It has taken time for Amity to work up the gumption to do this--though perhaps that's the wrong word. She has been stubbornly staying out of the way of November as much as possible, only speaking to her in passing as necessary and doing her best to forget about her otherwise. Even with her beloved working for the Waylady and the fact that Amity's work in the Wayhouse means being in touch more than she might like. Still... Mavis has been nudging at her to try and mend fences and Amity realistically knows that avoiding confronting the other woman isn't possible. So she has come here, to the lioness' den so to speak. She reaches up and raps gently on the door, waiting to be granted permission to enter.
November isn't always immaculate, but there's just something about her which -seems- to be in control, some subtle, alien, decidedly Faerie quality of power. It's a silent sense of expectation, the understanding that her whims can and will shape the world around her.
Juxtapose that with the mess of papers currently on the floor, and you have a fine mental pickle to jar the senses.
When the colourful creature opens the door, she's in her full glory, albeit human garb, the white silk halter and loose trousers (with, of course, rainbows along the side seam) themselves an affront against inhuman loveliness -- as they always are. She smiles when she sees that it is Amity standing there, and steps aside, gesturing for the other woman to enter. "An unexpected pleasure. Please, do come in."
The papers seem to be grouped by SOME sort of category system, and the arrangement is very carefully done, but whatever it is, the Ancient has no hesitation about stepping over it to approach the table and the teapot there. "Tea?"
"Waylady," Amity says in her own stiff greeting. She always feels so... plain compared to November. But that is the way of Fae things, isn't it? To be so heart-breakingly beautiful that you want to die to possess any part of it. There is a twinge, a stab of resentment deep in Amity's heart. Why did /she/ not come back from Arcadia with at least some of that beauty instead of the wretched serving girl that she is? It's hard to avoid the feeling. Amity shoves it aside though and moves to sit at the low table, back stiff and straight and her hair as neatly arranged as ever. She's dressed against the winter weather, a thick knit sweater in icey blue colors and comfortable trousers in a charcoal gray.
"Tea would be lovely," she says after a moment of apparent consideration. Then she is left to ponder how to approach this subject.
As before, the low cushions around the equally low table are flat and comfortable, though given how close to the wall that table is, and that November is on the side with her back TO said wall, the colourful creature ends up taking up the majority of the space on her side with those ruddy wings alone. Sure, she ends up looking like some graceful sculpture of an Asian tea fairy, taking cups from the tray and offering one to Amity, but at least she isn't sitting on the bleeping things. Stoooopid wings.
"It will be whichever type you like, as warm as you like," she assures, gesturing toward the pot.
She waits for Amity to serve herself, given the vagaries of faerie magic, and seems content to sit in silence while the other woman ponders.
Amity reaches for the teapot and delicately pours out a cup of tea for herself. Black and strong and fresh, with a sweet rose-tinted scent. The teapot is set back down and the cup itself gathered into Amity's hands for a delicate, prim sip. She takes a breath, not sure what to say or how to say it. She doesn't want to admit that November may have helped her by pushing past her boundaries, after all. It would give the woman who thinks herself a god too many ideas, Amity thinks.
"...Mavis has been nudging me to make up with you," she says at last.
November, of course, would be given no such ideas. You can't be given an idea if you already have it, after all. Preen preen. When Amity is done with the tea pot, November lifts it to pour her own cup, movements fluid, graceful and confident, and not a drop is spilled or sloshed unnecessarily high toward the rim of the small cup. Unsurprisingly, no steam rises from the liquid, and the cup itself soon frosts over, though as one would expect in HER vicinity, it does so in a fashion which is both lovely and a wee bit wild.
"She cares for you, very much," is the colourful creature's reply, studying Amity's features as if silently appreciating a familiar work of art. "I have asked her to ensure that you are comfortable with any steps she takes; she is yours, not mine."
"So you say," Amity replies quietly. She lifts the steaming cup of tea to her lips and sips it delicately, her eyes half-closing before it is set down once again on its saucer. She doesn't quite seem to know what to do. She is still and silent for a long moment, mind turning things over.
"...Yet I do not think she trusts me to be the one to ensorcel her." The admittance is drawn out of her in a pained sigh. It hurts to think that Mavis does not trust her but... how could you trust /Amity/ to keep you safe when you knew creatures like November existed? Again, the stab of jealous spite. Was it fair that she should be made so little and November so much by their stays in Arcadia? No. But when were the Keepers ever fair?
As before, November seems to be in no hurry -- whatever task she was performing has been willingly set aside, time no object, and she waits with perfect patience for Amity to speak. The rainbow is attentive, focus never leaving her guest. At least, never outwardly leaving her. Who knows what's going on under that drift of slowly shifting hues?
"Is it mistrust?" she asks, a caress of mingled blues, violets and maroons against the ears of all who hear it. "I am a power, certainly, and mortals -will- react. If she were to ask, I would prefer a season, only, to...mmm...dip her toes into our world. To ease her through the initial transition." Transparent digits turn her teacup in her palm, clinking delicately against the porcelain. Musically, too, as musical as her voice. "It would not be wise for me to be seen collecting the lives of her kind." She ensures to meet Amity's eyes there, or as close to it as she can come. "I am aware of what I am, and what I could become."
"It may as well be. She does not think I can protect her, perhaps? Or that I am weak?" Does Mavis think these things, or does Amity? Who knows? She takes a sip of tea to break up her own unhappy thoughts, listens to what November has to say on the subject. She is quiet for a long moment, nods in agreement at November's final thought.
"I understand. You... you have perspective she doesn't, obviously. I don't know if she understands what it means for you to do such things," Amity says. "But if she asks, I... will not object, if that is what she wants." It took her some time to come to this realization and to speak it aloud makes her flinch internally. But that's for her to know.
"...And I want to say that you are welcome in our home again. As long as you make yourself known before you arrive."
Taking a sip of her tea while Amity speaks, November suggests, "It may well be as simple as the perception, on her part, that you are trying to hold her back to keep her safe. In which case," she supposes, "I would be a conveniently powerful outlet for her pride. I have taken care of her, and shown her aspects of our world which you could not; she seems quite taken by gewgaws, by the little magics of our kind, as I had rather expected she would be." Considering Amity, suddenly curious, the rainbow asks, "Have you learned the trick of them? Of creating tokens? I would teach you, if you wished." Her colours dance through myriad teals and blues with hints of violet, gold and cream, soft radiance illuminating the pale walls of the room in almost aquatic patterns.
Amity looks surprised at the suggestion. She clings to her teacup, shaking her head in answer to November's question. "I have not," she admits, "though I have a love of making and crafting with my hands. If you would teach me, I would be grateful." A faint sigh. "And you have a point. She may see me as being too cautious. Too... fussy." Ugh. Amity probably is, but she doesn't like to admit it.
"You love her," the Ancient points out, a streak of crimson-edged rose flirting its way through an azure aurora. "Of course you want to keep her safe. She doesn't know what she is asking of you."
Those colours brighten, wisps of greens flooding the blues as the mercurial creature straightens to reach back and up toward the windowsill. A mason jar with a handful of river pebbles is her target, and she sets it on the table between them. "You are familiar with the harvesting of Glamour," she states, a fact too obvious to question. "You understand how it feels, what it feels like to use it, to pay for Contracts, to strengthen and manipulate that part of yourself bound to fit the Wyrd's designs." A hand gestures toward Amity, then the jar, tacit request for her to take a pebble. "This is similar. Faerie...every power has its limit. Gewgaws, the very weakest tokens we can create, are very simple things, and often somewhat peculiar. The power will work best within tight boundaries. Single-use qualifies. For example, a gewgaw which produces heat, but only when kept in one's pocket, or a glove."
"She doesn't," Amity agrees, her voice plaintive. Then... back to business. She reaches out as the jar is set before her and takes one of the river pebbles in her hand. She holds it, feels the warm, rounded shape of the thing and where it has been worn smooth by years and centuries of water passing over it. She listens, face set in a serious line as she considers the instructions. "I will have to see what I Can do, then... A pocket warmer, maybe."
Once Amity has selected hers, November slips her hand into the jar and draws out a snowy white quartz pebble. This one is still a bit rough about the edges, not smoothed entirely, and catches the clear, cold light of the windy day on miniscule facets. She sets it on the table's surface, considers it a moment, then scoops it up again to turn it in her hand.
When she sets it back down, it's as though the colour on the table were being sucked into the stone, a blurry-edged puddle of slowly growing white spreading like the opposite of ink over the table's surface. She lifts her hand, waits until the table is all white, then slides the pebble around over the surface without letting it break contact. The instant she picks it up? Colour is back, as if it had never gone anywhere.
"Humans can use these. Mavis has been fascinated by them." A frosty brow lifts, gently amused, and subtly-but-not-subtly hinting. If Mavis is seeking out November for magic, and -Amity- learns it, too...
Amity closes her hands around the pebble and focuses, watching November as she enchants her own gewgaw, sees it in action as color slides away from the table and then pops back into it. It's fascinating to see, even though Amity knows it's just a simple trick, nothing fancy. Still, if things like this will make Mavis happy it is something that she is ready and willing to try. She smiles a little, nodding across the table.
"I can understand why," she murmurs, then looks at the pebble in her hands. She leanrs forward and blows on it gently, as if to infuse it with the warmth of her breath. It may not actually /do/ anything, but she's damn well going to try.
"They are our bread and butter, lovely," the rainbow adds, still smiling. "We trade them with the hobs, a sprinkle of sugar on the cupcake of a deal, or amongst ourselves. True tokens, items of real power, take much longer to craft, but these can be made in a moment. Never of iron, no," she cautions, colours dulling, "but of other man-made objects, yes. A gewgaw cupcake tin which ensures every cupcake baked in it bakes perfectly, except for one that ends up ruined. A pen which never runs out of ink, but the ink is neon green..." November's colours dance, merry and bright, and she slides the snowy pebble across the table toward the Chatelaine. "Keep it. Study the power in it until you ken it well."
Disappointment flickers across Amity's face when she realizes that her attempt to magic the stone she holds didn't quite succeed. She looks up at November and nods, listens to her quiet instructions and words of wisdom. There's a slight nod, still distant and a touch uncertain before she reaches out to take the example made for her. Both her own pebble and the one November has enchanted are placed in a pocket, safe from the outside world. "I'll do my best. I think perhaps next time I see you, I might have some of my own to show off," she says, smiles. She has grown somewhat used to November, even if deep down the woman still terrifies her on that primal level. Below the thinking brain.
"It's easier to craft them in the Hedge, lovely," she reassures, seeing the other woman's disappointment. "Spend a bit of time in the library at Stoneheart. The Custodians may be able to assist you, and if nothing else, it will be quiet enough for you to concentrate."
November's power is .. withheld, more often than not. The sense that what Amity sees, what she feels, is the beam of light leaking out through a keyhole may not be too terribly reassuring, but at least she isn't drowning? Small favours!
Amity nods at the advice, her brow furrowing just a little. "I'll have to give that place a look. Thank you, Waylady, for the tea. And your time." And with that, Amity stands and is gone from the room in a twinkling. There's work to be done.
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