[EP] musketeers don't hide

[st_eadiesthefour]

The longer Constance was here, the less she could let herself believe it was all some fever dream. She was here, stuck in an inn in the Americas almost four hundred years in the future. As much as she wanted to be home, she didn't have the means to get there, and she wasn't going to sit around doing nothing. She hadn't done that while her husband was at the front; she wouldn't do it now.

She needed to learn about all the new technology – a new word, one she'd learned from River Song – and learn English, and she wasn't going to do either hiding away in her room or in the kitchens, although after a week watching the inn's unnerving cook and preparing things that didn't include chicken, for whoever was hungry, she thought she was starting to get a feel for the stove and ovens, and the rooms cooler than most cellars without being underground.

Today she'd made several meat pies and some with fruit, similar to the apple pie many had had the day they arrived, and taken them to the cafe. After setting them out for people to serve themselves, much as she would've at the garrison, if the cadets... or Porthos gave her the time to, she sat at a table nearby with needle and thread. A seam in her overbodice needed repair, and it with only the one outfit it was the only mending she was comfortable doing in public, regardless how little most of the women here wore.

She looked up as she heard someone come in, threading the needle by feel alone, and offered them a friendly grin. "'ello." It wasn't much, and she'd have to switch to French for anything else, but a simple greeting she'd heard often enough to offer in English. "Il y a de la nourriture, si vous la voulez," she added, gesturing toward the pies with a tip of her head.

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[st_abby]

Another day, another rather unproductive stewing about the property. He'd flown it the first time, frustrated that the open air seemed to force his wings to turn after some hours as if they'd been caught up by an unyielding current. He'd walked it instead today, taking his time in scouting to search for some manner of arcane symbol or half-hidden relic that might be responsible for all this. As usual, stirring himself round and round in circles did little more than make Vax'ildan's stomach churn.

Or possibly, Vax admitted to himself, catching scent of something exceptionally mouth-watering as he stopped just out front of the cafe doors, he'd just got very hungry on top of irritable and gloomy. He'd not eaten yet, after all.

He could scarcely believe the sight of it, the rather pleasant-looking lady within seeming to indicate why yes, you lucky idiot, it just so happens there's pies out for you. But there were forks and plates out, slices cut from the whole of the crusts, with her not seeming to mind as he made his way over to them like a dog come in when he knew it was time for dinner. Whatever she said, he understood none of it - but he gave her a respectful bow of his head and a meaningful look before he started piling up a plate. "Thank you, fair lady."

[st_accato]

Buffy couldn't speak French except some lyrics in songs but that didn't count and if you'd asked Giles, he'd say her grasp at what he would call the English language wasn't all that grasped either.

"Umm, did you say you want me to move the pies?" She was pretty sure s'il vous plait was please but she wasn't sure what voulez was unless it meant female valet.

[st_illunsmeared]

Phryne being Phryne had quite recovered her aplomb after an afternoon and several evening nightcaps with Jack. She set about to meet everyone in the hotel so she would know who to suspect if things or bodies went missing--and in the meantime to learn the extent of the social scene to which she was presently confined.

The lovely young woman busy with stitching and offering pies seemed an unlikely murderess, and equally unlikely companion for herself, but so had Dot on first acquaintance. Besides, the poor girl seemed quite unable to converse in English. "How delightful. Did you make them?" Phryne inquired in French accented with the flavor of Bohemian Montparnasse.