspectives on things when they're so new."

The sudden appearance of food that wasn't there takes him by surprise, the expression written across those broad, open features -- he's seen quite a few strange things in his few months here at Spellbound, but this is clearly a new one. "It's so realistic," he says, leaning forward to smell the fragrant food, then reaching out with a careful hand to touch it, feel its apparent warmth.

But that look of genuine surprise shifts to a wary one, or at least one that pretends to be wary. "Fairy food, I've been warned about, pet, and pomegranate on top of it? Are you secretly the god of the underworld, planning to steal me away for half the year if I succumb to your delicious temptations?"

He still picks it up, despite the question, to take a bite, nodding his appreciation. "This reminds me of some African dishes, actually. Beautiful combination."

Sully's laugh rings out when she calls the kids 'gooey,' and he makes a face. "They sure are. And they do. I was told I couldn't be a doctor because I look like a drug dealer, so that was fun for my ego. I was still in my street clothes," he gestures to his jeans, t-shirt, and Doc Martens. "Little bougie kid from Vermont or something."

"Now, what kind of a fair folk would I be if I tricked someone who'd done me a kindness? I'm reasonably sure that's against the rules of hospitality and good grace. And I know better than to lay claim to divinity I've no part of, too." Cait's grin certainly befits a pixie, even if she's not very much of one in terms of appearance. The illusion of the sfeeha doesn't last terribly long, as she expected, but while it's there it is quite vivid -- the weight and heat and taste of it are all very convincing, down to the fragrance. "I will say, it's quite handy if I'm feeling indulgent and want to eat a pint of ice cream without the consequences. A bit of crushed ice for accuracy and I'm well and satisfied."

She leans out a bit to look down at his Docs, and laughs, nudging her own Doc-covered foot out in accordant sympathy. "What I'd like to know is how a bougie kid from Vermont knows what a drug dealer looks like. Do they start them on The Wire that young in the suburbs, then? I'd imagine a jelly bean up the nose aged kid would be more of the Minecraft and superheroes age, but then, I'm only an auntie and far from expert on the matter."

"A clever one, if you could do it and get away with it," Sully says with a laugh. "But I've chanced it, so I'll live with the consequences, whatever they may be."

Once the little pie is gone, he reaches for his coffee to take a sip of the very real, if a little tepid, beverage to chase down the lingering flavors of the savory illusion.

"I think it's probably something he heard someone else say and thought it was funny -- probably his parents. I launched into a lecture on stereotypes and how the worst drug dealers were those peddling addictive pain killers to small-town doctors, knowingly and deliberately creating an opioid epidemic in our country, and that those drug dealers wore business suits." He makes a face. "Probably'll get a little chat from HR about my bedside manner and what's appropriate talk for the little germ carriers."

"You'd think they'd have more important things to worry about than a bit of truth -- but, much as I sympathize with the sentiment, I'm not sure the under 10s are quite ready for the truth of the opioid epidemic just yet. Ah well; I imagine the important bit is that his nose is now jelly bean free, at least from his perspective. And if he learns an important lesson in a way that doesn't cause lasting harm, so much the better." Cait does lean back for a moment, giving him a study, and notes, "You don't look like a drug dealer, anyway. So he wasn't just stereotyping, he was doing a bad job at it."

She takes a moment to adjust her stack of paperbacks, tidying them so they're all in neat alignment, and smiles to herself at the origami volumes on top. "In the stories I tell, the Fair Folk are terrifying and strange, it's true, but they've a complex sort of honor in their way. For all that they were cast as the villains in the tales, they were bound by their words. Humans have always been free to lie and cheat by comparison. At least a fairy has to be clever about it instead of false."

Sully glances down at himself, squinting a little as if to try to see himself from someone else's perspective, then grins. "Well, thanks. I think most drug dealers probably spend more money than I do on my clothes -- at least the ones who are good at their job, illicit as it may be."

He wraps both of his hands around the mug, though it's no longer warm, really, and taps his hands around its curve. "Do you do the whole 'telling a thousand stories to keep yourself alive' part of the persona, or is that a little too heavy for your crowd?" he asks, then. "Didn't she have three kids in those thousand days, too? She must have been a really good multitasker, but I suppose most mums are."

Sully's grin flashes at that, though he quiets to let her reply.

"Oh, I have to imagine she had staff to help with that bit -- imagine having to stay up all night, telling tales to stay alive, and having to parent a newborn?" Cait laughs and shakes her head. "No, my gal was named for the sultana, but she's a free spirit who collects tales on her travels, and spreads them to earn her keep and to keep the stories alive. For what better way to keep someone's memory with you than to tell their stories, don't you think?"

There's a brief, wistful flicker across her features, but it doesn't linger. "I got the idea from my grandfather. It keeps his memory with me, at least a bit. And I think he'd have liked to know the stories he told me when I was small keep going every time I tell them." She laughs wryly and adds, "Though I expect he would've been even happier if I'd have gone to school properly and just told them to a family of my own, instead of gallivanting around being shameless and irresponsible. Ah well, you can't win them all."

She slants a look at him and her lips curve, and she notes lightly, "You look like a doctor that boxes and turns into a wolf, so. I think you've nailed your fashion aesthetic with that one."

"All we are is stories, in the end, yeah? I'm sure he would like to know that, and that his sfeeha was being enjoyed, however ephemerally, in a little bookstore in this magical place, with a stranger who now knows at least a little about him," Sully says warmly.

"What was his name? I'll remember him a little better that way -- names have power, after all, as any true sidhe knows. I won't use it against him, promise."

As for his aesthetic, he grins at her words, reaching out to offer her a loose fist for bumping. "I'll take it. I'm likely the only one of those on the planet, so I get to make the rules, I suppose. Of course, the first rule is there are no rules."

"His name was Yousef. He took my grandmother's name in Ireland, actually -- a pretty wild move for a guy of his generation, but he was always a little more bohemian than most, I guess. He believed we all write our own stories, and to be true to them, no matter what." Cait clears her throat softly, a little misty at the end of that, and deflects it with a quick smile. "One tumble down the stairs and I get all nostalgic, I suppose. I must keep my soft spot in my knees or somesuch. But then, I'm not a doctor, so," she shrugs, spreading her hands, as if she couldn't possibly weigh in on which part of the body the softer sentiments lurk within.

The fist bump is returned with a laugh, "Well, I can agree to no rules. I never remember them anyway. Too bothersome. You should see me play chess, it's a madhouse. I like to make the little horses charge the castles, and it drives a proper player absolutely mental."

Sully raising his mug, almost empty, in a a little toast to Cait's grandfather. "To Yousef, then," he says. "That's pretty daring, uncommon even today. I'd consider it, though I do like my last name. Well enough to make it my first name, more or less, hey?"

He grins, then glances down at Cait's knees, looking dubious that they're the location of those softer feelings. "Probably somewhere with a little more padding, I'd think. Not a lot of room in there for much else. Though there's the whole cartilage-turning-to-bone of the kneecap thing going on, so maybe there's something to it."

One brow lifts at the mention of her chess style, and he shakes his head. "I can't do chess, myself. I can't think that many moves in advance. Does your charging ever work, or do you just win by forfeit when the other player flips the board out of rage?"

Without a beverage of her own to lift in a toast, Cait can only lift her chin in acknowledgement of the honoring of her grandfather, but her smile is soft and wistful. "Well, maybe you could hyphenate -- that'd be a mouthful, but who doesn't like an abundance of syllables by the by?"

Does she give a playful wiggle of her knees when he glances that way? Yep! But only a little one. A plausibly deniable one. It'd be more believable plausible if she weren't smiling that impish smile, though. "Well, if you happen to catch sight of where sentimentality lives in the body, I'd be grateful if you let me know. I'll take more care about what I bump into if I know what to watch out for."

As for chess, she laughs and wiggles her hand back and forth a little, "Honestly, it depends on how well I make the horsey noises. Those are surprisingly necessary to a good chess attack."

"My sister would probably disagree. Took her longer than most to graduate pre-school because she had to write out Mary-Elizabeth before they'd let her matriculate to kindergarten," Sully says, but there's a crinkling of his eyes that suggests that is not one-hundred-percent the truth. "She said it wasn't fair I had three repeated letters in my name, which was also half as long."

There's a smirk at the mention of where those softer feelings lie. "Mine are probably in my stomach. Not only the whole 'way to a man's love is through his stomach' thing, but also that's where I feel it when I'm nervous or a little shy about a date or the like. Not nervous stomach -- I've got a stomach of steel when it comes to eating. But the butterflies, yeah? A little in the stomach and maybe a little in the lungs -- you get a bit breathless, or at least I do, when something hits you a certain way."

He smiles a little crookedly, then tips his hands as he shrugs. "But there's the heart racing too. I see why they think it's in the heart, too."

Canting her head to the side, Cait muses, "Perhaps it's some sort of migratory system, then -- it swirls around in there, the soft bits, waiting to lurk and hop out when you're least expected. Like an emotional Spanish Inquisition." Her smile trends whimsical at the best of times, but there's a moment where her gaze shifts away like she's very clearly imagining some sort of emotional SWAT team hopping around from organ to organ, chaos following in its wake.

"Ah, your poor sister, cursed with the letters. It's a good point, truthfully. Imagine how long it'd take you to fill out forms, one box per letter? My god, you'd be there all week." With a shake of her head, she flits back a topic and says quietly, "All those feelings are in the mind, I imagine. It's only blaming the poor helpless stomach and the dear heart for its worries and woes, not wanting to face up to them itself. I sympathize. It's an awful lot for any internal bit to manage, feelings. Up and down, turned around -- they're all over the place, when you've got something on your mind."

She purses her lips for a moment and notes, "This is another mark against you being a drug dealer. I doubt they get especially addlepated at the thought of a date."

His brow lifts as she makes her newest theory, and squints in the direction her gaze flits, like he might be expecting a Navy Seal caliber team to come running in, and he nods once. "Nobody would expect that," he offers with a grin, a very quiet nod to her own allusion.

At the end, when she decides he's not likely to be a drug dealer for another reason, he barks a laugh. "Addlepated! Are you secretly an 80-year-old granny in there? I don't think I've ever heard a person say that in my entire existence, Miss Cait. Is this," he gestures, then, in a loose circular motion that includes the whole of her, from the top of her head to her Doc Martens, and everything in between, "a glamour and you're truly an octogenarian or -- no, more likely a fae who changes their guise every generation but forgot what era we're currently living in, maybe? I may have to devise a test, to see if you're truly a mortal."

With an overtly innocent expression, Cait puts a hand to her heart, eyes wide, "Me? Why, no, I'm absolutely a normal gal of the--" She pauses, glancing up as if counting, "--twenty-first century!"

She definitely checks to make sure she got that one right, too, before she grins and breaks the joke, shaking her head. "I spent a good couple of years working the Renaissance Fair circuit before I got the job here. If you hang around long enough, the lingo ends up infecting everything else you say. It took me ages to stop reflexively 'huzzah'-ing. Besides, I was raised by the geriatric set. Some of those words are too good to abandon, I think. But," she looks him over, and her smile lingers, "if you still want to check me for the seams of a glamour, be my guest. Always start with the teeth, that's what they mess up. Teeth and fingers, just like those early AI picture things."

Sully's eyes narrow as she pretends to count, and he tips his head to look at her through the corner of one eye, before both eyes crinkle in mirth. He shakes his head, and lifts his hands as if in surrender.

"They say not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and I think that goes for potential friends, too. And it seems impolite. You do have the normal amount of fingers, I see, though, so there's a point in your favor," he says, then closes his hand but for his index finger. This he bends a couple of times. "And a pointer in your favor, too."

His hands return to the mug, empty as it is now. "There's a few here that probably huzzah unironically even off duty. I never went to a Ren Faire myself -- mostly just never had the time. I do like Shakespeare, but never had the inclination to want to relive any of that era. Really terrible hygiene, bland food, lack of basic civil rights, and limited social mobility? Not as romantic as the Ren Faires make it out to be, though I have heard the turkey legs were pleasant."

"Oh, definitely -- but every fair I've worked at has made a point of explaining that it's a dream of a different time, not the reality. Only the fun and whimsical bits of a swashbuckling world allowed. Plus when it's hot, they have people who push these big barrels on wheels full of ice and cold pickles. You've never had as good of a treat as an ice cold pickle on a blistering hot summer day, at least as far as I've experienced." Cait laughs, her entirely normal amount of teeth on display. If she's a fairy, she's quite good at the simulation of a human. She even has a tiny smudge of mustard on her skirt -- you don't get that level of verisimilitude every day.

"Mostly it's families and folks out having a good time. Not that different from here, actually. Fewer toddlers developing the ability to fly and freaking out their parents, though."

"Ah, yes, that quintessential Renaissance treat of a dill pickle," Sully says, eyes crinkling again with his good humor. "I do like a good pickle, thematic or not."

He chuckles at the comparison to their theme park, and nods at that. "I can see the overlap. I could do with fewer toddlers learning to fly, though. It's bad enough with the adults not knowing how to land or avoid running into trees or worse." Really, though, the level of injuries is far smaller than one would probably expect in such a place, lucky for him -- and probably the park's insurance rates.

"Sort of expecting someone to swoop in and close this down like it's Area 52 or something, on that note. Park owners must have deep, deep pockets and the government tucked neatly within those pockets, I figure," he muses thoughtfully. "Not that I'm complaining. It's just a bit curious."

"That or no one believes it. I imagine there've been a few Mulders and Scullys come to look at the place -- from what I hear, once you're away, the truth of it just drifts away from your memory. Now, if it weren't so easy to fake videos and photos with computers these days, we might be in one of those aforementioned pickles, but..." Cait gives a little shrug, mulling over the question of it all with a narrowed, speculative sort of squint to her eyes. It doesn't last too long, though, for she shrugs and lets out a soft sigh of resignation.

"Some things have easy answers, and some do not -- and my chosen lot is to make the magical possible and delightful. And to radio security if I see any tots zooming off for the horizon. Luckily, I think it's been well-established that you can lure them down again with treats and shiny things. A bit like crows that way, really." Her grimace is pragmatic but amused at it all; or perhaps she simply usually looks a bit like she's laughing at something, at least from one angle or another.

Her phone buzzes again insistently and she huffs, rolling her eyes fondly, "That girl. She's going to harass me until I give in and call her back. My cousin's oldest," she explains, "Juliet's decided that she wants to follow in my footsteps, much to her parents' horror. Not that we don't get along, mind, but I doubt any parent would want their kid to choose chaos when a nice dental hygienist certificate will do them so much better in the long term. Ah, well. I shouldn't keep her waiting too long, she can get viciously creative and she's got too many TikTok followers to anger lightly."

"There's a job that's probably underpaid, not that I know what they make," Sully says with a chuckle regarding the poor security staff who has to worry about such things. "I hope maybe one day I'll get a second animal to be able to turn into, and hope it's a bird so I can fly. Now that I've said it more than once or twice, I'll probably get something boring like a mole."

He smirks at the mention and return of Juliet, and he nods, picking up his own books before he rises from his seat. "I should get moving myself. And I think she could do worse than emulating you, even if your calling isn't one that comes with pensions and a 401k. Sounds like she's got the charisma for it, if she has that many followers." His head cants, and one eyes closes in a squint as he considers his words for a moment. "Or rizz, as they call it these days. Ah, youth. I would cast aspersion but I think I said hella way too often to consider myself innocent."

He tips his head in the direction of the stairs. "You be careful going back up to pay for those, yeah?" he says with a grin. "Thanks for the sfeeha."