(2026-07-09) A Flock of Bairds - Rated A (Grimlockes and Bairds, Part 4)

Details

Author:	Athena
Summary:	Bryn Baird arrives home at long last to celebrate his birthday with his girl and his family, where he receives many presents of love and affection, and reveals some Deep Baird Lore. 20k words. Personal Plot.
Rating:	A for Adults Only 18+

Chain: Melyn

+ Show additional content warnings

explicit intimacy, discussion around child neglect in the past, mention of smoking, discussion around poverty/financial hardship, discussion of past death from childbirth, couple in monogamous relationship

The rich green canopy of Elwynn forest scatters sun-dapples like gold coins across the road that leads west out of Goldshire. The July air is cooler here beneath the trees than it was on the streets of the village, and it is sweetened by birdsong and the smell of exuberant green growth.

Two riders cross the river at midmorning, and then pass the Westbrook Garrison. Here is where the main Elwynn Road bends south toward the golden fields of Westfall — but the two riders continue westward along a road that leads toward the distant hills and coast.

Eventually a second road breaks off from the coast road to branch northward; this is the way to the Aspenwood Vineyards. The riders continue west.

They are almost at the stony hill-range that marks the eastern boundary of the Fallon estate when yet another road branches away; this one leads south, meandering along the hills and then curving around the foot of the range. Where the hills drop away, the riders are suddenly presented with the glittering vista of the sea in the distance.

Now they cross open country toward that vista. The grass here is dense and dark green and scrubby, the sort of sturdy grass that thrives stubbornly in sandy soil and salt air. The full power of the July sun, now that they are out from beneath the trees, would be merciless were it not for the breeze coming briskly off the sea ahead. The road slopes gradually downward toward that bright sea — and then appears to drop abruptly away, stranding them at an edge of sky.

It is a brief illusion. They are at the top of a cliff, and the road falls onward to the south and takes a series of switchbacks down the face of that cliff and toward the secret village revealed below.

The village is built along the crescent shore of the cove at the foot of the cliff. Most of it is comprised of a cheerful jumble of tile- or slate-roofed stone cottages and small shops, but at the far southern end a shipyard swarms with activity; the nearly-complete hulks of two new frigates stand in drydock slips. Part of the village’s farthest edge is a beach of coarse gray sand, and part is a long network of docks. The cliff-carved shelter of the cove itself is extended at either end by piled-stone breakwaters, and beyond the northern breakwater stands a lighthouse.

Baird directs his borrowed bay mare down the cliff road and onto the cobbled streets of the village, and then turns north. White chickens stroll and scold in the road, and the riders pass a pen of drowsy brown sheep tucked in the shadow of the cliff’s foot. Baird turns west now to follow a lane between rows of cottages.

A group of children are playing some kind of game in the street, skipping a stone along the cobbles, and when Baird and Melancholy approach, they shriek and scatter. The shrieks are of laughter, though, so it seems this is part of the fun rather than stark terror at the sight of a ghostly young widow on a demon steed. (Maybe they didn’t get a good look at her.)

There is a sharp whistle from down the street, and a man’s voice calls, “Es’tee, lad? Ye gawn up wi’out saynee auld’ncle?”

Baird reins in and turns in the saddle, grinning. He takes his cap off. “Aye, me. And no sir, never would.”

The man approaching them is a hulking, squint-eyed brute with a shaved head and bristling dark brows, dressed in stained and sawdusted workman's clothes. He grins back at them and reveals the gap of a missing tooth on one side.

“Melancholy,” says Baird, and gestures with his cap at the man, “this is my Uncle Arne. Arne Tarrant, shipwright. Arne, this is Lady Melancholy Grimlocke.”

She certainly looks the part today, of a Lady who may or may not be a Merry Widow. Her dress is a glittering black and dark purple gown better suited for evening wear than riding, sleeveless but with intricate beading over the shoulders and throat, paired with long lace gloves that cover her to her upper arms. The slit in the dress reveals one very long, very pale leg in fishnet tights, and lace velvet ankle boots. Her long black hair has been left down, covered by a black veil that goes over her eyes, which nonetheless show up from the heavy eyeliner and shadow, and paired with deep plum lips. Her veil is held in place by a band of purple roses, a theme that is repeated in the pattern of the dress and over her gloves. She has her own personal shade in the form of a lace parasol.

She even smells expensive.

Melancholy gives Uncle Arne a plum lipped smile, and offers out a hand — for a handshake. "Hello," she says, in that rich voice with its unmistakable upper class accent. "It's good to meet you. I was just hearing yesterday how you taught Bryn how to shoot when he was younger."

Uncle Arne does not appear to be daunted by ghostly young aristocratic widows in eveningwear, and steps forward to take her hand and shake it with surprising delicacy. "Aye, that'e ded. 'Ee telled ye?" Arne casts a proud, warm look at his nephew and then looks back up at Melancholy. "Nowt but essawn skell, that's. But'e taught 'em. Ye gawn up a'house, 'n?"

"Aye," says Baird.

Arne nods. "'Ee ferr's er. Keptawm a' wark a'dee t'see 'ee."

"Oh," says Baird, a little disconcerted. "He didn't have to do that."

Arne shrugs and then looks back up at Melancholy. "A greet plair, mess. 'Ee be good aw'm, nah."

Melancholy is still smiling as she looks back and forth between them at the exchange. It might be unclear how much her practice with the Kul Tiran accent on the ship has prepared her for understanding all of it.

"I will certainly try to be," she says lightly, though, suggesting she either understood some part or thought she did.

Arne nods warm approval at her and steps back. "Hap'ertday, lad," he says to Baird. "Es a nansum meed, 'at."

"Yeah," says Baird, and flashes a quicksilver smile at Melancholy. "She is. I'll see you later?"

"That ee'l," nods Arne. "That ee'l. Gawnah." He tips an imaginary hat playfully to Melancholy, and then turns away to amble down the street.

"Ta-ta," Melancholy says with a wiggle wave, made perhaps slightly disconcerting for the fact that the felsteed wiggles its head side to side in exact sync.

Baird gives Melancholy a sidelong look. "So. My uncle," he says lightly. He appears to be assessing her verdict.

Melancholy looks back at him for a moment, as if expecting there to be more to the statement. When none arrives, she says, "Oh! Yes. He seemed nice. I don't think I caught everything he said, but I do think I got most of it, thanks to my practice on the ship. I think it says something good about his character that he credits you for your own skill at shooting, not himself, although I expect it's probably a bit of both. Even natural talent needs a good teacher for technical skill."

Baird smiles at her. "He's a really solid guy. You ready?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course," she says. She doesn't seem nervous at all; she's just Melancholy. People will either like her, or they won't.

Baird nods at her, and directs the bay mare up the next northward turn.

He reins in before a small stone cottage with a sharply-peaked slate roof. A low stone wall surrounds a front garden that is mainly a hopeless tangle of bright pink beach roses and darker vines of climbing roses that clamber over their colleagues and up the cottage walls.The cottage door and shutters are painted red; they were no doubt vivid at some point but the paint has faded, softened by age and salt air.

A pair of suspicious hens in the yard peer from beneath one of the beach rose bushes at the arrivals and cluck low and disapprovingly to one another.

The woman that comes flying down the stone path to the gate does not look remotely old enough to be Baird’s mother, despite the few threads of gray in her pinned-back brown hair. She has a soft, youthful face and dark blue eyes and she is absolutely shining with joy. “Bryn! Bryn! Look at ‘ee!” She stops at the gate and turns to holler over her shoulder, “Bryson! Bryson!” and then turns breathlessly back to the arrivals, beaming. “‘Ee father’s comin’. Look at ‘ee!” This latter is now directed at Melancholy rather than Baird, and the woman takes her in with wide, astonished eyes.

“Hey, Phryne,” says Baird, smiling broadly.

Melancholy gives Phryne a plum lipped smile, and twirls her parasol while she raises up a hand to wiggle wave. It means she has no hands on the reins at all, but this doesn't matter. The felsteed keeps eerily perfect pace with the bay mare, its eyes staring unblinking and with unhorse-like intelligence.

"Hello, Phryne," Melancholy says. "It's good to meet you in person at last."

Baird drops down from the bay mare's saddle to loop her reins around the gate-post and begin unbuckling his saddlebags. Phryne, meanwhile, appears to have forgotten her stepson entirely in her delight with this anticipated apparition. She gathers her gray skirts and makes a playful curtsey, and then bustles toward Melancholy with both hands up to reach for Melancholy's free one. "Tides, maid, look at 'ee! Aren't ye just rich?"

Baird looks up. "That's Kul Tiran," he tells Melancholy. "She doesn't mean…."

Phryne's eyes widen again. "Oh aye no! Aren't ye a darling? Come down, maid, come down!"

Melancholy sets her soft hand delicately in Phryne's, her veil fluttering out behind her as she dismounts from the felsteed. It vanishes in a faint puff of fel tinged smoke behind her.

"Well, I suppose it's fair to say in either vernacular meaning," Melancholy says blithely. "'Delight is a Rich tender Plant / That Springs in all Soils, and all the Year: / 'Tis like the Manna which in plenty lay.'"

"Oh!" Phryne startles as the uncanny steed vanishes, and gazes at the air where it stood for a moment. Then she laughs. "Was a demon?" This prospect also seems to delight her. It's not every woman in Fallon Harbor who can say her son's girlfriend rode a demon right up to her house! She turns her beaming attention back to Melancholy and immediately folds her into a warm hug.

Phryne is soft and very good at hugs, and she smells in a vaguely familiar way of wool and soap, but also of cinnamon and ginger.

Melancholy is accustomed to hugs, and she pats Phryne with a little tippity-tappity in return. "Yes, a felsteed, a demonic being that resembles a horse," she confirms brightly. "I call it 'Terrific,' because I couldn't decide if I should lean into the horror — like Terrible — or the opposite to lessen its power with a name — like Sunshine. In the end, I went for a word with an etymology that serves as both, depending on the time period."

"Aren't 'ee a clever maid? Bryn, ye found one as clever as 'ee at last!" Phryne draws back from the hug but keeps one hand on Melancholy's arm.

The man who emerges from the house now is substantially older than his wife, and has a worn quality to him. The lines of his face are stern, his pale blue eyes hooded and his mouth set in a thin line. He has a slightly unkempt beard and moustache. His hair was once red, or reddish, but has faded to that peculiar almost-blond shade that red hair takes on in lieu of gray.

“Reckoning,” he says in a rusty, smoker’s voice. “You good?”

“Dad,” says Baird. “Yeah. Good to be home.”

Bryson Baird nods and looks at Melancholy. “Well,” he says after a moment. "Lady Melancholy, then."

"Just 'Melancholy,' please," Melancholy says lightly with a smile. She holds out her hand for a handshake. "It's good to meet you. What would you like me to call you?"

He takes her hand carefully and gives her maybe half of a handshake. "Baird," he says, and then looks at his son.

Ah.

"Bryson, then."

"We saw Arne," says Baird. "He said you were here. You stayed home from work today."

Bryson shrugs a shoulder. "Your birthday, isn't it? And the girl coming and all."

Melancholy sets her hand back on her parasol, spinning it as she listens. "Well, isn't that wonderful! Oh, I just realized. I probably should have asked before, but I hadn't thought of it yet — I don't usually go to other people's birthday parties these days. My friend Theris doesn't really celebrate his anymore. Do you have traditions on birthdays? Things that you do or eat?" The latter might be the tanuki part speaking. Are there designated birthday snacks?

"I made a cake!" Phryne says, at the exact same moment Bryson says, "The wife made a cake." Phryne's tone is gleeful; Bryson's is slightly belligerent, like he suspects Melancholy might have thought his son's family wouldn't provide him a birthday cake.

"Hey, thanks," says Baird. "Bryling here?"

"On her way," Phryne says, and squeezes Melancholy's arm gently as though she can't contain her own excitement and must transmit some of it to the younger woman.

"Great," says Baird. "Can I leave the horse here?"

Bryson looks the horse over like he suspects that it, too, might find fault in the family's provision. "Yeah," he says. "You g'wan in with the wife. I'll get a boy."

Presumably the boy is expected to handle the horse, and not for, like, decorative purposes.

Melancholy gets her boy: she holds out her hand for Baird's, moving more fully to his left side into her usual place.

"Oh, a cake! Is it a surprise of what kind, or is it a particular type?" Melancholy asks.

"Carrat," says Phryne, beaming. "Bryn's favorite. D'ye like carrat cake, maid?" Her accent is nowhere near as strong as her brother's was, though it is still present and distinctly Kul Tiran.

Baird squeezes Melancholy's hand and starts to lead her up the narrow front walk, past the watchful hens beneath the roses, toward the open door of the cottage.

"I do, although I get particular about the taste for what I like most about it. I prefer it when some of the carrot flavor comes through — that's what makes it carrot cake to me — and I like it both spicy and sweet, and with a cream cheese frosting only, not as sweetened so that the cheese flavor is also more distinct and not overwhelmed," Melancholy says brightly. "But we had a delightful carrot cake cupcake in Dalaran last week that was also quite good, if not my favorite version of it. I do like trying new things, and different versions of something even if I've already had something like it. I can't ever know if I'm going to like it best of all until I try it, of course, and sometimes more than once because mood and other things eaten before or after can all affect the experience."

The girl takes her food intake very, very seriously.

Phryne blinks and processes all of this information. "Ye went to Dalaran, Bryn?" is what she comes up with at last.

"We did, yeah." Bryn steps through the door. "I'll tell you about it."

Once inside, he lets go of Melancholy's hand so that he can hug Phryne himself. She gives him a fierce, beaming hug, and then steps back to take his face between her hands and rise on her toes a little to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Twenty-se'en," she says happily. "I ne'er!" She pats his cheek. Good job, Bryn, being twenty-seven.

They have stepped into a mudroom. The walls are of unfinished stone, the floor worn slate; the low ceiling is of rough wood, the beams exposed. Along one side of the room runs a broad wooden bench. A jumble of boots and baskets have been tucked beneath it. On the wall above it, a couple of oilcloth jackets, one well-worn pea coat, and a number of hand-knit scarves and shawls in muted shades of gray and brown hang from a row of pegs.

On the opposite side of the little room is a tall, narrow wooden cabinet. It is of oak wood burnished and stained to a honeyed gleam, every natural line in the wood clearly visible. The top of the cupboard is a rippling live-edge piece of the same oak, its bark sanded just enough that it is still intact but would be smooth to the touch. The cupboard’s door is set almost seamlessly flush with the frame on bright brass hinges.

Along the wall beside the remarkable cabinet are propped a jumble of fishing rods and nets.

Melancholy uses the moment when Baird lets go to close up her parasol, and takes out a small bag from a well-hidden pocket of her fancy dress, setting the parasol into the magical bag, and then putting the bag back into the magical pocket.

Melancholy looks around the house with an open curiosity, the same as she has when examining mogu palaces and the Lady Blanche, of someone going somewhere new to her and absorbing the environment for what it is. And in the end, landing back on Baird to gauge his reaction with even more interest.

Baird appears entirely at ease — more at ease, less watchful, even — in the small, dark room. He drops his saddlebags on the bench and then takes the embersilk bag from his own pocket and reaches in to draw out a rifle.

"Oh!" says Phryne. "Tides below! A magic bag?" She looks wide-eyed at Melancholy for confirmation.

Baird, meanwhile, goes to the beautiful cabinet and opens it up. Within are a trio of rifles arranged neatly upright in a wooden gun rack. He sets the rifle he's carrying carefully beside them and closes the door again.

"Oh, yes, yes. That one was made by Lady Cressidha Aspenwood, as a gift, while we were working together with her — and a lot of others from Cobalt Company — in the war against the mogu in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms," Melancholy explains with a plum lipped smile. "Mine are made by my sister, Miserie, who is an arcane specialist mage with the Kirin Tor."

"Stars," marvels Phryne. "Well, ye mun tell me all about 'ee travels and 'ee fight and 'ee family. But farst, Bryn, I'm to the kitchen, will ye show 'ee maid about?"

"Yeah," says Bryn, "of course. I'm going to run my stuff upstairs though, first." He picks up his saddlebags.

"I don't know if I'm supposed to stay here, or go with you," Melancholy tells Baird.

He holds his hand out to her. "You can come with me if you want."

Melancholy takes his hand again with a smile. "I do want," she confirms.

He flashes her a smile and tugs her through the mudroom door.

Through the mudroom is a hallway with the same low, exposed-beam ceiling as the mudroom, but a floor of broad, rough wood planks that creaks underfoot. A steep, narrow wooden staircase, no more than one person wide, rises up the left side of it. Baird lets go of Melancholy’s hand so he can lead the way; he takes the stairs familiarly two at a time.

At the top of the stairs, they arrive in a wood-floored space that resembles an attic, the ceiling sloping on either side beneath the roof. An assortment of rolled rag rugs, furniture in various states of repair, and a long, low linen cabinet are arranged against the walls to either side. Bryn turns left and leads Melancholy around the staircase to a narrow plank door in the plaster wall.

Behind the door is his bedroom. It is a narrow space, tucked directly under the eaves of the house, his ceiling at a sharp slope. There is a single small window at the front, looking out over the street and toward the sea, hung with sailcloth curtains.

The bed is pushed against the outer wall, under the lowest point of the ceiling; it is basically a cot — an iron bedstead with a wool tick mattress — but it has been piled so high with faded quilts and knit blankets that it has become vaguely hill-shaped. There is a braided rag rug on the floor, a wooden wardrobe against the opposite wall with a chair beside it, and a row of books arranged atop the wardrobe. On the floor beside the bed is an oil hurricane lamp.

That’s it, that’s the room.

Melancholy glances around, taking it in, and she spends an extra few seconds on the bed — it is small — before she looks back at Baird, the most interesting part of the room. "You seem happy to be home," she observes. "More relaxed and at ease, like you seem when you're on the ship."

"Do I?" He considers. "Yeah. I'm home." He drops his saddlebags on the chair by the wardrobe and flashes her a smile, then moves back to take her hand. (Moves back all of two steps.) "You okay?" Despite the smile, there is a searching, analytical quality to his gaze.

Melancholy seems…like Melancholy. "I'm okay," she answers. "Why wouldn't I be? I feel like I've already met Phryne, she's just like her letter. Your father is like you said. Your home seems like the ship to me, too. A little strange and unlike what I know, but it has a cozy warmth, and I can tell that you're happy here. I like being where you are, especially when you're happy."

Baird nods and squeezes her hand. "Okay. Back downstairs?"

She does not get a chance to answer the question, though, because the next thing he does is tug her closer and push her back against the wardrobe, then step in against her to kiss her.

Her answer to the question is mm, or maybe that's just a sound she's making at the kiss; difficult to say. Her free hand wraps around his back, and presses against his tattoo there, and the mark she left last night on him.

He smiles against her lips at the touch, drawing back a little. "Wild Melancholy," he tells her softly.

He steps away again and tugs her toward the door.

"'To paint the wild romantic dream, / That meets the poet's musing eye, / As, on the bank of shadowy stream, / He breathes to her the fervid sigh,'" she recites, stepping to his side, pressing closer against his arm. "It's from 'To Melancholy.'"

"'The wild romantic dream,'" Baird agrees, and touches her lower lip lightly with his free hand before leading her back through the stuffy upstairs space and down the stairs.

At the foot of the stairs, a doorframe on the right opens into the kitchen, and this is where Baird leads Melancholy.

The narrow room runs most of the way along the side of the house, and here the stone walls and exposed-beam ceilings have been neatly plastered to brighten the place. The floor is the same worn slate as in the mudroom. Inset in the outer wall at the front of the room is a stone hearth which contains a big cast-iron stove; along the inner wall runs a long wooden counter with cupboards beneath, shelves and pot-hooks on the wall above, and a chipped, old-fashioned enamel sink basin. The space between counter and stove is only wide enough for one person to maneuver at a time. At the very front of the room, the little window is hung with cheerful yellow gingham curtains.

At the back of the room (to their right as they enter) is the dining area. A wooden bench has been built directly across the back wall, near a window hung with the same neat gingham curtains, and in front of the bench is set a scarred wooden table with three mismatched chairs around it. There is barely enough room.

In the center of the table is a tin cake-stand, bearing a layer cake swathed in dense ivory frosting and scattered with bright nasturtium petals.

Phryne is bustling back and forth along the counter between bowls and cutting boards. She looks up as the pair comes in and wipes her hands on her apron. "Will ye na' go in the setting room? I can bring'ee tea."

"We can keep you company in here a bit," says Bryn. "You need a hand?"

Phryne makes a pursed-lip face and waves a wooden spoon at him. This appears to mean no.

Melancholy smiles and after a moment says brightly, with her usual discretion, "Oh, that means 'no,' doesn't it? That's probably for the best with me. It's not that I'm not willing to help, but I don't know anything about being in a kitchen. I can't cook at all. I can make tea, but in a 'pour already boiling water into a teapot' sort of way."

"Well ne'er 'ee mind, maid," says Phryne cheerfully. "Bryn cooks well enow."

This does not seem relevant to the situation at hand, as she has just told Bryn not to help. It may be that she is already envisioning Bryn setting up house with a young lady who can't cook: Don't worry, maid, your man can handle it.

Bryn leads Melancholy toward the crowded little table and draws out a chair for her. "What are you making?" he asks his stepmother.

Phryne smiles. "Guess," she says — to Melancholy.

Melancholy blinks as she sits delicately. "Oh, I have no idea at all. I don't know that I could identify most things before they're finished," she says blithely. And then she tries sniffing the air, because not having any idea or any skill at identifying things in the midst of being made apparently won't stop her from guessing. She's just setting expectations.

Phryne tsks at her good-naturedly. "Red fish stew," she says, and points her spoon at Bryn. "Lad's favorite."

"Oh, hey." Bryn flashes his smile as he sits down at the table with Melancholy.

"He mentioned that one before — a fish stew — when I asked what his favorite foods were," Melancholy says. "I wouldn't have guessed that though even if I was staring right at it. I've never seen it before, and I don't really have much experience with fish stew. I've had a lot more seafood though, recently, because of being on the Lady Blanche."

"Ye said in your letter," Phryne agrees cheerfully. "An' I do trust ye'll like it as well. Na' much to smell yet, I mun do the vegetables farst, the fishes are delicate. Et's a fine cook ye have on the Blanche, the Towson lad, aye? He'll get ye right full of fish. Good for the head. Et's why Bryn's sa clever." She smiles fondly at her stepson and winks at Melancholy.

Melancholy smiles and looks at Baird. "Maybe with enough fish, my bookshelves will finally let me organize them myself. I still can't keep them from just storing everything willy-nilly without any input from me. No orderly mind house for me yet," she says blithely.

"Hey, I brought you something, Phryne," Baird remembers. He rises from the table and flashes another quicksilver smile at Melancholy. "Be right back." He steps from the room and a moment later comes the creak-and-thud of him bounding up the stairs.

Phryne has begun coring and chopping tomatoes at the counter. She smiles over at Melancholy again. "He's a proper fine man ye have," she says confidentially. "'An'ee's right moonstruck for ye."

"He's the best thing that's ever happened to me, and that is saying something significant, because I have lived a good life with good things," Melancholy says brightly. "'Now have I learnt love as love is. I take / Your hand, and with no inquisition learn / All that your eyes can tell, and that's to make / a little Reckoning and brief, then turn / Away, and in my heart I hear a call, / "I love, I love, I love"; and that is all.'"

"Oh," says Phryne, and presses a hand to her heart. "Is't a poem? I don't know et, but Bryn says 'ee are a most poetic maid." She looks Melancholy over again. "Ye look like a maidie from a poem, don't ye, love?"

Melancholy turns pinkish, and fidgets with her gloves, tapping her nails together. "Thank you. It depends on the poem, maybe, but there are some poems that do sound a bit like they might describe someone like me in appearance," she agrees, and turns a deeper shade of pink with a shy smile. Some of these poems she will not recite in front of Phryne. "I wear a veil from an old favorite of mine, 'Ode to Melancholy' by John Keats. 'Ay, in the very temple of Delight, / Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine.' But the other one, with a Reckoning, that's from 'Persuasion,' by John Drinkwater. It's not a strong favorite of mine — I've forgotten a few stanzas I'm sure — but I memorized it a long time ago in fit of emotional turmoil when several lines spoke to me. I've been thinking about it more, because I've been trying to remember if I knew any poems with reckoning in them since yesterday. I didn't know that was Bryn's first name until then. He's just 'Bryn' to me."

Phryne nods. "Reckoning to his da, Bryn to us else. 'Ee were Reckoning when I met him, when 'ee were a minnow, but 'ee took to Bryn when they moved down'ear proper." She slides the chopped tomatoes into a bowl with their juices, and then selects a fistful of green herbs from a basket and begins to chop those. "Did ye have a pleasant visit home?"

"Oh yes, yes, of course. It was only a little strange being one of us visiting back home. I was the one who stayed home, before. I'd never left until this past February, when I went to my apprenticeship. It's always nice when we're all back home again. Usually that's only a holiday, when everyone returns from the great scattering of us," Melancholy says, tippity tappitying her fingers all back into a little grouping in illustration. "I would worry that my parents might be more lonely, but Malaise is home now for a while."

A pause, and a flash of anger and grief before it's deliberately set aside for a lighter smile. "She was living in Theramore, before. So, now she's back home in Duskwood," she says brightly. "Bryn's going to help her learn how to shoot a gun, which will be exciting."

There is an answering storm-spark of anger in Phryne's eyes at the mention of Theramore, and then she turns busily back to her chopping. "Poor maidie. I'm grieved for her. Our Bryn will take good care, aye?"

At that moment, Our Bryn comes thudding back down the steps and into the kitchen. He is carrying an ash-gray fluffy blob. "Here," he says, and goes to Phryne with it.

She wipes her hands on her apron again and collects the blob wide-eyed. "Oh!" she says. "Et's ever sa soft!" She lifts it to her cheek to rub her face against it, smiling brilliantly.

"It's yak yarn," says Baird. "From Kun-Lai. I only got two skeins so you have to promise to make yourself something with it."

"The yaks are really so versatile, aren't they? The pandaren make a cheese with yak milk that they fry up into curds that are delicious. And the grummles — charming people who are the trackers and traders of the trails — say the best yaks are from Muskpaw Ranch, because all their yaks smell lucky," Melancholy adds.

Phryne regards Melancholy wide-eyed again. "Smell lucky?" She moves the skein experimentally to her nose.

"I don't think it's from Muskpaw Ranch," says Baird apologetically. "Got it from a trader in Zouchin, which is where the Mogu'shan Vaults are."

"Well," says Phryne. "Smells lucky to me!" She stands on her toes to kiss his cheek again and then thrusts the yarn back into his hands. "Basket! I'm cookin'."

Baird grins at her, grins at Melancholy, and ducks out of the room again.

Melancholy smiles back at Baird, and nods to Phryne. "That's what matters most — the grummles say to never trust unsmellable luck, because it's probably someone else's, not yours. Your luck — like a luckydo — will always smell lucky to you," she says with complete seriousness of someone who has absorbed this superstition fully. "I think it makes a lot of sense for the individuality of luck. After all, anything can have two sides to it for luck, like someone unluckily losing a hat on a windy day, only for it to blow over to someone desperately wishing for a hat for the rain coming in from the wind."

Phryne nods thoughtfully. "No, aye, ye've a point."

There is the sound of a door opening and closing, and a feminine voice yells, "HEY BRYN! ARE — " The hallway floor creaks and the new voice drops to a reasonable level. "Oh, hey. There you are. Where's your girl?"

"In the kitchen," Baird's voice says. "C'mon."

Phryne winks at Melancholy again and lays down her knife to wipe her hands on her apron.

Bryn comes back in and immediately moves to the right to stand beside Melancholy's seat at the table. Behind him enters a young woman who is several inches shorter than him but unmistakably his sister, the resemblance written in the shape of her face and the set of her dark brows, her lips and the angle of her chin. Her hair is naturally the ash-blond color that Baird's has bleached to, and her eyes are darker than his and more gray than blue. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that has come loose in wisps around her face, and she is wearing a blue seersucker striped sundress and carrying a wrapped plate.

She gives Melancholy a frank up-and-down look and then breaks into a smile that reveals a deep dimple in her right cheek. "Hey," she says. "I'm Bryling. I brought cookies."

Melancholy gives her a plum lipped smile in return and offers out her hand for a handshake. "Hello. I'm sure you know who I am," she says with a little dark bell of a laugh, and though it's clear she's looking at Bryling and addressing her, there's a particular tilt to the way Melancholy holds her head, so that her face is pointed at Baird, her lips in clear view and her voice directed towards him. "I don't think I brought anything other than myself. Should I have? I could remember for another time."

"No!" Phryne sounds shocked.

Bryling sets the cookie plate on the table next to the cake and shakes Melancholy's hand. "I brought cookies because it's Bryn's birthday and he likes 'em. Probably okay you only brought yourself, because I hear he likes you, too."

She lets go of Melancholy's hand to go to Phryne for the same squeezy hug and cheek-kisses treatment that her brother got a little while ago.

"Oh, I meant more for something that could be shared with everyone, like food. I suppose it's true that my company can be shared, too, but I don't think my company's quite so reliably delicious as cookies," Melancholy says lightly, and considers further as she tippity-taps her nails against the table. "Although, thinking about it, I do have non-corporeal things I could offer as entertainment on the spot, like poems or music, if anyone likes the Lordaeron horn."

"Tch. 'Ee company's rich, maid," says Phryne, indignant on Melancholy's own behalf.

"I dunno the Lordaeron horn," says Bryling. "Your family's into poetry, though, right?" She picks up the cookie plate she just set down. "We're getting out of your hair, Phryne," she informs her stepmother, and then tilts her head toward the door at the other two. "Let's go sit."

"Grimlockes like poetry," Melancholy confirms, like it's a familial trait alongside prominent noses and pale complexions. She looks over at Baird. Are they going to sit (somewhere else)?

Baird nods and reaches for her hand. "Holler if you need anything," he tells Phryne, and receives another waved-spoon dismissal.

He leads Melancholy out of the kitchen and across the hall, where the doorframe here opens into a sitting room. Like the kitchen, the room is narrow and seems to run most of the length of the house. The floor here is of creaking wood planks like the hallway, a little uneven underfoot with age and the sea climate.

There is a pot-bellied wood stove at the back of the room, and arranged before this are a threadbare armchair, its upholstery permanently dented by the shape of its regular occupant, and a rocking chair. Like the cupboard in the mudroom, the rocking chair is a simple but incongruously beautiful piece of work. It is made of polished blond beechwood, and the head rail is hand-carved with a pattern of vines and flowers. Beside it on the floor is a basket piled with skeins of wool, and against the wall nearby is a spinning wheel.

At the front of the room, a couch of faded, blue-flowered chintz and another armchair — this one less dented than the other — sit opposite one another, framing the front window. There is a braided rag rug on the floor between them and a tea table beside the armchair.

Bryling goes directly to the tea table by the armchair and unwraps the plate of cookies before setting it down. "Have some," she commands, and drops comfortably into the armchair.

"Thank you," Melancholy says, but she politely waits for the Birthday Boy to select his choice cookie first. She has that same curious air of someone observing a space that is new to her, always returning back to looking at Baird in it.

Baird goes to the tea table to inspect the plate. He takes a dark brown, slightly sticky-looking cookie. "Thanks, Libby."

His sister grins at him. "Your lady guest should go first. That's manners." To Melancholy she says, "Molasses-ginger. They're his favorite."

Bryn steps across to the couch with his cookie but does not yet sit, waiting for Melancholy.

Melancholy inspects the plate of cookies for one, selecting a least sticky-looking one delicately between two fingers. "I didn't want to take the first one when they were made for him," she says lightly, speaking only once she's crossed back over to where Baird is, her head turned towards him, as she holds out a hand for him to help her sit, like a Lady. "I wouldn't know which one not to take of what he'd like best."

Baird takes his lady guest's hand and helps her to sit, then settles beside her on the couch. He is very close beside her. Against her, one might say. It is genuinely possible this is because a certain sag of the aged couch cushions toward the middle of the couch naturally inclines people together. But it's probably not that.

Bryling watches Melancholy in a level, thoughtful way similar to — but not quite — her brother's stare. "You look not like but also exactly like I thought you would," she decides aloud at last.

Melancholy smiles brightly like this is a great compliment. "Thank you," she says, biting into her cookie with a small, ladylike bite, and considering it for a moment. "You do look a lot like Bryn. I would have recognized you if I saw you somewhere else. I still can't recall if I have ever seen you before this, though. It's the sameness of the Guard's armor. I tend to see it more than I remember faces."

Bryling shrugs cheerfully and reaches for a cookie herself. "Yeah, that's kind of the point, I guess. People in trouble — or people making trouble — should just see a Guard and not an especial person. Just, like, parts of the city." She has a bite of her cookie and then says with her mouth full, "Your brother never had a beer before."

Melancholy gives a blithe shrug. "I didn't know that, but that doesn't surprise me," she says. She takes another little bite of her cookie and thinks about it again. She does not talk with her mouth full. "Was it fun?"

"Yeah," Bryling says. "He's a funny guy. He's in his own head a lot, I think, but he's weirdly honest, too. He just says stuff." He and Bryling may be kindred spirits that way.

"He's sincere," Melancholy agrees. "Sometimes I say things before I really think them all the way through — or maybe it's that once I hear it out of my own head, I can hear it a different way than it sounded just to me. I try not to be rude, but sometimes I am, and I always try to apologize when it happens. Torment never means to hurt anyone, either, just like I never mean to be melancholic. That doesn't mean I'm always successful at it." She takes a third bite of the cookie, and comes to some sort of Decision about it.

"It's better to be honest and then apologize if you screw up than be fake in the first place," says Bryling.

The door opens and closes and a tread creaks in the hallway, and then Bryson Baird is standing in the doorway of the sitting room gazing at the three of them. He brings with him the scent of cigarette smoke. "Liberty," he greets Bryling.

"Hey, Dad." Bryling sets her partially-eaten cookie on the edge of the plate and gets up to hug her father. He returns the hug with one arm, patting her back gingerly.

Melancholy eats another bite of her cookie, and says to no one in particular, mostly just as an observation, "I think these need milk for me."

Bryling steps away from her father. "Yeah, they're pretty good with milk."

"I can see if we've got any," says Bryn, and starts to rise.

"We don't," his father says. "Sit. I'll see if the McCalls have any." He eyes Melancholy and turns to vanish again.

"Oh, no, please, there's no need for that sort of trouble. I'm sorry, I'm just accustomed to saying it out loud when there's something I've realized about a food. It's only an observation of my preference, not an imperative," Melancholy protests, sincerely chagrined, and with a spot of color on her pale cheeks. "Besides, they're not for me, are they? They're celebrating for Bryn. So, it's nothing lost if I don't have some milk for them."

Bryn surveys Melancholy and calls, "Dad! Come back."

Bryson reappears in the doorway a moment later. "No trouble," he grouses, muttering apparently to himself. "For Reckoning's girl."

Bryling looks over her shoulder and grins at Melancholy, rolling her eyes.

Bryn settles beside Melancholy again, a solid warmth against her shoulder. "You want to sit, Dad?" he asks.

Bryson doesn't answer the question directly, but after a moment he comes into the room, goes away from the group to the well-worn armchair by the stove, and drags this around so it's facing them at the other end of the room. He sits down quietly.

Melancholy takes another quiet, little bite of her cookie and signs sorry at Baird with a shy smile.

Baird leans briefly more heavily against her, a subtle shoulder-bump for people who are already sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. "How's work?" he asks his father.

"Fine," says Bryson shortly, and plucks at a fraying spot on the arm of his chair. After a moment he elaborates, "Two near done. Seeing to rails and trim."

Bryn nods. "I saw 'em in the slips when we came down."

"The Fallons are having another baby," says Bryling, seemingly apropos of nothing. "Oh yeah you probably know that." She rolls her eyes at Bryn like it's some kind of embarrassing personal quirk that he spends a lot of time around Captain Fallon, and then she connects her non sequitur to the conversation: "Dad's doing the cradle."

"Oh yeah?" says Bryn. "What of?"

"Beech," says Bryson. "Bentwood."

"Damn," says Baird. "I'd love to see that later."

Bryson nods gruffly.

"I don't know what a bentwood is," Melancholy says, and eats another bite of cookie.

"Come on, then," says Bryson, and gets to his feet.

Baird takes Melancholy's hand and rises, casting a smile at her.

Bryson exits the room and creaks his way down the hall, past the staircase and toward the back of the house.

Melancholy follows alongside Baird, still nibbling at her cookie because she has long since mastered the art of walk and eat snack (professional tier).

Bryson opens a door and leads them into a room with two windows that overlook the small back garden of the house. The garden beyond those windows is amok with white hens and criss-crossed by clotheslines.

The room smells of soap and sawdust, and is more generously proportioned than either the kitchen or sitting rooms. At one end is a broad, deep enamel sink and a small cast-iron stove. Beside these is a stack of dented tin and copper washtubs, two washboards propped in the top one. A shelf above the sink holds a jumble of jars, and dried herbs hang in bunches along the wall.

The other end of the room contains a long wooden workbench. A row of wall cupboards runs above it. On the workbench itself rest stacked staves of honey-colored wood. There is something in the corner that looks like a kiln.

On a rough cloth on the floor between workbench and kiln, a magical object is taking shape: It is a half-formed cradle being crafted out of those staves of honey wood, but the staves here have, improbably, been bent and coiled elaborately so that the sides of the cradle resemble living vine tendrils… or cresting waves.

"Oh, what a trick!" Melancholy says brightly. "They're shaped just like little waves, aren't they?" She undulates her hand through the air in illustration. "'Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, / And waves that sway themselves in rest.'"

Bryson nods, surveying his work silently.

Baird lets go of Melancholy's hand to go over to the floor-cloth and crouch down to examine the cradle. He runs a hand along the curve of one stave. "Damn, Dad," he says. "That's a beautiful piece of work. How long's it take you?"

"Can steam 'em four at a time," Bryson says gruffly. "But got to stagger 'em because then it's only a minute, two minutes to clamp before it cools. Twenty-four hours in clamps for each one to dry and set." He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

Baird looks up at Melancholy. "That's… Tennyson?"

"Yes. 'In Memoriam A.H.H.,'" Melancholy answers, and claps her hands together. "Oh, I just thought — when you go to help Malaise learn how to shoot, you should go to our library. My copy of the poem is there, and you can borrow it, if you want; really you can borrow anything you like. I don't go in there anymore, so I'm sure some of the books are getting lonely."

"That's a pretty quote for a cradle," says Baird, and rises to his feet again. He runs his fingers along the crests of some of the curled-wood waves and then steps away. "Yeah, I'd like to borrow that one."

"You going to work?" Bryson asks Bryn abruptly.

Bryn looks up. "I've got my exam, Dad. And then probably Academy. That's what I'm home for." He pauses. "But yeah, I can do some work."

Bryson nods once.

"I don't know what work that would be," Melancholy says lightly. As usual, it isn't a question or a request to tell her, just an observation that she isn't sure what they're talking about exactly.

Bryson eyes her in that gruff, half-suspicious way. "Carpentry," he says. "Boy was near a journeyman before he ran off."

"I said I'd maybe help a friend with some work this summer, Dad," Baird says.

Bryson turns his gimlet eye on his son. "Not for free."

"Yeah, for free, Dad. A friend of mine." Baird regards his father steadily, mildly.

Melancholy seems a little, but pleasantly, surprised when Baird claims Theris as a friend of his, and she smiles. She's still smiling as they back and forth the cost. "He's also a friend of mine. I don't know if that makes any difference. It's extraordinarily difficult for Theris to make money, because he doesn't charge for what he does, and never has. He's the Guardian of Duskwood, helping to keep the roads clear and safe, and right now he's working in Pandaria to do the same with the saurok attacking people bringing in supplies for the war efforts there. And making sure he's there, if I need him."

Bryson turns to regard Melancholy again. He looks back at Bryn. "We'll talk later."

"Sure, Dad," says Bryn, and crosses back to take Melancholy's hand. "You want to go for a walk?" he asks her.

Melancholy pauses to think about it, and she wiggles her toes as if checking her body. Does she want to go for a walk? Check complete. "All right. I think my legs have mostly recovered from the ride, and as long as it's only a walk, and not a hike, I think it might be nice to see everything around where you live," she decides, holding onto his hand with a delicate grip.

Baird flashes her a grin. "Just around the village a little. You can tell me if you want to turn around."

Bryson follows them wordlessly out of the workshop and closes the door.

Baird pauses at the kitchen to lean in the doorway. Bryling is sitting at the table now, and she withdraws her hand swiftly and tucks it under the table like she expects no one will notice she was just taking a lick of frosting from the cake, never mind the dent in the frosting, that was there before. Phryne is still at the counter, this time fileting fish.

"We're going for a walk," Baird says. "Back in a bit."

"Aye," says Phryne cheerfully, "off ye pop. Bryling, ye come clean the shrimp, pet."

Bryling rolls her eyes at her brother like it's his fault she has to clean the shrimp — it sort of is — and gets up from the table to help.

Bryn tugs Melancholy toward the door.

Melancholy gives them a wiggle wave. "Ta-ta, then," she says as she follows Baird. She taps her other fingertips together in her glove experimentally as if testing for lingering stickiness from the cookie.

"I don't know how to clean shrimp," she tells Baird. "I know how to peel cooked shrimp, but I don't know if that's the same thing."

"Almost," says Baird, as they step out the door into the front garden. "Peeling's just taking the shell off. Cleaning is that plus you just make kind of a shallow slit along the shrimp's back to pull out the vein in there. And the shrimp’s still raw, not cooked yet." He swings her hand a little as they go down the walk to the cobbled street and he opens the gate.

The air is warm but the sea breeze lifts the full weight of the heat from the day. The sun reflects in dazzling glimpses from the sea where it is revealed between the houses across the street, and masts and spars and furled white sails are visible above slate or tiled rooftops. The sounds of children shouting and laughing ring from down the street again, and beyond that the sound of distant hammers and the calls of workmen.

Melancholy slows just enough to fish out her parasol again once they're back into the sunlight, holding it above them both, as she observes the harbor. "I should probably reapply my sunscreen soon," she says aloud. Delicate complexion and all that. But she continues, as if it might have only just occurred to her, "Did you want to walk for a walk, or were you making a reason to leave the conversation just now?"

"Both?" he says ruefully, and flashes her a smile. "You want me to hold your parasol so you can do sunscreen? Or do you want to go back inside for that?"

"When we maybe come to a place that might be nice to sit, I could hold my parasol, and you could put it on me?" Melancholy suggests. Would you care to rub your hands all over her sun exposed skin, Baird, y/n?

"Okay," he says. "Sounds good." (Y.) "We can go this way toward the water."

"Okay," she says back, twirling the parasol as she glances towards the water. "I'm sorry if I was making it worse, before, with your father. I thought maybe context might help, but I don't know him well enough to know what might be persuasive or worse."

Baird shakes his head. "You weren't making it any worse than I would've, and he's not going to be sore at you about it the way he would at me." He pauses and swings Melancholy's hand again as they walk, his other hand in his pocket. "He has a thing about giving work away for free."

Melancholy considers it for a moment. "I can understand it. I think I even agree, in a principle, of exchanging worth for worth. I think I just also expand it beyond money, personally, but maybe that's part of the bias I have of always having had enough money. I never have had to worry that I need to work," she says thoughtfully. "I do think it's important when someone is doing something of work or labor that they also get something from it. That's why I insisted on negotiating a higher payment with Mrs. Shine for my apprenticeship than what the W.E.B. was offering as a cost. I knew I was asking for quite a bit, and it was only fair. But there's a reason why we say something is a 'labor of love,' too."

Baird nods. He continues to swing Melancholy's hand as he leads them down the cobbled alley between two cottages, in the direction of the sea. At length he says, "He gets that part. He's just — his circle's just a lot more closed. He made my gun cabinet, and Phryne's knitting chair. He'll put in any kind of work for a gift like that." He's silent for a few steps. "He's not strictly a carpenter. He's a master joiner. That's… a big deal, in the trades. He's an artist. He does detail stuff, precision woodwork, designs decorative pieces. It took him years of apprenticeship and study. He had a pretty good career in Stormwind, was starting to get a name for himself. Until the city fell and they had to run north.

"Up north they were refugees among hundreds of refugees, and no one anywhere was looking for a master joiner. There were so many southerners just looking for any kind of work in the towns up north. He was competing with guys willing to work for pennies, so he had to be willing to work for pennies. Doing shit like repairing fences, or day labor for barn raisings. Scraping up what he could."

There is another silence as Baird stares at the sea now opening ahead of them. "When my mom got sick, after Libby was born, he didn't go for a doctor right away because she told him not to, they couldn't afford it. They couldn't. By the time he went anyway because she'd gotten so much sicker, it was too late."

He swings Melancholy's hand again once. "Phryne told me that a few years ago." His tone is matter-of-fact.

Melancholy is quiet, as tears form up in her eyes, and she blinks several times. "I'm so sorry that happened," she says, and her voice has a whispery sound to it of someone who might have been quiet, but she's forced it louder to be audible. "I've never had to even think about making a choice like that before. What a terrible burden that must have been — must still be, to haunt with a what if, even if he's happy now, too. Regret is an awful feeling." She squeezes his hand.

He squeezes back, but his tone is still matter-of-fact when he says, "Yeah. I try to go easier on him now than I did when I was younger. Phryne's done a lot for us." He points ahead of them, where they are approaching a little stony slope down from the street to the gray sand beach. Ahead of them, up the beach to the right, one of the long breakwaters extends toward the sea like a rocky arm curved protectively around the harbor. "And there's where we were mountain goats as kids."

"A breakwater, to break the roughest of the sea to shelter a harbor or cove," she identifies. She has learned! "They really do look like arms held out for a protective reach."

"We can sit there on the end of it, on the beach," Baird says. "For your sunscreen. There are tide pools in the rocks and you can find winkles and mussels and a couple've species of crab in the weeds."

"I don't know what a winkle is," Melancholy tells him, and she spins her parasol. "I like mussels, mostly in a white wine and lemon-creamy pairings." She glances from the breakwater to Baird and back again, and laughs a little to herself. "I'm trying to picture what you would have looked like, jumping off, and I can't quite do it, I think. I don't know what you looked like younger, either, so my imagination must be terribly inaccurate." She gets a ! over her head though at the image, and pulls on his hand.

"Oh! But that's a thought — would you want to go swimming today? We could! It's your birthday, so we can do anything you want. I have my swimming suit with me."

Baird laughs. "Yeah? I would love to. We can go back to the house and change and put your sunscreen on, and you can try being a demented gazelle on the breakwater. And when I was younger I'm pretty sure I just looked like a shorter, skinnier me with darker hair. And fewer tattoos."

Melancholy swings their hands. "Let's do it, then!" she decides, and she looks at his hair curiously. "What color was your hair before, with it being darker?" And this generates yet another thought. "Oh! When you do picture me littler, in your head, you should make my hair much lighter when I'm younger. I didn't start dyeing it until I was 16, when I came out into Society. It's a light, golden brown, like my mom's, on its own. But it didn't feel right, so I changed it to a Melancholy color."

Baird stares at Melancholy like he's trying to picture this as they head back through the alley toward the cottage. At last he says, "We have the same color hair, then."

Melancholy laughs. "Do we? And it's both curly, too." She gives a half-skip of a happy bounce, and then holds up her fingers one by one with her parasol hand. "Let's see, so that's both of us having an unusual first name from our mothers, a regular middle name from our fathers, we're the same height, and we have the same hair." She laughs again. "It's as if something was trying especially hard to make sure we would recognize the other when we finally met. But we've both changed so many of them to be who we really are, so it didn't work quite that way."

"But it came right anyway," Baird observes. "I think we recognized each other." He opens the gate to usher Melancholy through.

"I know I do now," she says, and signs mine at him, as she follows him back to the house.

Inside the cottage, the sound of Phryne's and Bryling's voices in conversation come from the kitchen. Bryson is nowhere in evidence. Bryling pokes her head out of the kitchen doorway and eyes the returning couple. "That was a short walk," she observes.

"We're going for a swim," Baird tells her. "Needed to come back for swimsuits and Melancholy's sunscreen."

Bryling opens her mouth for a grinning retort, eyes Melancholy, and reconsiders. "Okay," she says. "Have a nice swim. Don't take too long getting ready. Don't want to miss dinner."

"Et's loads'a time, Bryling," Phryne's voice scolds, laughing. "Come awee and let be."

Baird tugs Melancholy toward the stairs without dignifying his sister's remarks.

Melancholy's still turned a shy shade of pink bordering on red, but she smiles, as she skips follows along with Baird towards the stairs.

In his bedroom, Baird closes the door firmly and then flips the thumb latch. "Sorry about Bryling," he says, and moves to the wardrobe rather than his saddlebags. Inside, the wardrobe is empty save for a couple of shirts on hangers and a box at the bottom. Baird crouches to open the box and rifles through the neat stack of faded clothing it contains to pull out a pair of gray swim trunks.

He closes the box and stands again. "Other ones are in my sea chest," he says. "Still in transit I guess." He tosses the swimsuit on the bed and turns to Melancholy. "You want… any help?" he asks deadpan.

Melancholy, meanwhile, digs through her bag for her swimsuit and sets it delicately on the bed next to his, and then a bottle of sun cream already half-empty, before grinning at him. She reaches up to begin unpinning her veil, the most difficult thing to take off with its various, well-hidden pins in her hair.

"Yes," she tells him. "For swimming, I put on sunscreen everywhere, before I put on the swimsuit, so it's a bigger project now." Help her, Baird.

"Okay," says Baird. "Might take me a while. Never put sunscreen on anyone before and I want to make sure I'm thorough." He pulls off his shirt to toss it on the bed and then bends to untie his boots.

Melancholy sets her headband and veil gently into a bag, and then sits on the edge of the bed to… do nothing but watch him, putting her elbows on her knees and propping up her chin with both hands.

"You've never put on sunscreen before?" she asks, a little aghast, and then eyes his tan. Hm. This is perhaps…not surprising on consideration. "Well, being thorough is an important part. You have to rub it in especially well." She tips her head a little. "Do you want to wear any?"

He pulls off his boots to drop them on the floor, then straightens and eyes Melancholy with genuine puzzlement. He looks down at himself. "Um. Should I?" It does seem like kind of a horse/barn door situation.

"I don't know," Melancholy says honestly. "It prevents sun burns and sun damage. I wasn't told if it ever has a point where it doesn't work on someone."

"Sun damage?" Baird considers this. "I think I'm probably too late for that. Haven't had a sunburn since I was a kid. Couple've bad ones from out swimming or hanging out on the docks, and then after that — " He shrugs and sweeps a gesture at himself. After that his skin surrendered to its inevitable destiny.

Melancholy sweeps a look at him, and then just keeps sweeping and looking with a bit of a dreamy smile. "Mmhm," she agrees. "You look like sunshine, like the richest hue in that hour before sunset, the deep golden sweetness when everything is beautiful."

"That is," he says, moving to where she sits on the edge of the bed, "the most poetic way anyone ever told me 'nice tan.'" He props a knee on the mattress beside her and gazes down. "But you look like moonlight, so that makes us a pair again."

She straightens up, but mostly because she's reached for the waist of his pants, sliding her fingers under it towards the center where the button to start undoing them awaits. She looks up at him with a wide smile, and golden honey eyes. "And you have eyes like the blue moon, so maybe it's also a destiny of 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder?'"

"Yeah," says Baird. In his defense, this is because he is abruptly entirely focused on what her hands are doing with his pants. See, he can be distracted.

She is definitely being distracting, because while one hand begins working on undoing his pants, the other is grazing over the shape of him through them, her fingernails scratching over the surface for a ripple of sensation beneath the fabric. Her eyes are on his, as she slides her palm back up over him, and then works to peel his clothes off him, slowly.

"There's something I was hoping to do today for you." A consideration of phrasing. "With you?" A nod, yes. With. "I've been practicing something that I think you will like, and I think I managed to get where I wanted in time, for what I can do with my sweet mouth on you." Oh, that sort of Something™.

+ That Sort of Something

"Oh, damn, honey." He presses himself forward into her touch helplessly, seeking more. "Your sweet mouth is so — practicing something? Are you trying to break me?" He slides a hand into her unpinned hair to tip her head back a little so he can stare at her face, at her lips.

She strips him down to the point where he'll have to step out for the rest, and then starts taking off her gloves, gliding her hands free of them one at a time, and tossing them to the side.

"No, no, of course not, not break. But, I love the way you are with me. You're always so controlled, so deliberate, except when we're together like this, when you lose control, and go wild, like you can't help yourself. It's a heady rush, and I want to be that with you, every time," she tells him, and licks her lips. "Do you want me here, like this?"

And then, she opens her mouth, like she's asking him to feed her something.

"Oh, tides," he says, and hooks his thumb in her expectant mouth for a moment. "Yes. Yeah. Right here." He lets go of her to take half a step back and step out of his pants, and then crowds close again. He puts his knee up on the mattress beside her again and offers his rigid cock to those soft plum lips.

She closes her hand around the base of him to hold him steady as she glides him into her mouth, warm and willing, and at first it's familiar as she sucks him into her a comfortable amount. This is where she started.

Then she slowly bobs her head back and forward, with that skillful suction and firm lips, her tongue curved and stroking along the underside of his cock, and her hand grip on him tightens — now that she knows more about pressure — slowly building up more speed as he grows slicker.

But the moment of what exactly she has been practicing is revealed when after a minute of this warm up, she takes a slow, steadying breath, deliberately flattens and relaxes her tongue, softens her jaw, moves her fingers away, and then pushes all the way forward, taking the entire length of him into her.

Her lips kiss the root of him. She looks up at him, paused there, holding her breath as her tongue flutters in small movements.

"Oh tides oh gods," he says — breathes, rather, he doesn't seem possessed of his full voice at the moment — "oh fuck, honey." His expression is stricken with wonder and lust. Wonderlust. "Melancholy," he says soundlessly, and slides his hands into her hair. He can't take his eyes off of her.

She can't hold the position for much longer, as she slides back to the halfway, catching her breath a little, her eyes watering. But then she starts again, a musician's sense of rhythm and a horn player's control over her mouth. Every 8th stroke, she does it again, a full depth to kiss the base of him, and then the relatively shallow thrusts. Her eyes water further, and eventually the tears touch the edges of her makeup, causing it to start to run, but the expression in her eyes is happiness, and satisfaction.

Her hands slide up his thighs, fingernails scratching lightly, and then around to his hips, pressing him into her mouth on that rhythm, as if encouraging that there will come a point of loss of control of his own restraint, and she's readying for it.

It isn't going to take very long. His gaze has a glazed, feverish intensity, and his breathing comes fast and harsh now. His hands slide forward from her hair to take her head between his hands, and one of his thumbs grazes that tearful smudge in her makeup. His hips rock, mindlessly chasing after the extraordinary sensation, as his grip on her head tightens, and then he gasps her name soundlessly again and his expression twists and then slackens with ecstasy as he floods her mouth.

He gives a long, unsteady sigh, dropping his head back. After a moment, he loosens his hold on her and looks down again. "Holy shit, honey," he whispers.

She's gazing back at him, looking very pleased with herself. While she still has him in her mouth, she signs happy birthday, before she uses her hand to gently release him, pressing a kiss to the softening topside, and then leaning back to better tip her head up, smiling wide.

Perfect, first try, she signs.

"Perfect, first try," he agrees in a hoarse whisper, and then clears his throat. "Gods and tides, Melancholy. How are you even real?" His thumb brushes the trace of that tear again and he seems to collect, to recollect himself. "Are you okay?"

Melancholy sets her face against his hand in a soft resting. "I'm very okay. I'm happy, and quite pleased with myself," she tells him. And then blinks — and the state of her eyes registers for why he might be asking. "Oh! The tears, you mean? No, no, it's nothing bad, it just happens on reflex — it happened in practicing, too. It doesn't hurt. I should have taken off my makeup first, probably, since I have to anyway for swimming, but I got excited."

She wiggles in place in demonstration of this and then squeezes her thighs together in a different sort of fidget.

"I am… really curious how you practiced something like that. Damn. You want me to take care of you?" He strokes her hair, his gaze tender and concerned and honestly still kind of dazed.

"Oh, well, you know how there's a food cart at Lion's Landing that sells meats? They sell sausages, and they're willing to make some to specific requests for an appropriate price," Melancholy reports brightly. Practice and a snack! Her favorite combo.

Baird gives a helpless laugh at the explanation of her course of study. "Shit, honey, that's some dedication.”

"I'm honestly a little more concerned about making any sound here. I'd be so embarrassed if I was overheard. I'd rather you maybe just warm me up a little hotter, and then take me out to the sea, and maybe take care of me out there. Right now, I would really like you to undress me, and touch me, and help me put on my sunscreen until I can hardly think straight."

His cloudless-sky gaze holds hers earnestly. "Gorgeous unveil'd Melancholy, you are a poet and a poem and a filthy girl in the best ways, and you're perfect and I'm wild about you." He steps back so he can bend to kiss her. "I will get you as hot as you like and then take care of you properly out there."

His hands move to the zipper of her dress.

Beneath the dress is her beautiful, expensive usual lingerie, and beneath that, the last of the other beautiful, expensive lingerie that is just for him, the wild blooming roses temporarily tattooed on her skin, hidden away by the clothes.

"You always take care of me," she affirms, and relaxes into his hands with a contented sigh.

Always Apply Sunscreen Thoroughly

Baird swings Melancholy's hand again as they make their way yet again down the cobbled alley between the cottages across the street. He is barefoot and wearing the faded gray swim trunks now, along with his t-shirt to demurely conceal certain recent marks on his person. He has a threadbare towel slung over his shoulder.

Melancholy carries on her wrist her little black bag (with towel, parasol, blanket, and more), wearing her swim suit without the optional skirt, her ankle boots, and a persistent slight flush.

"Why didn't you want to be a carpenter — or a master joiner? — like your father? Was there something in particular about it that you didn't like, or was it a feeling that it wasn't right for you, nothing specific that you could point a finger to and say 'that is why I can't be this'?" Melancholy asks after a thought filled silence, as she strokes a bare finger along one of his.

Baird thinks about it for a while, again in silence. "I like the work, honestly. I just didn't want to be him. For people to think I took after him."

"Oh." A pout of thought. "Why?" It's an unusual amount of prying, but Baird has crossed fully into Personal Territory.

The silence this time is longer, but it lacks the thoughtful depth: he already knows the answer. "He's why Bryling and I ate a lot of stale bread and ran wild around the city instead of being in school when we were kids.

"He worked all the time, almost never home, and when he was home he was drunk. Not a mean drunk, nothing like that. Just out of it. He'd say he was working extra to make sure there was money, but there wasn't money anyway except for the year he worked on Fallon House. I still don't know if it all went into the bottle or he's got a goblin's hoard in the bank.

"He was just… absent all the time. Even when he was home. And I get why, after the north — there wasn't enough of him there to take care of himself and two little kids at the same time. But I didn't get that when I was younger. I just knew not to expect anything from him." He shrugs. "I ran off to sea rather than get yoked into some Baird & Son shit because I didn't figure he deserved that much from me. Bryling had Phryne by then so I knew she'd be okay.

"I guess what the answer boils down to is I quit carpentry out of spite."

Melancholy sits walks with that for a while, holding onto his hand tightly, with an expression of anger and hurt that doesn't get brushed away the moment it arrives, but she doesn't speak in it. She waits until she's started to have a handle on both before she finally says anything.

"I'm trying to be as fair as I can be to your father. I know that when I was… broken, that I neglected a lot of people. I didn't take care of anyone, except myself, and even then, I don't know that I did that very well, either. So I feel like I can understand some of it from that point, how much so much worse loss and pain and regret must have changed him, and I know he's just a person in the end.

"But, children," she counters herself. "That's the part I can't get around. Because you were children, and the thing is, you had lost all those things, too. Your home, your safety, your mother… and then your father. But you still had to find a way to take care of yourself, and your sister, and that's — that's just not fair." She takes an angry breath, and then, more deliberately, a calmer one.

"I didn't know you back then, but I know something couldn't have changed that much, because I see why you say that you're most like Phryne: you're both filled with so much love, and a core of brightness of excitement for the world you live in. She shows it differently, but it's the same thing. You're built of love and curiosity, and so I think it takes something extraordinary to make you turn your back on something you love, and that means it's fair that you made that choice, out of heartbreak or spite or anything else," she says, and brings their linked hands up to her chest, pressing the back of his hand over her heart as she looks at him. "Do you miss it, carpentry?"

"I like the work. I like doing it when I get a chance, like maybe helping Theris out, or going down to the yard with Arne. There's… a physical satisfaction in it. Making something concrete with your own two hands, making it well.

"But I don't love it like I love being at sea. I don't want to make my life about it."

He gazes out at the sea ahead with his cloudless sky gaze. "I made a decision. Pretty consciously. When we moved here. That I'd be one of them. The Kul Tiran side. Phryne and Arne, his wife and kids, the other families around here. Another reason to go to sea."

"The push and pull of fate," Melancholy agrees, and hugs his hand closer on her body with both hands. "We are who we choose to be, as much as what we were born to be."

He turns his gaze to her now, his pale-eyed scrutiny intent. At length he says, "You are a remarkably sweet, remarkably generous girl. And I love the hell out of you."

It's easier to feel the way her heart thumps in response, with little between his hand and her skin, and she smiles at him. "You're the most incredible person I've ever met, and every time I think, 'that's it, that's the most I can love him, this is the maximum I can hold,' I get proven wrong. It's like finding a magic bag inside another one, and I didn't know I had it."

Some thought, though, tugs on her, pulls her gaze off him and then back on like the sight of him grounds her. And it takes a gathering of courage, visible in the way she breathes, and the flush on her skin before she can ask, "Do you want children of your own?"

"I don't know," he says honestly. "I know for sure it's not a thing I want now, or even that soon. I'm still climbing, still saving, and I don't want to be an absent dad who can't provide reliably. But someday… the idea's nice." He searches her face. "Do you?"

Her shoulders rise in a guilty-like shrug. "I don't know," she echoes, as honestly as him. "Before, I just assumed I would have children. It was expected, and I didn't object or anything, so it just seemed like a natural course of life, one thing after the other." She taps a little leaping jump with a finger over his hand in illustration. "But now, it's different, because of the fel. I look ahead and I think, how long before I'm too corrupted to even think about trying to carry a child safely? Because that is a real, genuine consideration; it would horrible to bring a child into the world already fel tainted. And at the same time, there's no way I could have a baby any time soon, when I'm the clearest in soul that I'll ever be from here on. So it's like an awful timer I try not to think about."

But she's thinking even as she's talking, and something occurs to her. "Wait, though — that's not true, isn't it? It's not a dichotomy, or a now or never. Because even if it was later, and I didn't think I could myself, there's other ways to have children, aren't there? Like Phryne, where there's children who need parents, and it wouldn't matter the same way — the fel wouldn't touch them, to have them that way. So, maybe that's my thought. Someday, and… it might look different than I expected, but I can see where Fate leads me."

"Yeah," he says. "There's no rule you have to give birth to them. Like Phryne. I think me and Bryling turned out pretty well, and mostly due to her. We've never doubted she loves us."

"I think you turned out perfect," she says. "I wish it had been easier, but I don't wish you were any different than who you are." She leans towards him for a moment before she shyly redirects to instead lift his hand to kiss his fingers… and lingers maybe a little too long in it, dragging her lip over his knuckle.

She hastily puts his hand back down with a brighter pink on her cheeks.

He is staring at her, his gaze now dark and heated. "I think," he says, "we'd better get you in the water."

They make their way across the coarse gray sand of the beach, loose underfoot, and then Baird pauses at the end of the breakwater and says, "You think you can climb along it out a ways? It's a little mountain-goat in places, so you probably want to leave your boots."

Melancholy looks at the rough and tumble rocks, and then looks at the water next to it, tapping a finger by her lips. Hm!

"We could try. I'm not exactly a good mountain-goat, but I would certainly give it my best. Or we could try going over the water itself until we reach where we'd like to sit," she suggests, wiggling her fingers at him. "It's just a little spell, and off we trot on the water."

He surveys the rocks, the water, looks back at her. "That seems like cheating," he says, his tone only half-serious. "But I think we should try climbing, for the authentic mountain goat experience. If it's too much, we can drop off the side and walk?"

Melancholy pouts. "I don't think it's cheating," she says, and she looks down at her feet. "Well, if we're going to try to climb on the rocks, and I shouldn't wear my boots, then my feet will get horribly scraped up, so I should summon and sacrifice a demon so it will heal up as we go." She lets go of his hand so she can open up her bag, and fish for her athame.

"If you don't want to," Baird says gently, "we can just go on the water. I don't want you getting all scraped up even if you do heal."

Melancholy looks back at him, paused with her athame half out of the bag. "It heals up so quickly, it's hardly noticeable. That's how I was able to walk around barefoot in the Vale, like with our swimming lessons. Normally, I can't, I get scraped up too easily — delicate skin," she explains. "It's probably a good idea to do it anyway, so I don't worry about my feet on the rocks jumping off. Did you know I can't get blisters really, either? I expected some with learning how to splice rope, but I splice too slowly and heal too fast for them to ever happen. The only thing that lingers is muscle soreness here and there."

With that, she takes out the dagger fully, and summons her felhunter in a snap of a soul shard. Zhaamyn barely has time to form completely before Melancholy is sapping its strength, drawing the fel out of it and into her, leaving only a husk behind that crumbles into dust before their eyes.

Baird watches the spot where the felhunter disintegrated. He glances up and flashes a smile at Melancholy. "So. Rocks, then, or water?"

Melancholy checks her fel armor (on), and swipes a hand over her hair. The athame gets put away, patted once. The scent of the fel competes with her perfume and the sunscreen, fading underneath them more with each passing moment.

"I think the water would be easiest on me," Melancholy says, picking Baird's hand back up. "And maybe easiest on you, then. I really am all right with a little pain here and there, though. I've dealt with more pain and blood in a monthly, honestly." She shrugs blithely. "But, maybe the water is also unique. Something interesting you can only do when I'm here with you, and I do sort of like that thought."

"Okay." He squeezes her hand. "Then let's walk on the water."

Water-Walking!

By the time they have reached a spot Baird approves, the cottages of the village are a quaint painted picture in the distance. The sea is a glittering blue plain stretched out on all sides, save for the spine of tumbled stones they walk beside.

Baird surveys the stones and lights up. "Okay," he says, pointing to a flattish boulder that juts from the water like the nose of an inquisitive seal. "Up there." He moves to the rock to clamber up and then turns to reach for Melancholy's hand.

Melancholy has none upper body strength — noodle arms — and barely stronger legs, but she tries hard and believes in herself, as she leaves the water for the rock with a delicate fumble of a climb, heavily relying on his hand to get her where she's trying to go.

She laughs at herself as she awkwardly makes it up onto the semi-flat solid ground again. "Well, I have the demented part down already," she says blithely.

"The good news is that jumping off's a lot easier than climbing up." Baird flashes his smile and then tugs her close for a kiss.

She kisses him back with the wild abandon, and some amount of relief, of someone who believes she's as good as invisible out in the big wide world, ensconced in the privacy of nature. She kisses his lips, then his jaw, and then his right ear with an especially soft brushing drag, before she kisses his lips again, and looks at him in the sunlight like she's studying the clarity of his eyes. Her own eyes are a little squinty in the bright afternoon.

"That's true of most things, isn't it?" she says. "Do we jump in together, or one at a time?"

He kisses her again before he answers, his hands sliding over her hips — excuse u he wasn't done yet — and then he breaks away to look first at the water and then at Melancholy. "It's going to be deeper than anything you've swum in so far," he tells her. "But that's why it's safe for jumping. I'll jump first, so you can see, and then I'm there when you jump, in case you need a hand?" He draws back to look her up and down. "Also that way I get to watch you jump."

"For my ranking on the goat to gazelle scale," she agrees with a nod. She keeps her hands on his shoulders and renews the water breathing, without the soul shard empowering. Little bubbles appear around his face, floating up and dissipating. She renews her own after with a smile, and then shifts her weight as her feet start drying on the hot rocks. "Oh! I should put out the blanket, and take off the bag."

She opens said bag, reaching in deeper now to get to her usual picnic blanket, deep black and fancy. It's large enough that it will have to stay at least half folded to be comfortably on their little flat area, but that could be a good thing of extra cushioning. She offers half to him to help her get it down in place.

Bryn accepts reflexively and steps away to get the blanket spread out in what room the rock affords. He drops his towel at one corner of the blanket and then strips off his t-shirt. There is a very fresh purple-red bruise on his shoulder among a fading sunset of other, older marks, and when he turns to survey the water around them, there are equally fresh red scratches scored across the tattoo there. The marks might be tattoos themselves, for the casual way he wears them: more information for the book cover.

Melancholy takes out her towel from her bag in a distracted way, watching Baird rather than what she's doing, and she drops the bag next to it unceremoniously. Her eyes are on her target, which is the tattoo on his back, sliding her fingers near the mark, as she steps to his left to smile at him.

She waits until he's looking at her to say, "I'm thinking of getting a tattoo — one on my body," she clarifies. "I've started talking to Mr. Beecham about his pricing for them." So she's thinking-thinking, then.

Baird looks over at her in surprise, and then looks her up and down with warm and salacious speculative interest. "Yeah? Ink would look amazing on you. Do you know what you'd get?"

She shakes her head. "I haven't decided yet. I wasn't sure where I might want to get it, if I should start small for the first one or not. And then I thought, I could ask you, too, since I do want your opinion on it. Like I was thinking I might get something as a symbol of the mogu war in the Vale, or maybe of meeting you," she tells him, with that sense that to her, these are equally significant parts of her life worth marking on her body permanently.

"Of — oh." He stares at her for a while in his patient, ruminative way. "I don't know either. It's hard to choose tattoos for someone else. I could think about it. Or if you think of a specific idea you like I could give you my opinion."

"I'm not in a hurry," she says. "It's just something I've been thinking about in a general way. You can tell me if you think of something, and I'll tell you if I decide on something specific, too."

"Okay," he says, and looks at her a moment longer. "It would look amazing."

He looks out at the water and then back to her. "You about ready to jump?"

She nods. "Mmhm." She gives an experimental crouching bob up-and-down like she's warming up her knees. "I can't even remember the last time I jumped, really jumped, off something. It's not ladylike, so it's been a long time I think."

"I enjoy it when you do unladylike things with me," Baird says solemnly, and without warning pushes off one step and hurls himself off the rock.

The jump is deliberately — perhaps nostalgically — uncontrolled, sheer exuberant physical chaos, but he hits the water with his legs straight and punches through the surface to vanish below.

There is a delay of several seconds, and then he appears again, golden head and shoulders emerging from the glittering surface. He shakes his head, swipes his hair back with one hand, and grins at Melancholy, blinking wet lashes.

Melancholy's still laughing, her hands clapped together, when he emerges. "Okay," she says, and studies the water, and then with the same energy that she's lived most of her life with, just goes for it.

She does not have the leg strength for a dramatic jump in power, but she makes up for it in ability to flail, limbs akimbo and uncoordinated, and she doesn't time the straighten out anywhere near as well — she hits the water still in the aaaa!! windmilling and kicking legs, but down she goes.

And down.

And down.

Melancholy doesn't seem in any hurry to swim back up as she floats in the midrange depth she sunk to, breathing, and opening her eyes to look around her in the water.

She can see Baird's shadow between her and the sunlit world of the surface, and then he folds to slide beneath the water again and down to her depth. He floats beside her for a moment, just outside the range of the siren's cloud of her drifting hair.

She's an ethereal being under the water, pale skin blending in with the blue and green, the stark black of her swimsuit and her hair, and she smiles at Baird as she reaches for him, and kicks a little to propel herself closer.

Beautiful here, she signs, and looks around, turning partly in the place like a slow moving, floating spectre. Feel good.

Beautiful you, he signs. Lucky me. He swims a circle around her.

She laughs, bubbles floating up from her, passing by the inky darkness of her hair swirling in a chaotic halo around her head. She tries an experimental paddle flail to shift her direction to face horizontal in the water, and kicks again, swimming into the water rather than up, gazing back at him.

You beautiful. My — A pause in the signing and she swims slowly through the water as she thinks. She can't sign his name and she doesn't have a pet name for him. Yet? Because she laughs again and signs, My Bird. Bird, Baird, close enough.

He grins at her and nods. Your Bird, he agrees. Lucky me. He ducks and twists to slide beneath her in the water with a playful grab at her foot as he passes.

He's not a saurok, so she doesn't kick at him, but it does induce her to try and see if she can do the same. She does more flailing than smooth maneuvering as she tries to orient herself in his direction and then kick-kick-kick to launch forward for him, both arms out to try to catch him.

He waits for her obligingly… until she is perhaps a fingertip's length away, and then he ducks again to swim beneath her in the other direction.

She laughs again, at her own slowness, and signs, First try, as the counter once again resets until she gets it.

Another awkward water swat of her hands to reposition and then sleek flashes of pale legs kicking as she tries to catch him, her hair dragging through the water, undulating with a life of its own.

This time he waits, smiling, and holds out a hand to her as she approaches.

She grabs hold of his hand, and keeps swimming until she softly crashes into him, wrapping first an arm around his shoulder and then both legs around his hips, like a very determined white and black octopus.

Her lips move, forming Perfect, first try, because her hands are still busy keeping a firm grip on him so she can press herself against him to kiss him thoroughly in the privacy of the middle of the sea.

Always Swim with a Buddy for Safety

On their return, the little cottage is perfumed by a heady combination of tomatoes, garlic, fennel, and wine, and by the time Baird and Melancholy have traipsed back downstairs from drying off and dressing, Phryne is dishing out bowls of the fragrant broth full of flaky portions of fish, shrimp, and mussels and clams still in their shells and steamed open in the stew. Everyone receives a bowl and a spoon and a hunk of crusty bread and is shooed away to eat.

There isn't room at the table for the whole family plus guest to sit, so Bryling leads the way back into the sitting room, where the young couple are again assigned the couch, Bryling the armchair, and Phryne and Bryson drag their own chairs over to join the group. There is a definite impression that it's not unusual for meals to happen in this fashion: the family, with guests or drop-ins or of their own accord, collecting in the sitting room to balance their dishes on their knees and share laughing conversation. Most of the conversation is spurred by Phryne and Bryling, and on this particular occasion much of it is directed at Melancholy.

Melancholy has Mastered all forms of eating and snacking, and the task of dining while balancing her meal on a ballroom dress doesn't seem to either deter or daunt the intrepid tanuki-woman. She laughs at herself when she has to get creative a few times with how dip bread into soup and also hold bowl, but it's with a good natured humor.

She gives the soup three (3) bites (and pauses) before she is willing to give an opinion (positive, and a reinforcement that she and Baird have similar tastes for their preferences of food, where she has a particular delight in food that is flavorful and showcases its ingredients to their fullest).

Her answers are as filled as always, where if she knows enough to give an opinion, it's truthful and complete, and if she doesn't know enough, she says so, directly.

When everyone is finished eating, Bryn and Bryling collect bowls and spoons to ferry them to the kitchen, and Phryne brings in the carrot cake in its velvety coat of cream cheese frosting flecked with golden nasturtium petals. The first slice goes to the birthday boy, the second to His Girl; the 'dessert plates' are in fact a mismatched assortment of teacup saucers.

Bryson does not linger for cake; once Baird has his piece, his father comes over to put a hand on his shoulder for a squeeze and then pats him a little awkwardly. "Happy birthday. Need a smoke," he says quietly, and takes his leave. No one seems fazed by this, either.

The cake is dense and moist and not too sweet, and as a result does manage to convey some actual carrot flavor among the rich spices instead of merely Sweetness.

"Now, pet," says Phryne over her own slice of cake to Melancholy, "ye mun tell us your plans. Will 'ee be staying wi' the Lady Blanche, then?"

Melancholy finishes her bite before she says anything. "At the moment, that's where I am because that's where my teacher is, and my whole contract is through the W.E.B. to Admiral Fallon. But I haven't decided exactly what I will do going forward after my apprenticeship is complete — and that time is coming, there are only a few things left I still am sure I should not attempt to do without proper instruction — except that I intend to stay with the Navy in some form, so the exact ship might depend on what's decided of where to put me, and which captain I'm with," she says, and she smiles at Baird, her face turned towards him even as she looks at Phryne.

"Whether that might look like a being part of the Fleet directly, or pursuing something similar to what people like Kaerix or Miss Niksi Knockfathom do of being contracted out from Cobalt Company — if they would hire me, they are extremely conservative in their hiring of warlocks, which is part of why I would consider it so seriously, because it means they have few people who can give the benefits that warlocks possess — that part I still don't have firmly planned. I have to see. But, I have been convinced that the Fleet is a good place for warlocks, for what we can do that makes such a difference, more so I think than on land." Melancholy turns pinkish as she cuts off another small bite. "And for me personally, it's clear that it's my Fate, of where I'm meant to be."

Phryne nods sagely. "Ye go where wind and tides take 'ee."

"How does ship life agree with you?" Bryling asks. Her tone makes clear that she does not find ship life particularly agreeable and assumes that any sensible person will agree with her.

"It was difficult at first, but now I've grown so used to some things about it that I slept less well than I expected to last night. The bed felt too stationary, and the quiet was strangely loud, even though it's all I knew until a few months ago," Melancholy explains. "Everything is so close by on the ship, so it's a lot like living in a small community that relies on each other, in its own world, and that isn't honestly so different from what it's like in Duskwood, because of the curse. That means it's not so unfamiliar, and I think I'm growing fonder of it than living in the larger Shrine of the Stars with so many strangers always passing through. But I've only been in the harbor so far — though it might be debatable at how safe it is with the Horde waging war there — but I can't say what I'll feel like when we're at sea."

"Et does help to live ashore a place where it's the song of the sea a'night, e'en if ye mun be still," Phryne says.

You know, a place like Fallon Harbor. Just for example.

Melancholy gives it a moment of consideration. "I couldn't say if it would for me; I haven't experienced it. But I do think I could get used to just about anywhere with some time," she decides. "Even if it's not what I've been accustomed to so far."

Baird glances over at her and then returns his pensive attention to his cake.

"So you're going back to Pandaria tonight?" Bryling asks Melancholy.

There's a moment where her expression dips into a pained sadness, a rapid blink of her eyes, and she reaches out to Baird with one hand — balancing her dessert with another hand — before she deliberately flicks the emotions off somewhere else and pulls up a smile from a still genuine joy she feels in the moment.

"Yes," she confirms. "But I wouldn't like to talk about that just now. It's difficult to think about, because it means a goodbye, and I would like to be happy for now, as long as possible." So, instead, she gasps lightly in remembering, and then lets go of her dessert plate saucer entirely, to reach for her bag. "Oh, that reminds me! I have something for you, Bryn, for your present." Fishing for it requires some significant wiggling, and it takes her several seconds before she can present…!!

A slip of paper.

"Ta-daaaaa," she says.

The slip of paper does not exactly seem particularly exciting: it is a calendar week, done in deep, black ink in Melancholy's own expensive handwriting, with notations throughout the days of Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday of a schedule, 'Class 1, Class 2, Class 3' and a time, with the latest Class 3 underlined in pencil.

Phryne and Bryling both lean forward with expectant interest. Baird says, "Damn, you didn't have to give me anything else," (we will leave his family to speculate on what she has already given him) and then peers at the piece of paper. "'Class 1, class 2… class what?" He looks up at her.

"It's the philosophy course with Professor — " A pause as she deliberately checks the name internally to say the right one, slower, "Cuddy Nordlinger. You're all signed up for the 8-week course — I wanted to get the 12-week, but we don't know if you even like it yet, so I thought it would be better to not over-commit — where you can attend three classes per week as you like, and you can choose which times to attend. You're under Bryn Baird for it.

"My recommendation is the Class 3, because it's at the end of the day, and Professor Nordlinger conducts it after he eats dinner, and he's genuinely philosophical afterwards — more musing, less aggressively pursuing the concept of truth — but you can decide which one you like best for yourself." Melancholy nods firmly.

Baird looks up sharply, wide-eyed. "The… class? At the Keep? Do I have to know… is it just an open lecture? Do they know I'll be there? Do I need to bring anything? What kind of — " He has so many questions he seems to run out of them, the questions backed up in their hurry to get out over one another. He looks a little bit like a rabbit frozen in a field as a hawk circles.

"Oh!" cries Phryne, beaming. "A class! Bryn, ee'll have sa much school when'ee test is done! A proper scholar, as 'ee ought!"

"Philosophy?" Bryling asks dubiously. "Isn't that just, like… people's opinions about stuff?"

Melancholy holds up four fingers, and then ticks them down with each answer. "It's an open lecture style, in the sense that when you arrive, you'll give your name, and they'll check you off a list and in you pop — you can sit wherever you like, and attendance isn't mandatory. You have 8 weeks total paid for, so once you attend for that many, then it'll be over, unless you tell me you'd like to keep going, and then I can get the rest. You should bring whatever you like, notebook or anything; I brought snacks and no one said anything." Of course she did.

She looks at Bryling with a smile. "Isn't everything people's opinions? Even math has opinions and considerations of the professor's presentation. That's part of what makes philosophy such an excellent place to start, because it's the concept of thinking about thinking, about understanding the foundational structure of analysis of information, and precisely what critique of that information consists of to improve assumptions and questioning.

"That's where you will see concepts of the 'sublime' and the use of reasoning and reflection to come to understand how things connect and the nature of existence, society, morality, reality, and more. I really think Bryn will have an extraordinarily fun time with it, and Professor Nordlinger does love being challenged with questions, because asking questions is the foundation of philosophy."

"Bryn, a philosophy course, what a perfect thing for'ee! Oh, it's just right." Phryne clasps her hands together at her bosom and smiles at Melancholy, her blue eyes over-bright and shimmering. "That's just right, it is. Our Bryn, 'ee ought to've had sech a fine schoolin', ee's sech a nat'ral scholar. Bryn, it'll be brilliant, that." She sets her plate aside and gets up to come over and take Baird's face between her hands and kiss his cheek again. Then she moves to Melancholy and does the same. Her cheek is damp against Melancholy's.

""Ee precious maid," she whispers in Melancholy's ear, and then draws away, her eyes still shining. "Who'll have tea, then?" she asks. "Bryling, come and help me wi'the tea, pet."

Melancholy gives Phryne a pop of a smile, and carefully sets her hand on her dessert saucer to hold it in place as she looks at Baird. "I'll have some tea, thank you," she says, for Phryne, and then asks him, "Did you have more questions?"

He shakes his head. He's looking at the paper again. "No. No. I might later. But no. I'll — " He studies the paper a moment more, then folds it up and tucks it carefully in his pocket. "I'll be at the Keep tomorrow for the exam. Maybe I'll go by there just to see what it's like, what the setup is. If I have more questions by then, I could ask the administrators." He looks over at her. "Thank you, honey," he says quietly.

He glances at the door through which Phryne and Bryling have vanished, and then leans over to kiss Melancholy.

Melancholy kisses him back sweetly, although she draws back after only a moment, pink cheeked but pleased (illicit sneaky kissing! so brave!).

"You're welcome," she says, staring into his eyes in a way that might suggest she's still kissing him in her head, and may just continue to do that all the way through tea.

In the time-honored way of little sisters everywhere, Bryling reappears to interrupt any mental kissing that may or may not be going on. In fact, the heaviness of her creaking tread in the hallway and the way she clears her throat unsubtly before reentering the room suggests she suspects she may be interrupting actual physical kissing and that this concern is not going to stop her at all.

She is carrying two earthenware mugs of tea. She trades one to Baird in exchange for his now-empty cake saucer, and assesses Melancholy's cake status and readiness for tea.

Melancholy's cake is nearly done — she hastily eats the last piece, larger than her usual bite size — and then she offers up her saucer for a trade of tea.

Bryling trades mug for saucer and departs again, only to return a minute later with a mug of her own. She settles back into her armchair, curling her legs up beneath her. "Do you have any pets?" she asks Melancholy. "Like when you were growing up? I think Bryn should get a cat. Don't you think so?"

"If you want a cat, Bryling," says Baird, "you should just get yourself a cat."

"Can't," she says, narrow-eyed. "The landlord."

"Oh, no, no, I've never had a pet. I've heard though that cats are good on ships," Melancholy says with a plum lipped smile. "And I heard of the attempted cat-acquisition. What do you like about cats in particular?"

"They're cute and soft and kind of troublemakers and not as needy as dogs," Bryling says promptly. "They're… what's the word? Elegant. Elegant but also dumbasses. I think it's sweet."

Melancholy considers this description, and looks over at Baird as though she's trying to pair him with it, as she sips at her tea. After a moment more of deliberation, she asks, "What about a bird, as a pet? They have those, don't they?"

"They do," says Baird. "You can have pet birds." He considers this. "I don't know if I'd want one. Seems like a shame to keep a thing that wants to fly."

Bryling rolls her eyes. "Lots of sailors have parrots, don't they?"

"I wouldn't want a parrot, I don't think," says Baird. "A crow, maybe. They're incredibly smart. Hunting birds — falcons and hawks — are gorgeous but it doesn't seem right, you know?"

Melancholy nods. "I can understand that. Something to love, but not to possess," she says. "Or perhaps something with enough agency of intelligence that it can choose if it wants to be a companion, not become one because its wings are clipped."

Baird gestures at Melancholy with his tea. "Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah. Exactly."

"Hey," says Bryling, evidently done with birds. "I got you a thing too. Well, no, I didn't. But I found a guy for you."

Baird looks back at his sister. "A guy?"

Bryling nods, looking smug. "A signs language guy."

Melancholy looks excited. "Oh! A signing language teacher? How exciting!"

Bryling nods. "I met a girl in Stormwind whose fellow — he's a lord, Lord Cecil Soso — uses sign language. So I wrote him a letter, and he said he's in Nethergarde for a few more weeks but he'd be happy to help, but also the guy who taught him, a gnome named Wobby, is here in Stormwind someplace and we could talk to him."

Melancholy blinks, and leans forward. "Oh! House Soso! I know his older brother, Lord Hubert — he wasn't terribly older than me, I think five years or so? so we were introduced," she says. U kno. Introduced. "We had some pleasant conversations, although we were never closer than a friendly greeting at parties, before I stopped going to them. He's quite gregarious, in a general way. He has a fondness for poetry — nature focused, predominantly — and Lord Cecil, who I didn't ever meet, is a poet himself, so we had that in common of a poetic brother. They're such a nice family. If he's like his brother, I'm sure you'll get along with Lord Cecil." She smiles at Baird encouragingly.

"A poet?" Baird's eyes have lit up. "Who knows sign language? Yeah, I would love to — yeah. That sounds great." He looks back at Bryling, who is grinning at him. "Yeah, okay. Maybe give me his information and I can write to him myself?"

Bryling nods happily.

Melancholy leans against Baird in lieu of other options, holding onto her teacup with one hand, and signing happy birthday with the other, grinning wide enough to show the gap in her teeth.

Tea and Cookies Go Here

The long summer afternoon has wound down, and the late sun hangs like a ruddy lantern just above the western horizon, ready to draw the day like a weary traveler along the orange path it lays over the water. The sky has muted from high summer's aqua through a later, lazier blue, and is now shading toward lavender.

The coarse gray pebbled sand of the beach seems softened by the light, the rocks of the breakwater now dignified monumental silhouettes. The sound of the surf is a patient murmured lullaby.

Baird walks, Melancholy's hand in his, north along the beach, past the village end and toward the foot of the cove's cliffs. He moves at an easy, unhurried pace.

Melancholy is quiet at his side, either soaking up the atmosphere for a memory, or in some internal thought, or both, her hair still drying in its braided bun and a deeper black under her veil, and her eyes starker without the softening addition of her eyeshadows in only the waterproof kohl liner.

Maybe it was thinking because she asks, apropos of nothing, turning her head to better face him, "Has your father ever apologized to you, or you and Bryling, about that period of time when he wasn't there for you as he should have been?"

Baird gazes ruminatively through her, as though puzzled by the question. "Apologized? No. No. I mean — it was a bad time for him, too, I guess. We don't really talk about stuff."

Melancholy nods with sympathy. "I know it's not really my business, but my opinion is that I think maybe he should — not just for you, either, although I truly do think you deserve to hear it, in the actual words. But I think also maybe it would be good that if you do forgive him, maybe he should hear that, too," she says, squeezing his hand. "Sometimes it matters to say it, and hear it, like taking a splinter out. It won't change what happened, but maybe it will make things different in the future."

"Okay," says Baird. "Yeah, maybe." He walks in silence for a few steps. "How are you feeling now about your sister? Malaise?"

Melancholy looks away and shrugs. "I don't know. She said we would talk about 'the warlock thing,' but I don't know that we did really. But, I can tell she isn't angry with me at least, maybe only a little disappointed, and maybe frightened for me, a bit how Miserie seems to worry. I don't know what to say to either of them that I haven't already that would make them feel better about it."

Baird nods. At last he says, "Well, you got it out in the air now. She knows why. She knows you're on a path you mean to use for good, and that you're proud of. You know she's not angry with you. Now maybe it just has to sit in the open a while for her to get used to it." He squeezes her hand. "We don't have to talk about it."

"No, no, it's all right. I think it's mostly that I'm in a holding pattern until Malaise decides how she feels, and then I can wonder at what's next. But, truthfully, we could talk about anything. I don't think I'm going to be especially cheerful at the moment, no matter what we talk about," she says lightly, with a smile for him that wavers and wobbles. "I can't help knowing that the summons is going to come soon, and I have to say goodbye."

He takes a deep breath and tugs her to a halt, then steps in front of her and lifts his other hand to the back of her neck. "I know," he says. "I don't — " He does not say what he does not but only gazes at her for a moment, his winter-sky gaze clouded, and then he leans in to kiss her.

Melancholy slides a hand behind his back to press against his tattoo — and her mark — as she kisses him back desperately like he's the one who is about to disappear.

After an Inordinate Amount of Time Kissing

Baird draws back to catch his breath. "Melancholy-not-unnoticed," he says roughly. "I'm going to miss you. Don't forget me, okay?" It's said lightly, as his thumb draws soft circles at the nape of her neck beneath the braided bun.

Melancholy smiles dreamily at his lips before she raises her eyes back up to his, and she seems slightly startled to note the shift in the light — they've missed sunset yet again. No regrets.

"I couldn't possibly," she tells him, and her eyes are already filling with tears behind her veil. "There are things I have memorized with my mind, but my soul knows you, and it will know you for eternity, here or any plane of existence. You're here, my liver soul regrown, and that's where you'll be, no matter what. And I'll hope that I'm there with you, in the garden, always.

"'When these wild ecstasies shall be matured,
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all love forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should by thy portion, with what healing thoughts
of tender joy wilt thou remember me.'"

"The white marble pavilion in a midnight garden overrun by dark, wild roses," Baird says, "growing with each new day. That's what she told me. Your fortune-teller."

Melancholy blinks. "My — oh! Madame Eva! Oh." Well, now the tears spill over entirely. "That's me." It's stating the obvious, but she seems to like to hear it anyway, out loud. And then she's crying fully, throwing herself onto his shoulder, and letting it loose, a combination of joy and impending sorrow, mixed well until she's overwhelmed by it.

He wraps his arms around her, "That's you," he agrees, a murmur in her ear. "That's you, Melancholy. Honey and night-blooming flowers."

She almost gathers herself back into place, quieting in stages, when she startles badly — her instinct to grab hold of him tightly, like she'd squeeze the life out of him if she had the power.

The sharp, unpleasant scent of the fel stabs through the air.

"Oh, no. That's the summons," she says, her lips near his ear, like a dire warning of prophecy. "I'm not ready. I don't think I'm going to be ready."

He inhales and his arms tighten around her in turn. "No," he says. "No. I'm not either." Then he sighs and his arms loosen. "I've got my exam tomorrow. And they'll need you up there with the fleet." He sounds as though he is explaining these things to himself.

Melancholy draws back to look at him, her gaze darting around his face like she can't get enough fast enough. "You have your luckydo?" she asks quickly, and then keeps talking, aware that time is running out. "Oh, no, I don't know how much time has passed. It only lasts for two minutes. I love you." She kisses him again, with that rush of feeling.

"I love you," he tells her. "You're my luckydo."

She smiles at him through honey and tear filled eyes, trying to be as bright as she can. "I'm taking the summoning now," she warns him, still holding onto him. "Ta-ta."

It still takes her another second, a tremor through her body like she's cold, before she really does take it, and then she vanishes out of his arms, in a pull of the Twisting Nether.

And he's there, alone.

He stands gazing for a while into the air from which she has vanished, toward the dimming western horizon.

Eventually, he puts his hands in his pockets and starts the long walk home in the dark.