#elsewhere

The curator exchanges a glance with another Native American behind the tables, murmurs something in their own tongue, and they both laugh softly.

Citrine, attuned to tone over meaning, narrows her eyes. Whatever was said might have been innocent, but it sounds impolite to her. With a buzzing flutter of wings, she blows a raspberry their way.

GWEN:

Tony grins, his posture easing into a more relaxed stance. "It's a wonder," he says thoughtfully, "that your spirit didn’t walk the path of the Nunnehi. But perhaps the Creator had a greater design—guiding a Northern Giant to the vessel of a Cherokee Maiden..." He adjusts - "Warrior. Balance and purpose often unfold in ways we can't yet see. But... how is it that the Chasesky family can help you?"

Thistle flushes, the bright blue spirals shifting to pink. "Yeah, well."

Art is not obtuse enough to miss that, and his ears redden slightly. "Why.. don't we go look at the jewelry?"

She touches his wrist briefly, but steels herself. "May I take a photograph of the maps? Is that allowed?"

The first curator nods, professional once more. "No flash, please."

She suspects that the maps might prove useful - it's a gut feeling, but her gut often has good instincts. No flash, but she makes certain to get several good captures.

Art was waiting, but then takes a few steps away, listening in on something. Thistle misses the beginning of it, as she is focused on the captures.

“...and lord knows, everything has a price,” a voice insists, which turns out to belong to a tall, lovely black lady with impeccably braided and beaded hair, and wearing designer clothes. Her manicured nail taps sharply against the glass. “This piece would look perfect with my collection. Surely you can name a number.”

An older woman with long, grey braids shakes her head slowly. “These are not for sale,” she replies evenly. “They belong to my family and my people.”

The shopper clicks her tongue, placing a hand on her hip. “Legacy or not, they’re just sitting here. You could make a fortune—help your community.”

The Native woman’s gaze sharpens slightly, though her tone remains steady. “And when they’re gone, what will we have left to remember?”

Art shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable but uncertain.

Coming over, eyebrows travelling north.

A younger woman woman leans in close to the elder, her voice low and hurried, barely audible over the soft murmur of the crowd. "We could use the money," she says, her words concerned and hurried. "The collector’s offer is generous. It might help with—"

The elder woman shakes her head, her fingers brushing over the jewelry in the case with quiet reverence.. She responds with a firm, “These are not for sale,” her voice holding steady and a bit louder.

The affluent shopper, catching the tension, straightens slightly and offers a smug smile, clearly pleased with the moment of discomfort. She taps her pocketbook lightly. "I am sure we can come to an agreement," she says, her tone more insistent now, though still pointedly polite.

The younger and elder native ladies argue quietly in their own tongue.

"You know, if you are interested in jewelry, there's a whole ass market of artisans, many of whom would be interested in taking a commission."

The affluent lady opens her mouth to retort, but before she can, a smooth, honeyed voice cuts in. "Now, now, why ruin the atmosphere with arguments?"

The crowd parts to let Countess Blackfeather through, her presence undeniable even among mortals. She greets the shopper by name, her smile cool but polite, masking a subtle distaste. "Oh, honey, you're not trying to buy museum pieces again, are you?" A tsk to her voice, clearly she recognizes this woman.

Thistle feels the Countess's hand rest lightly on her shoulder in silent support.

She stands up a little straighter - she always tenses a bit around nobles, consciously trying to appear polite.

Especially since she's representing Aidan and Nadeen out here.

"Mary, of course you're here." The black woman says, drawing her hand back uncertainly, and though her words are polite, they don't sound quite friendly.

"Yvette." Mary Blackfeather simpers back, outwardly polite but there is an undercurrent of distaste.

"My friend here is right," the Countess continues, her voice smooth but pointed. "Not everything needs to be a transaction with history. Did you know that Ralph Lauren is partnering with a Diné textile weaver? One of their reps has a booth..." she points. "They just have samples, but I bet you could convince them to sell you, if not one of those, a bespoke copy from their initial run. Why, they might even be interested in having you showcase, if you put them in touch with your agent."

Thistle's mouth tugs to the side in a smile.

After the woman steps away, the Sidhe rolls her eyes. "Models. They think they run the industry, when they're really just pretty mannequins. Don't worry, I'm going to make sure she doesn't even get a nibble from that designer. Rude."

"Don't like it when bougie bitches bully with their pocketbooks."

The elder relaxes now that the insistent buyer is gone, but the younger woman bristles. "Why did you interfere? These are from our family line, they do not belong to the tribe. We CAN use the money!"

The older woman shakes her head again and starts muttering to herself under her breath in Navajo.

The countess starts to reply to the two feuding family members, but then gives Thistle a curious look. "How would you resolve this? Coming from another bougie bitch." Mary smiles, wickedly pleased with taking that name onto herself.

The jewelry on display is exquisite, each piece crafted in traditional Navajo style. Several silver bracelets, etched with geometric patterns and motifs of waves, mountains, and wind, are set with vibrant turquoise and coral. The silver shines softly, contrasting with the deep hues of the gemstones.

Pendants hang from silver chains, including the one that lady - Yvette? - coveted for herself - a squash blossom necklace with silver petals encircling a large turquoise stone. Another features an intricately carved eagle with obsidian at its center.

Rings, some set with cabochons of deep red coral, others with turquoise or oval-shaped mother-of-pearl, display subtle inlays of silver that shimmer with movement, showcasing the skill of the silversmiths.

Clearly this is what drew Citrine over, as she buzzes from one to the next, admiring.

She frowns. "I know there's like th'Hallmark dreck about how 'oh, they're just things an' things don't matter' or how it's materialistic or shallow or whatever to get attached to things. But... stuff DOES matter. Objects can carry meaning, can hold memories, can be passed down to connect us to our pasts. That... that matters, y'know? It's why you MAKE things, why you make art, for something that goes beyond just you."

"You think about how much art gets gobbled up to, like, sit in a rich person's bathroom, where they don't care about the piece, they just care that they own something expensive and rare and they can keep other people from having it. And that's.. that's a sin, ain't it?"

"Art is meant to connect people. To make it so you see the world in a new way, or understand a different part of it, or just feel something, like - feel something real."

"If you just see dollar signs and rarity and status, you aren't feeling real things, you're just flexing ego."

"Yes, but money is also important. It might put food on tables, or send a child to school, provide health care for an elder." She taps her chin thoughtfully.

Art shifts his weight, thoughtful, but the Countess clearly is anticipating Thistle's response, not his.

"If she actually gave a shit about supporting the community, she'd be happily offering big bucks for a commission, insteada tryin' to buy something not for sale. And selling off something irreplaceable to buy bread - not sayin' sometimes that doesn't happen, that there's no choice, but that's a tragedy if it has to."

"Fuck it. Steal th'damn bread first."

Her hands clap lightly together at the mention of a commission. "Now we are thinking outside of the box. Pray, go on. How else might they leverage these goods without mortgaging their souls? Consider how I might put the weight of my pocketbook on the scale, on the side against tragedy."

"Oh, I know what -I- would do, but how does your mind work? I am every so curious about you, Miss Smythe."

She squints. "Prints. Really nice, well-lit photos. Things that CAN be framed and put on a wall, or on a postcard or greetin' card, or a coffee-table book. Hell, maybe a calendar?"

Art’s expression tightens as the Countess directs her attention to Thistle.

“Trina is not just a curiosity,” Art says, his tone firm, but not unkind. “She’s a person with her own mind, her own ideas, and she’s more than capable of thinking for herself. It’s… I don’t know… a bit dehumanizing, to talk about her like some puzzle you’re eager to solve.”

"Stuff that can be reproduced, and sold, without denigrating the original. Heck, could even do, like, watercolor renderings, bet that'd be real pretty."

The countess purses her lips, and looks a bit smug. "Where the artist is injured, the squire leaps to defense. Oh, she's not the only one with prickles, I see!"

Art reddes a touch and gives her a hint of a bow, a head bob really, but they are in public. "With all due respect, C- ma'am."

Thistle, unsurprisingly, prickles. "Art's my friend."

It doesn't take a boggan to insert the (boy) there.

The countess gives a throaty laugh. "My dear, you are fooling no one. Oh, you are precious. I could just eat you up. But first... "

The Countess, with a smooth and assured demeanor, hands a business card to the ladies behind the jewelry trays. "I am a patron of the arts," she explains, her voice soft yet commanding. "I work closely with a local museum, and I believe there is a place for your pieces to be showcased. Would you be interested in displaying your works there? With 100% of the sales revenue from prints and merchandising being returned directly to your family."

Both the younger and elder woman brighten up, and start to discuss with her. Countess Blackfeather winks over at Thistle, waves for them to move on. "I will find you again, no doubt, before you leave." A promise in her voice.

"Yes'm." She resist the urge to curtsy, but bobs her head. She takes Art's hand and gives it a tug - over to the next display.

Art watches carefully until the Countess is out of sight. "She likes you." He says, a bit clipped, as though that's not as good a thing as it sounds.

A slightly confused look. "I think I was just in the right place to get her attention? I dunno."

"And she got me before I probably embarrassed B-... Aiden, by running my mouth."

He shakes his head. "She's more like that lady... Yvette, was it? Than she might want to admit. She'll keep you if she can." Art reaches over and holds Thistle's hand firmly.

"Keep me?"

"As part of her court, no doubt. Welcomed and appreciated." Art has a worried look on his face. "You... you're happy in New York, right? With... us?"

"But... why?" Squinty face. "Of course I'm happy at home. My family's there, my studio's there, you're there, my friends are there. The.. Aiden and Nadeen are good to me. Even if I do have to learn to ride a horse."

Art gives her a big smile - leaning in and putting a quick kiss on her cheek. "I thought so, but I'm glad to hear it."

She glows, spirals tinting that particular shade of coral that Art alone manages to draw out.

He brushes a hand against her cheek, tracing a spiral others can't see - until the sound of Citrine belling catches their attention once more. A sigh, happy though. "We'd better see what caught her eye." Art grins.