#elsewhere

A spider drops down onto Lizbet's shoulder. The Sisters can be hard to distinguish, but this one is Quatre.

The young sluagh... well, not quite a coo, but she rasps a delighted sound at the visitor. "Hello, web-sister. Is your Mistress in? I would very much like to speak with her, though she seems to be dreadfully busy."

An affirmative and encouraging series of taps - if Lizbet knows Morse, she might parse the "Y-E-S."

She watches the little spider tap and bob, and pouts slightly. "I do not understand you, miss. But if I may see her, if I am not interrupting her Eldritch studies? Tap once for yea, or two for nay?"

One tap!

"Oh, bless." She checks the fit of the ragged, old and torn bit of lace veil that sits on her stringy hair, and then taps the door to the library before opening it cautiously.

The library is delightfully dim. The sound of wings from above!

"I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!"

Bronte settles on the back of a wingback, looking at the girl.

"It is not much, pray, nor likely of much interest to most, but my Uncle has a stack of them, and I do believe you might not have a copy."

“Unexpected gifts were better accepted when they were presented by total strangers, I had learnt.” Bronte flutters her wings, delighted.

"Well, thou hast made a fast friend." Zara comments as Bronte absconds to go read her new prize.

"Mistress Librarian." She curtseys to Zara. "I hope I am not imposing. I would very much like just a moment of your time. I seek... advice, not literary, I fear, but... socially, or perhaps political."

"You are welcome here, Miss Lizbet. Please, take a seat. Tea?"

Lizbet, of course, knows the carved ivory tea-chest. She had been denied it at the auction, but the scent that wafts from within as Zara opens it is delightful - perfect, the childling's favorite blend!

She sniffs the air in delight. "Rose hip and cyanide? How lovely!" Alas, it is but almond, but a fond hope, none the less.

Zara smiles faintly. "All to the pleasure of my company, miss." Tea is a ritual, of preparation and serving. Zara dutifully takes on her role as hostess with grace and practice. "Now, how fares my kith-cousin? What has inspired a need for advice?"

"I am afraid I have no idea how to respond to a letter I received." She frowns, and slides an envelope, already slit open, across the table to Zara. "Is it too early for me to attain a respectable hermitage in the woods? I need not even be granted a hut with chicken legs, just a normal hut will do, so long as I may be reclusive and not have to respond."

There is a crest pressed into the wax of the letter, peeled open but with seal still intact.

A gentle brow lift, and she takes the envelope.

The tiniest nose-wrinkle at the sun.

Lizbet shares a similar expression, as though someone had passed gas at an otherwise perfectly lovely tea.

Within, is a letter written with all apparent pleasantries.

Congratulations to you on this, the cusp of your Togail! Silverwolf Barony hereby cordially extends invitation to Miss Lizbet, that we may act as host of your Wilder-day Celebration at Silverwolf Manor, along with a selection of such guests as you may wish to attend an intimate gathering. Should you desire alternate accomodations, the Baroness Nadeen Dancingsnow has thus decreed that invoices within generous reason may be forwarded to the Barony accounts, and will attend to bear witness this happy day, as well as present as customary, a celebratory boon to the new wilder.

Dictated by Bss Dancingsnow, by my hand, J.G., Stwd

"Mm..." Zara thoughtfully places a hand over her mouth as she reads the letter.

"I have been ever so careful not to draw her attention, and yet, the sun still seeks to drive out my shadow."

"The Sun has acknowledged her duty, in the owing of a boon."

"I admit, I had hoped perhaps to follow the example of Peter Pan, though he is so dreadfully exuberant, and simply not have a togail at all. But my dreaded mortal body has betrayed me, and insists that I must do such wretched things as grow. I fear I must not wait any longer, lest I split my very skin for want of shedding."

A distressed nod. "She is wed to an Ailil. Surely there is some trap within such prettied words."

"That is not to be dismissed lightly, though, aye, she is likely doing so to create the appearance of being an equanimous sovereign." Chin-tap.

"You must have a togail, for to avoid it for much longer will cause harm. Aye. And Ailil... they do not bear ill towards our kith, but hold reputation and pride nearly as highly as the Falcons do."

"What if she gifts me a hat that screams upon my very head, and I must wear it because to reject a gift would be churlish?"

A childish imagination quite takes hold as Lizbet wonders what shape a poisoned gift may take.

"One must needs be wise when asking for a boon."

"But... the privilege is upon thee to ask, and for what."

"Wouldst thou ask for a hat?"

A sigh, and she... oh, she can't kick her heels coquettishly, they now actually touch the floor from her chair - this surprises her for a moment as she realizes it, and distracts her. But she turns back to Zara shortly, and gives an expressive shrug. "I do not know what to..." And then, she pauses. "Oh. Not a hat, no."

Zara pours two cups of tea. "Cream or sugar?"

"Both, please!" She has a little smile on her face now, oh, some thought has pleased her.

Zara nods. The cream is delightfully lumpy, with a sour smell.

She leans in, and whispers to Zara, over the tea with a lovely skim of oily sheen over the liquid.

"Interesting. Certainly, if she has the means..."

"Oh, yes, plentiful. And I do believe that Miss Gwen- pardon, Dame Gladiola, may be middling fond of me as well. It is nice to have a friend, but nicer still to have one of my very own."

"Friends may be pleasant, in moderation. Trolls are dreadfully direct, but they do mean well."

"She freed me from the dreaded Briar, when she wouldst have had the dogs tear me to shreds." Perhaps an exaggeration, but who knows what a redcap might do.

Zara nods. "I have met the Dame. She reminds me, somewhat, of my DeBuke kin."

"One must protect their illusions, for they do not understand subtlety. They might confuse discretion for deception."

"They cannot help their bluntness, their senses are simply not so refined. But when presented with information in a form they may digest, they are firm allies."

Lizbet is clearly taking mental notes!