Scene #9704: Marian Greco

Owner	Pose
Lilian Rook	More than a few days, and less than two weeks. Despite the orderly clockwork schedule of the St. Pavlov Foundation's many busy cogs, that's about as much as time seems to have any meaning for anyone who has no place amongst them. Even for Lilian, the insides of those lofty marble halls contain an ear-ringing psychic absence in the wake of the Storm; a cavernous vacuum of closure or sense or reason for anything that'd happened, which fuzzes out details. Like how long it's been since the world decided to act like nothing happened. Reasoning that Marian, certainly not a brand new Foundation employee already, if ever, must be feeling the same numbing blanch even more keenly, Lilian has occupied her few blank hours over the past few days with making a few phone calls and sorting through slim records. 'Reasoning' has no relevance to why she had assigned herself the task; not really; but thinking about Schneider's sister, the woman she had effectively died to save, allows Lilian to displace her true motive somewhere not-untrue, and start making sense of things in caring about someone else, instead of more failed attempts to care for herself. Invading Marian's temporary private space on the Foundation campus doesn't feel right, so Lilian files a notification of intent and offers a couple of casual bribes to low-level employees have the closest break room cleared for a few hours. That gives her a spot to 'summon' Marian to (by asking someone to knock on the door and direct her down the hall), and thus make all of this official, governmental, above-board, and not something orchestrated by the woman who failed to save Schneider. It lets her greet the poor young woman behind a clean tabletop with soft seating and the muted babble of a cooking tutorial playing in the background where she's set her tablet aside, near a radio on the far table. It lets her have her little folder and her little pen next to her usual bag on the table and feel so very quasi-professional about it. It gives her a spot to have tea and coffee already prepared (both brought from her lab, which was brought from home) off to the side. Everything but standing around ten feet from a civilian's bed, and a few things that chase away some of the sterile feeling to the room. She really did try to argue herself into meeting Marian dressed properly, but this is already her second time. Whether or not she remembers, or appreciates the replacement of her blouse, in the end, it just felt disingenuous to talk about Schneider only after removing her lipstick. "Miss Greco. Please, come on in." Of course, Lilian knows who it is, but there is a procedure to finish and a pageant to perform. She waits around near the door for Marian to enter, so that she can shut it behind her, then gestures to the couch rather than the seat she pulled out for herself. There's no need to come off too official. She doesn't have a Foundation badge anyways. "I was hoping we could have a talk, now that you're in better health." she says. The words 'doing better' died long before they reached her lips. "No questions, or paperwork. There are just some things that I felt should belong to you, and a few more that someone should at least ask your opinion about first." Lilian waits, a little uncomfortably, for Marian to sit, before meandering over to the chair she moved from the end of the table to the opposite side. "Do you drink coffee? I've tea if you don't." Here, in England, she gets to work her accent to her advantage for once. "I'm Dame Commander Rook. Mrs. Rook or just Lilian are fine."
Marigold	The wrong Miss Greco opens the door. Her red eyes could fool you for a split second, but no longer. There's no spark in them. Marian is four or five inches taller than Schneider was, twenty pounds heavier, and a few years older; she still looks infinitely more frail. Marian's tired eyes drop from Lilian's at the doorway, like she doesn't deserve to meet them. Then they settle confusedly on the tablet at the table. Then they slide off even that, to the floor, as she nods. 'No questions' lifts her questioning gaze a little, and 'things that should belong to you' lifts it further. Why was she expecting to be badgered or grilled? Not because of anything about Lilian, surely. "Of course, um, Dame-Commander Rook," she says, and then steps in, pulling an IV stand behind her. Its wheels squeak across the floor. Just saline to keep her hydrated, probably, judging by the lack of fancy labels on the bag. "I am sure it is a great honor to meet you. I do like tea, only if you do not mind." She sits down in her chair, IV stand next to it. With her shoulders drawn in, she takes up maybe a third of its width. They're letting her wear her black cardigan over her white hospital gown now, or maybe she just put it on as she was leaving her room. Not a black jacket, though. Even if for a second, you can glimpse white underneath it-- it's only through loose yarn, and not through bullet-holes. She hesitates, waiting for Lilian to speak first. But if Lilian permits her a long enough moment of expectant silence, Marian eventually says: "... Were you there, Dame-Commander Rook? At the... that awful den of drinking? I think I have seen you before, but that time, it is like a dream."
Lilian Rook	The sight of Marian first strikes Lilian with a pang of unexpected guilt. Her silence between Marian entering and her shutting the door is one spent trying to decide whether Marian is actually worse off than she expected, or whether the guilt has nothing to do with her wearing a hospital gown at all. She forces herself to smile, if only just, before the wrong Ms. Greco looks up. 'I am sure it is a great honor to meet you. I do like tea, only if you do not mind.' Lilian is taken by surprise. The starting sound of a laugh escapes her, off-guard. "Many would consider it so, though perhaps more than a few would consider it a curse." she says. Her tone is conversational. She moves towards the cups as a matter of course. "It's nothing you need concern yourself with, though. I work for an organization that the Saint Pavlov Foundation has decided to rely on in order to bolster their manpower. Most of my time goes to Laplace, even; the science building across the campus." The cup slid across the table to Marian on its saucer is devoid of the Foundation's ubiquitous Earl Grey; Lilian hates the modern stuff intensely enough to bring her own antique stuff with her. She doubts Marian is going to recognize qímén hóngchá, but she pours her own after moving over the sugar (no milk), and she'd rather not sour her mood with astrigent oils. Plus, it makes the whole room smell a little like smoky cocoa. She barely has time to settle in before her silent question is answered with a quietly loud one. She doesn't get to take a sip. '... Were you there, Dame-Commander Rook? At the... that awful den of drinking?' "So you do remember." Lilian says. Her plain tone is punctuated by a sigh that is midway between relieved and disappointed, and so lands only on 'convinced'. If anyone else had asked 'were you there?' about the Walden, Lilian would have a million things to say. Here, she brushes aside her own trouble expression, and says "Yes. Your sister had made arrangements with the Timekeeper of the Saint Pavlov Foundation to shelter you and your family in exchange for her cooperation and confidental information regarding the criminal organization she had previously worked for. Rescuing you was part of the agreement. I was bodyguarding the Timekeeper at the time." Everything she says is true. None of it means what it sounds like. A deal with the Timekeeper means nothing to the Foundation. What Schneider had to give in exchange was a complicated, still-unasked question. Rescuing Marian was impulsive, stupid, and kept secret until the last second. And Lilian had assigned herself to the job. Not a word that passes her lips legitimately means what she says; but Lilian Rook is used to lying in order to tell the truth. "I doubt I have the clearance to say so, but your sister had been cooperating with that criminal organization to secure that same shelter from them in the first place." Lilian says anyways. "That establishment, 'the Walden', was a frequent meeting place for them. When presented with the same opportunity from a charitable institution, your sister took considerable risks to ensure that you and your family would be able to live ordinary lives, rather than being beholden to violent, criminal elements." Lilian discards the thought of disclosing Manus Vindictae's questionable intent before she even considers it. Between 'Schneider cared about her safety and you' and 'Schneider only cared about you', the lie is more truthful. "I'm certain you've already been informed . . ." Lilian breathes in. Her fingers lace together tightly. She hasn't touched her tea. "The operation was unsuccessful. My team-- That is, myself, the Timekeeper, and Schneider Greco, were the only ones to succeed in their objective. I'm very sorry."
Lilian Rook	What else is there to say? What else could Marian stand to hear, that she herself could stand to speak aloud? That fact is why she called Marian here, isn't it? She's already doing what she's supposed to. ". . . I wasn't assigned to evacuating your family." True. Covering up the truth. It's kinder than saying that nobody was. "It's only that . . ." The professional formality bleeds out of the bottom of her voice. Lilian nervously moves her fingers to her hair on one side. "I just don't think it's proper. The Timekeeper is currently still in-hospital, but that's no excuse to just leave you here on your own. Regardless of who disagrees with me, Schneider died in service to the Foundation, trying to do the right and godly thing, and you're her next of kin." Her fingertips hesitate before touching her scar, then fall away without contact. Lilian exhales through her nose, and her hands fall into her lap. "I've done my best to assemble everything there is to find. I've even pulled some strings to dig up a couple of photographs. Whatever you do with it all is none of my business, but I can't agree with having nothing but a name in a report to remember her by."
Marigold	Marian touches the handle of the teacup. The tea ripples with the tremble of her fingers. She takes her hand off it, breathes, and tries again. This time it's still. "Tha--ank you, Dame-Commander. Um... n-not that I know much of witches... but you do not seem a curse to me," she breathes, with a meager little smile. She adds a cost-conscious half-teaspoon of sugar to it. Now, finally, she lifts the tea to her lips- mindful of the IV in her arm- and... "Ah-!" Too hot. But she smiles, after a moment. "... Oh. Perdonami, it is good. It must have been expensive, right? You are too kind to me, gov-- Dame-Commander." ... Ah. But then the conversation is about her, and about the Manus. Without meaning to, Marian hugs herself, and her eyes slide off to the side. "I-- I know. I know that Schneider is a criminal, and a witch. And shame upon us that we needed her to be," she says, tapering to soft-and-creaky. "The rest of my family, I haven't seen... che Dio protegga..." 'Next of kin' snaps her out of that, softly. Her eyes are compelled to meet Lilian's face again, but it takes her a second to even form the question. "Is... Dame-Commander, is she really gone? Everyone is saying this, but I can not... I can't..." The irrational feeling she has- how can she put it to words? "... It's Schneider. You saw her," she pleads. Don't you understand? Don't you understand, having seen her eyes, that it couldn't be true?
Lilian Rook	'Tha--ank you, Dame-Commander. Um... n-not that I know much of witches... but you do not seem a curse to me' Lilian blinks first. She flashes back to the day in Laplace where she decided to 'take initiative', and she thinks about what Schneider told her after their first crossing, and then she has to think about Chicago, and the people there, and Manus Vindictae, and what Vertin said after, and the suitcase, and-- It still takes her a second and a half to really process. "Oh it's not that sort of thing." she says, airily. "People find me pushy and controlling and quick to argue. I find them lazy and unprincipled and entirely too self-satisfied. Some things can't be helped." 'I-- I know. I know that Schneider is a criminal, and a witch. And shame upon us that we needed her to be' This single sentence is the most that Lilian has ever heard of Schneider's family. Marian's reaction, just in her posture, is more than she'd ever been answered when she asked. Now she regrets not having asked Schneider herself, rather than the people who promised to care for her. 'Is... Dame-Commander, is she really gone? Everyone is saying this, but I can not... I can't...' Now, Lilian sets aside the time it takes to pick up her tea, drink a portion of it black, set it back down again, and just breathe. She is strangely absent a sense of dread. 'Delivering bad news' isn't something she fears. Her awkwardly balanced posture and wandering gaze just seem . . . confused, in a way. As if it feels strange to claim that Schneider is gone at all. '... It's Schneider. You saw her' "I knew her." Lilian says. And that's that. "White, the woman who transported you here, wasn't part of my team; she was assigned to evacuate Schneider, and Schneider chose you instead. You'd think that would have done it, but she made it out anyways." Marian's insistence stokes up something small and hot inside of Lilian that she doesn't want to acknowledge, much less share. It feels childish, impulsive, even if well-intentioned. Marian is a completely different kind of person, and couldn't possibly feel the same way. And yet, it still gets the better of her. "The world tried to kill her three times in the same night, and she won all three times. She made it all the way to safety. We sat down and ate and talked. She looked like hell, but she survived. And then she was just . . . gone. Along with the rest of the world. Because all of us had been lied to from the beginning, and we just didnt' know it." Lilian stops, presses her thumb and finger to the bridge of her nose, and squeezes her eyes shut. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you've been told about 'the Storm'. I'm certain you'll informed sooner or later, but I really can't tell you anything you don't already know." She massages her eyes until the tension in her fingers relaxes, then lets them slide off of her face. "There wasn't a fight. There wasnt' an accident or a disaster. We took her to a shelter for witches and God said she wasn't one." Unable to help herself, even on the fading coals of that brief momentum, Lilian asks Marian a question anyways. "Did you ever see her use magic? I have. Didn't she ever use it at home? I still don't understand what went on."
Marigold	Marian is a completely different kind of person. And yet her eyes lift hopefully from her lap, even while her fingers fidget, and Lilian's recounting seems to enthrall her. It kindles a little light behind her eyes, even if a sad kind. That sounds like the Schneider she knows-- knew. It's nice, because she never hears anyone talk about her sister's virtues. It's bitter, because now she can believe a little more easily that Schneider is really dead. Only at the end of that explanation does she flinch, blinking guiltily. "God said..." she murmurs, a little trembly. Then there's nothing to be done about it, is there. Marian's shoulders rise with a breath, and then she hunches forward, and her hair hides her eyes for a little moment. A bitterness is brewing in her chest. She's still too deferent to Lilian not to moderate herself, but after a long second, it starts to overflow anyway. "... I have seen it. Often. She... Schneider... Dame-Commander, forgive me. If there was no food, mama and papa went hungry first, and then she went hungry third," Marian murmurs, guilt-soaked. "Because she was small and sick, and could-not work, right?" "She... I do-not know when she had to stray from the light. Who can blame her. Even at the Eucharist, they... there was sometimes not a wafer left. She started to steal for herself, I think, Dio rimetti. And then she started to steal for us. And, and do other things besides." The way Marian squirms, for a second, says she knew full well that her sister was a murderer. "And this look came about her, and she changed, and-- and, perdonami Dame-Commander but you would not understand, and--" The momentum breaks with a little shiver. "... She came to us. One day. And... she had lost her light of human reason. She had shown me small witchcrafts before, but-- Dame-Commander, she held enough money in front of mama and papa to change our lives, and told them she was their daughter, adopted. And to forget everything of when she was younger, and never speak of it again. And they yelled, all night, but she had the money." Marian's eyes are on her tea, half-cold by now. She's straightened up a little, but her face is miserable. "She... she is an arcanist, Dame-Commander. You, you were not lied to. Please... don't say such things. Sometimes, God tests us. Th--that's all, right?"
Lilian Rook	A part of her is glad that Marian looks at her the way she does. Even if it's petty and pointless and only makes people sad, Lilian just can't stand the idea of leaving Schneider's legacy as 'and then finally, they got her'. That part of her wants to know that Schneider never lost. That the world was utterly powerless to kill her. That part of her is the one that killed a man at the Walden, out of fear and hurt and anger, and so she tries to dwell on it no longer than that. 'God said...' "My apologies." Lilian says, a little bit dull. She comes late into Marian's quiet. "You're a devout young woman. I shouldn't speak in such a high-handed way. What failed us all in the end was human craft and human understanding." For a split second, she wonders whether to try and backtrack the single step she often finds herself having to mind here. The length of time it takes her to not care about that anymore doesn't even break up the rhythm of her sentence. "I just can't imagine anything killing her short of God Almighty." Whatever effect that has on Marian is out of her hands. The sense she gives off is that it wasn't really said for her anyways. She has her own devils to deal with, and they'll be there again when she leaves this room, so she has to keep steady hold of this particular sword. The Suitcase doesn't know anything. The Suitcase doesn't choose anything. The Suitcase is an object. It isn't a part of Vertin; someone built it, and long before she ever knew them, that someone was flawed. '... I have seen it. Often. She... Schneider... Dame-Commander, forgive me.' "There's nothing to accuse you of anyways." Lilian says. At first, it's throwaway; reassurance. Then, she hears her own words, and the fingers of her left hand curl into her skirt against her lap. 'She... I do-not know when she had to stray from the light. Who can blame her. Even at the Eucharist, they... there was sometimes not a wafer left.' The right has to remain steady on her teacup. The smell makes her think of home, where Cecilia is, and not home, where her parents were. Half the cup is enough to ground her here, in the Foundation, the day after as always, calmly listening to the grief of the girl that Schneider died to save, because the taste is nothing like the drinks in the Walden. No matter how large that place looms in her mind, it was only ever a small part of Schneider, and Lilian wants very badly to know the rest. 'you would not understand, and--' "There's nothing I need to." she prompts into the ensuing silence, as gently as she can. "I'm nobody important, much less someone you need justify your life you." she says. '... She came to us. One day. And... she had lost her light of human reason.' But those words, or just four of them, make Lilian a little bit angry. So she sets her tea back down, clenches her other fist in her lap below the table too, and bites down on her tongue. She almost misses the other four. The way Marian chooses them, and where they sit in her recounting. But Lilian isn't so fortunate, because she never is, and she doesn't ask Marian the one question that would settle the unease that burns her from the inside, because she doesn't want to know. So she just gets a little angrier than before.
Lilian Rook	Angry enough, in her present state, to lose her cool at a grieving relative still in her hospital gown, if the reason for it all were any different from, 'She... she is an arcanist, Dame-Commander. You, you were not lied to. Please... don't say such things. Sometimes, God tests us. Th--that's all, right?' "I'm sorry. It seems I've made you misunderstand something." Lilian says immediately, accidentally splicing two opposite ends of the same sentiment; hurrying a little, while she can't quite decide who to blame. "The lie we were told is that 'this is a shelter that protects arcanists' and that 'an arcanist is someone of arcanist blood'." says Lilian. "The first half of that lie was told in faith and hope; the second half, I suppose, we're all told before we can really think about it for ourselves." The enormity of being the one to say that, rather than being the one hearing it, leaves Lilian looking lost. Stunned with her eyes open. She stares past Marian for a while, as if reading the dwindling steam from her tea and reading Marian's face were the same thing. Then she brings her eyes back, and wears a weary, self-conscious expression. "It shames me to admit that I didn't give it enough thought when I had a reason to." she says. It's the least alloyed truth she's spoken all day. "I've found that not many people here are open to the topic, so I suppose I've fallen back on my old habits." In the trail-off, she becomes gratingly aware of the lack of a mechanical clock in the room. For some reason, she had expected the silence to come back to her with ticking, but instead, it's just the unintelligible soothe-babble of cooking instructions on her tablet. "Shall I freshen up your drink? It's still warm in the kettle." says Lilian. The preperatory gesture lets her move her folder and bag aside, which means touching them and reminding herself that they're there.
Marigold	Marian is so terribly tense. Objecting even apologetically to what she believed Lilian (in all her wealth and superiority) had said seemed to drain Marian's reserves and tighten her like a bowstring. The one thing Lilian said that Marian couldn't believe in the slightest is "I'm nobody important". Anyone who's eaten gruel knows Important People on sight. And so... "Nnnh...?" She raises her head slowly, searchingly, to meet the apology. And then- to realize she isn't being punished for objecting, but being agreed with- her shoulders slacken in soft relief. "Ah, I... I-- I see." Her voice is just a bit trembly, but her lips close in a faint smile. "So... the world, it did not think she was 'arcanist' enough. But you do. I am glad you honor her, Dame-Commander. I didn't... I did not..." But too much structurally-integral tension has left her. As soon as she doesn't have to think about the anxiety of contradicting a superior, Marian Greco can come undone. The next word catches in her throat, and her hands grip her arms as she nods apologetically to 'fresh tea', but a kind of silent retch comes out. "Perdonami, ahh, Santa Maria, I-- whh-- why? Didn't she suffer enough? What is wrong with this world?! Those, hh, those people in the masks, I knew her secret would be trouble with them-- but, the world--" Shuddery breath. She tries to wipe her face with her arm, gives up when the tears are flowing too freely, and instead hunches over with her hands over her face to catch them. "I-- I was going to start being good! I would make money, and be a librarian or something, and she would-not have to... would-not have to...! Ohhh, ahhh, Schneider...! Sch--Schneider, p-please... c-come ba..." There's a little choking noise. Marian is so hunched over that Lilian can only see the top of her head beyond the desk. After a long moment, there's a shivery breath in. "I'mm... hahh, ahh, s-so-orry, Dame-Commander... j-just a moment, perdonami, for this feeble heart... I just-- whh-why? Why is the world such a way, that she was-not enough...?"
Lilian Rook	'So... the world, it did not think she was 'arcanist' enough.' "The world doesn't really think anything." Lilian says. She feels numb about the words. They come out like an agreement. "It's just people. And people are wrong about everything until you force them to be right." She feels sickeningly relieved that Marian agreed to more tea. If she had to sit there and wait for her to get through her feelings, or worse, find something intelligent, or at least compassionate, to say about them, she has no idea what would become of her. As things are, Lilian can turn her face from Marian and watch the moving porcelain instead. She can busy her hands with a trivial task instead of fighting just to keep them still, and she can breathe in the steam and pretend not to think about 'the people in the masks' at all, and spend an entire minute unable to hurt Marian by doing the wrong thing. She drags it out as long as she possibly can. 'I'mm... hahh, ahh, s-so-orry, Dame-Commander... j-just a moment, perdonami, for this feeble heart...' "Please. I have plenty of time." Lilian lies. She slides the saucer over anew while Marian catches her breath. "I can fetch anything else you need. You really needn't worry." It'd give her an excuse to get a little more distance. Buy a little more time. 'I just-- whh-why? Why is the world such a way, that she was-not enough...?' "I don't know. I don't think that there's an answer to that question that isn't impossible to tolerate." Lilian says. "Things are the way they are because we make them so. If the world is at fault, then it's because a lot of people spent a very long time making it worse, and just a few people, in just a short time, can't undo it all in a year." Lilian folds her hands uncomfortably in her lap, stares at the last of her cooling tea, and ignores it. "The longer that things stay the same, the more inertia they have, and the fewer choices we really get. In all likelihood, we were already too late to change this years ago, and just ignorant enough to think we'd see the signs in time." Lilian wonders at her own use of 'we' in a distantly third-person way. The moment feels surreal, taking on the tint of memory while it happens.. "Please still be a librarian or something. If you change your mind now, the next girl like you only has a little less time to start being good than before." The growing sense of detachment from her own words causes Lilian to stop herself there. Shaking her head, she gives Marian an apologetic look, and says, "My apologies. I'm going on about something irrelevant. I didn't invite you here just to tell you what to do. All I wanted was to make certain you had something to remember her by." Desperately trying to make the subject about what she wanted, and not what she had been obsessing over since even leaving the Walden, Lilian slides over the folder to Marian's side of the table. It doesn't contain much. Photographs of Scheider from Concord public materials, a few from their low-security personnel files, some from Samhain, carefully chosen to feature no Manus Vindictae. A few in colour, a few in black and white, and a SD card that Marian willneed explaining. It's a thin stack. She chose not to include the UTTU article. "Her belongings, unfortunately, are in limbo." Lilian says, idle-unhappy. "A group of malcontents is staging a major protest on-campus, and they're blockading where the Timekeeper had stored them before being sent to hospital. I could retrieve them for you, if you want, but I'd like it in writing if you do." She sighs. "There isn't a lot in the first place; little more than the clothes on her back and her weapons. The end of the world left even less of everyone else."
Marigold	Under the table, Marian runs her hands over her face. It sounds wet. It's followed by a couple of noises one might guess are coughs, in any other circumstance; here, they've got to be tight sobs. 'Tight' because she is doing her best to swallow them. Eventually she does. Her sleeve tidies her face up a little, and when she raises her bleary eyes to Lilian again, her pale face is colored red. "Ah... hahh... I re-e-eally don't need anything, my kind lord," she pushes out, while trying to remember what a dignified posture looks like. Her eyes turn to the ceiling for a moment, as if beseeching heaven for composure. "Thank-- thh-a-a-ank-- you're, too kind..." Marian scrunches her eyes and trembles her body for a moment, summoning the strength to endure some unbearable pain. Somewhere deep down inside, she finds it; or at least enough shell-shock to do the job. Her body relaxes with one more little 'hahh' breath, and the acute attack of grief leaves her, smoothed back over into dull ache. She's not the same species of animal as Schneider, or the same genus, but they are somewhere in the same family after all. "A librarian. Right. There's... no point not being good, if she's gone. I-- I have to be, right? For..." 'For everyone else', she almost says, but is her family even still alive? "... well, she would have wanted me to be fed." A weak smile. She picks up the dossier, flips through it reverently, and her smile slowly becomes less weak. There is a warmth in Marian's face, now, that might once have shone through in family dinners or precious moments at the old Sicilian orchard. The Samhain outfit, she especially seems to admire. Cute. "I'd... I would like them, my lord. I mean, Dame Commander. Anything to-- hold onto, for her." Marian cannot say 'remember her by'. "These ones-- they are from her friends, 'the Concord', right? They seemed... nice. Better than most of her night friends. The Lady White, she thought she could find me work, so..." Implicitly: is that a good idea? Would Schneider have liked it? Something still chews at Marian, though. Her feeble body squirms more upright, and her eyes only meet Lilian's for a moment, while she waits for a pen to sign her agreement. "Dame-Commander. I... have a question, still. I do-not know much, about the witches and the arcanists. Mama and papa both were human. Their parents, and their grandparents too. I know... Schneider was not as most arcanists are." 'Most', Marian says, and not 'normal'. "But... if it is not blood, and she came undone... what makes someone an arcanist, Dame-Commander?"
Lilian Rook	'A librarian. Right. There's... no point not being good, if she's gone.' "Or something." Lilian gently repeats. They're Marian's words to begin with. "You may have a little less choice than you'd like if you stay here, but they'll guarantee that you find something. They won't throw you out." she says. She lies, in a way, only because it is kinder than saying 'you can't go anywhere else'. '... well, she would have wanted me to be fed.' "She would have wanted you to be proud of yourself too." says Lilian. "I'd think she would understand if it takes some time, though." It's not the moment that Marian stops crying that finally allows Lilian to begin to relax. Only when the photos are in her hands, and only when she smiles at them, does Lilian begin to think that she's done anything right by Marian at all. She had wondered if Marian would flinch away from some of them. 'My sister the witch'. Seeing her eyes twinkle at the Samhain celebration tells Lilian everything she still wants to know about her family. 'I'd... I would like them, my lord. I mean, Dame Commander.' Eased back down, somewhat, Lilian makes herself finish her lukewarm tea just so she can pour a second cup. In idle curiosity, she says, "I get the feeling you mean something other than what Schneider did whenever she'd say that. 'My lord', 'my lady', 'governer', that sort of thing. Is it something traditional?" 'These ones-- they are from her friends, 'the Concord', right? They seemed... nice.' "Some of them are." Lilian says, with only a low level of bitterness. "I have a couple of close friends in the organization, so I was able to pull some strings." Once again, she sounds much fancier than she means to. "The ones that Schneider made friends with, though; they aren't bad people. I'd only gently urge you not to assume that everyone in the Concord is the same way; provided you ever meet another one, that is." She remains firmly indecisive on White, but . . . "As long as that work doesn't require that you relocate and cut ties with the Foundation, I won't discourage it." The subject of Schneider's belongings pushes a long, slow breath out of her. She doesn't go as far as physical gesture again. "I'll find whatever godforsaken form you need to fill out to request her belongings, and then I'll make it happen." she says. "The protestors are making a horrible mess, and I'd hate to give anyone the wrong impression of why I need to enter the building." Whether 'because they would feel threatened' or 'because the Foundation would brand me a collaborator' remains indifferently undisclosed. After a second, Lilian adds "Once the Timekeeper is out of hospital, I'll ask her if there's anything I missed." Even now, she automatically defaults to covering for the possibility of finding something that she believes she shouldn't show Marian, and then changing her mind later. Every day spent on these grounds since the Walden has been made up of little thoughts like these. 'Dame-Commander. I... have a question, still.' "I'd be happy to answer anything I can." Lilian says, instants before regretting it. Her smile fades over the course of being asked.
Lilian Rook	'But... if it is not blood, and she came undone... what makes someone an arcanist, Dame-Commander?' "I've asked that question myself. Nobody seems to like it." Lilian says. It comes out distantly bitter; ripples on the surface of deep scorn aimed at someone else, somewhere not too far away from here. "Definitions are safe, comfortable things. They're humanity's friends, as a creature that relies on them to find its way in the world." But she feels that line of thought is neither here nor there; Marian didn't ask, and she isn't her ideological enemy. "If you asked me in a court of law, I'd say 'someone who performs arcanum'." Lilian says. She doesn't stop to explain the distinction. Even 'performs' rather than 'can perform' is distinct. "But if you were to ask me just for the truth, I'd tell you that I suspect there isn't a satisfying answer, but that the best one I can put to words is that an arcanist is someone who experiences alienation from 'humanness'." "Knowing things that there aren't words for, seeing them plainly in the dark that reason can't illuminate, and living in a world alongside them . . . No one can pretend it isn't there and remain whole. Magic doesn't ask much more than you look it in the eye and speak its name yourself."
Marigold	Marian's warm gaze comes up from the Samhain photos, to Lilian's face, and it warms further to see Lilian relaxing. Her lashes are still wet and her eyes are red, but it's a tender-acknowledging look. She knows why it makes Lilian happy. Then her eyes drop and she smiles, a little embarrassed. "Ah... signora, senatora, donna, dottora... that is how you bow your head, right? The lords and the governors of the world, mama and papa always say to show them respect, for then they might be kind." Her thumbs twiddle a little. "... mmh, to Schneider they were never kind anyway. So sometimes she said it as 'friend', to put an arm around someone, and sometimes as insult. I think it was a game to her, right?" A tiny smile. "To see how loudly she could sneer at them, and not be heard." Not leaving the Foundation... she can accept that. It hasn't hurt her, after all, that she knows of. . . . Around another sip of her tea, Marian smiles sheepishly at Lilian's definition of definitions. Human; guilty as charged. "The dark, that reason cannot illuminate..." Her eyes drift shut. If human reason is a light, then why were Schneider's eyes so bright, and why are her own so dull? If arcanum is only a darkness, why is it so easy to snuff out and so hard to kindle? Marian can't say. Philosophy leaves her, though, and for a moment she's in a happier place. Sicily, maybe. "I don't understand," she murmurs. "I... I wish, Dame-Commander, she had not been cast out from humanity. But she seemed happy, a witch. And I was happy for her. The things she showed me... they were so pretty. I do not think I envied her, but... I loved her. For how we came together, and came apart." A little shiver goes through her again. Her eyes blink themselves clear, with the little determination she can muster. "Thank you. For... being good to her. Please, bring what you can of her back to me. And, when the Timekeeper is well...?" It'd be nice to see them, too.
Lilian Rook	'The lords and the governors of the world, mama and papa always say to show them respect, for then they might be kind.' Lilian smiles sadly for where the notion had come from, rather than Marian's belief in it. "If only it were always true." she says, a little wistful herself. "Though, it's hardly as if respect ever makes things worse." 'To see how loudly she could sneer at them, and not be heard.' In so few words, Marian tells Lilian so much about Schneider that she had dearly wished to know, when there was anything to be done with it. She doesn't regret hearing it now; not exactly. But it does sting. 'Blue Cat' comes to mind, as a buffer shortly before thinking about herself; what Doctor Foid had said, and everyone else had forgotten. "I think I understand." 'The dark, that reason cannot illuminate...' "It's my first time hearing 'the light of human reason'. I chose to try explaining it in a way that used the metaphor." Lilian says. The first half is testy; the second half isn't. "I don't think of darkness as an inherently frightening thing. It's only somewhere that we can't know with our eyes; somewhere our subtler senses guide us, and the tingling 'knowing' when something is near. So if I have to describe it, I think to be human is to be very good at 'seeing', and to be an arcanist is to know the unexplainable, in the sense that one 'feels the presence of God'." "Though I may be more partial to the dark than most. I've always been a bit of a child of the moon." she says, sneering the world outside the room, unheard. 'I... I wish, Dame-Commander, she had not been cast out from humanity. But she seemed happy, a witch.' "She wasn't cast from humanity. Humans cast her out." Lilian abruptly says. "They look similar enough to deceive, but they're very different things." A beat, then another, pass before she says "Sorry. If I had a tone." and then another, before "Thank you for not casting her out." 'Thank you. For... being good to her.' "I wish I had been better, sooner. So I suppose in that, we are alike." Lilian says. "I'll do what I can, which is a lot mind-you, first thing tomorrow." 'And, when the Timekeeper is well...?' "I'm certain she'll come rushing to see you the moment those cretins aren't keeping her. When she does . . ." Lilan opens the box of tea leaves, portions out half of them into a separate container, and slides them over to Marian. It is easily enough to last her a few weeks of drinking it frequently. She acts like she doesn't notice. "Talk over this. She'll like it."
Marigold	"I think I understand." Marian's eyes, now clear, smile at their corners in an awkward way. For the first time she looks older than Schneider did. "... I do not think she would have sneered at you, Dame-Commander. I think the moon brought you together." It will not be the last time. Marian will keep growing older. Schneider remains forever young. Her eyes turn down, but more 'thoughtful' than 'deferent' or 'mortified' as they had before. They're lifted by the motion of the tea-box being slid over the table; then they widen, and her jaw opens before trembling slightly. "M, my-- Dame Commander, perdonami, I am not someone deserving of such...!" she starts, but she can already anticipate Lilian's objection; that really this is a gift for the esteemed Timekeeper, with Marian as mere vessel. "... I will serve it to her with your praises on my lips. Of course. Thank you, my lord." Her hands take the tea box- heavier than she expects it to be- and sets it in her lap. Her eyes dart to Lilian; then to the door; then back to the tea. She must sense things here are coming to a close; at the least, she senses Lilian's time is far more valuable than hers, and doesn't wish to tax it. There's something on her lips, though, even though she knows it'd be childish to say. Eventually, she finds her way to it. ". . . I have never heard God," says Marian, with her eyes still on the tea. "But most people at the church, they do. They-- they did, oh, Santa Maria... um. I, I think I feel His presence in my prayers, but I cannot be sure. I walk in His grace, I do, but... I am a humble servant, given but little oil for the lamp of my spirit. I see only what I see. I am not blessed to know." She shakes her hanging head, self-consciously. A tangent. "So, perhaps... I am very little a witch? And my sister like you was very much. Perdonami, what I mean to say is..." "... What does all this mean? What would she have told me that it means? How, how can this, with the Storm, be the true face of the world?"
Lilian Rook	'... I do not think she would have sneered at you, Dame-Commander. I think the moon brought you together.' If the subject were anything else, Lilian would find a way to turn this around and thank Marian for assuaging her fears; whether or not she meant to; because everything in the world about this place and time, about Marian Greco herself, makes it so easy that Lilian wouldn't even have to think about it. But it's Schneider they're talking about. So Lilian opens her mouth, lets the words go with a gentle sigh and a rueful smile, and instead says, "No. I know she wasn't. I was only thinking of a time I used to play that game myself." She folds her hands and lightly shakes her head, ready to move on, but her eyes linger on the edges of Marian's. The thought is intrusive. "The moon has a way of doing that. And showing what the sun is too bright to." '... I will serve it to her with your praises on my lips. Of course. Thank you, my lord.' Of course she knew she would. Marian Greco is someone that Lilian knows has been taught 'respect' so intensely and so reverently that it is beyond her power to convince her to give as little as she feels she deserves these days. So she smiles appreciatively when Marian gives in first; before she has to use the likely excuses. "You're sweeter than at least half these people deserve." she says, as her way of bringing the half-familiar further on to the mundane, so that things can finally reach an ordinary close at 'goodbye'. Marian surprises her. Not with just her choice to talk anyways, but with what she chooses to admit to, with no real reason, in the presence of someone who couldn't possibly give her the proper guidance. That surprise is written all over her face; gentle save for her eyes. Lilian shifts her posture away from the back of the chair, and settles herself again. It takes a long time, working through a series of complicated feelings, before she feels ready to answer, '. . . I have never heard God' "That's the limit of human reason, isn't it? Of light. The insides of other people's heads are dark, and so you can't truly know what's inside them." Lilian says. "It's difficult enough to even know what's inside of your own. When you feel anythng, 'reason' is the last thing informed." She falls to idly rolling her wrist, stretching back her fingrs, staring up and off to the side as she thinks through something thorny enough to sigh through her nose. Lilian considers twenty one ways to phrase 'I'm no priest' in disclaimer, and decides against all of them. "At one point in our lives, we heard 'hot' when we were too warm in summer, and 'cold' when we were too chilly in winter, but there's no season where God comes equally to us all. When the people at church-- and I'm certain there will be a church here as well-- tell you that they feel his presence, don't let yourself forget that they only 'think they do', like you. That they seem so certain, and that you can't be with so many words yet such a little feeling . . . If you want to think of yourself as 'a little bit', then I think that should be the reason." Lilian chews on the tough rind of what she finds herself, somehow, wanting to say. "God doesn't turn his back on witches so easily." "I grew up hearing that he hated me. Everyone told me that I'd burn in Hell no matter what I did. I've cursed his name a thousand times in my life, and I'll likely curse it a thousand more. But I'd be a liar if I said that I've never once felt sure that he had taken mercy on me; that I'd been blessed, for once, for doing the right thing."
Lilian Rook	'... What does all this mean? What would she have told me that it means?' Even after saying it, Lilian's smile is no less complicated than her feelings remain. A small part of her thinks about how she had taken to explaining her thoughts in terms of art, for the Awakened woman at the Walden, and stings her with eerie-wistful fondness for Marian; a barb hooked into a sense of longing too small to be worth pulling out. She can feel fond of Marian and not need to think about it much more than that. She will anyways. "You've asked the one woman who can only tell you the single rightest or wrongest answer that question you'll ever hear." says Lilian. "I don't know how Schneider would have said it, but I think she might've agreed with me if I said that it means . . . if everyone woke up tomorrow and forgot they'd ever heard the word 'witch', 'arcanist', or anything of the sort, a great many of them would suddenly find that they're much more of one than they thought." 'How, how can this, with the Storm, be the true face of the world?' Lilian's smile dulls down to embers, and then fades away. Nothing really replaces it. It's an unhappy topic, but it's also one that has no bearing on Marian at all. How could it? Even more than Schneider, she was to be swept away like dust before the changing of the era. The euphoric sense of truth and significance that she had been infused with by Arcana has run its course already. In the latter stages of withdrawal, Lilian can only feel that Marian is just so, so very small; and that she herself is only just big enough to deserve blame. "The Storm doesn't show the world's face at all. It tears away the bandages and shows us all the wound underneath them. It forces us to behold all that we've done, all we've allowed to happen, in the course of 'history', and the only truth it shows us is that men go mad when they can't avert their eyes. If God is to be found anywhere in the Storm at all, then he is surely judging those who disappear in the rain. All else to it is anger." Lilian presses her hand to the side of her head, shut-eyed, and touches the edge of her scar with her fingertips. "Perhaps that's a little much." she says, allowing the nails to trace out its length. "But you shouldn't look for divine meaning in the Storm. If it were God's doing, and not ours, it wouldn't have been without mercy for Schneider, and not even the Foundation would have been spared."