There's a recent delivery at Nightshade. Despite it being after six, when most of the City Worker Lemmings have fled to Ipswich and Islington suburbs, Nightshade's Park and Strand awnings remain up and open. The door leading into Covent Mall is closed and the sign confirming the state is present, but lights are on. Something's arrived, and it means Sandrine is working.
     Within, most of the arrivals have been put away into the refrigerator. All that's left are a few delicate orchids still in the crates and an odd little crate of herbs left on the large workbench. Boxes, ties, paper, rubberbands, and rustic wood pallets are scattered about the room, some piled by the Covent Mall door. Mall staff will see to those.
     Dressed in a simple blue dress, Sandrine keeps herself clean by wearing a green apron and off-white gloves. She's been busy, putting away the new tropicals, and now that most of them are gone, she looks around the room to see what should be done next.

     Despite all her various flaws, Drancy has a habit of punctuality - of being early, even. She's been hanging round the mall for the past half hour so as not to push in too early, clad in a pair of soft denim jeans, much faded, and a loose white tunic with flowing sleeves and snug cuffs, yoke-necked across her collarbone. The beads and baubles and bells are braided back into her hair, but it's all collected back into a thick ponytail to keep it out of her face and eyes.
     With a final glance to a security guard's wrist, the punk decides it's close enough to 'time' to be pushing her way inside. Her boots make a slight scuffing noise as Drancy crosses the threshold, looking around cautiously. "Hullo? Hope I'm not late..."

     It's nice to have guards who walk the Mall. Certainly, trendy stores in a partially-open mall need such. But for those who work late at retail, seeing another face or five doesn't hurt.
     "Ah," Sandrine blinks, standing in the doorway of the next room, "...good evening...Drancy..." she says, moving around the mess at her door. She leaves the preparation room to enter the front display room proper. "Forgive the mess," Sandrine notes, copper-and-goldenrod hair piled upon her head. "No, you are not late," she says, successful in her navigations, "...I am a little behind -- I have not managed to begin cleaning yet from the day's events and deliveries."
     "Come in," she says anyway, despite the fact that she is in the midst of a conversation. "Oh, will you please make sure that the door is locked behind you?"

     Stepping inside, Drancy nods once and half-turns to pull the door closed behind her. "No problem." Click. There. "Sorry if it's inconvenient. Anything I can do to help, or is it a case of 'if you don't know where it goes, more harm than good'?"
     She looks around with mild curiosity evident at the mounds of florals and herbs, expression tinged with a faint suggestion of wariness. Not that this is in any way unusual.

     "Well," Sandrine smiles, "...not really, I think, but..." she motions to the general floor mess, "...if you do not mind stacking empties near the door or sweeping afterwards, that would be useful, thank you." Indeed, near where things are getting piled, there is a broom that has not been yet used.
     "Mm," Sandrine murmurs, "...one moment." She turns about and strides to the backroom again, disappearing for only a few seconds. When she emerges, there is an old flatbed crate she carries, filled with small inserts of herbs. The wood box has been seared, 'Von Dormand-Glendower, Ltd. Leuven.' on each side. Moving easily around the piles -- no need to look at them anymore, she's well-practiced on where they are -- Sandrine returns and sets the flat crate upon a prep table in the main room. "This evening's subjects," she informs, rather liking the batch of herbs that have come.

     Click-click-click...
     Click-click-click...
     (And then, in harmony...)
     Click-click-click-click-click-click. The dulcet tones of corgie nails first upon the cement, and then upon the glass. There they sit, the sentinels of a dragon -- hard-headed hounds, the stubbornnest guards of any stubborn man that ever was. But cute. It's the only thing that preserves them some nights...
     There follows a growl of Welsh, and I do mean growl, and both dogs halt their scritching against the glass simultaneously. You know he's coming. At least one of you can hear that stride, that quick-step march of a Modern Mars...

     A nod, then, and she moves towards the empty crates. One wouldn't think Drancy had much strength or agility, considering her usual stumbling about, but there is both in her body. A lifetime of dance and gymnastic classes, paired by assistance with stage setup and breakdown - no, she is not as poorly kept as she sometimes appears.
     "Subjects?", Drancy echos. "What are they?" Thck. Thck. K-thck. Once the containers are stacked, and measured with a paranoid eye that they'll not fall on her, the Londoner grabs up the broom, then pauses, head turned towards the sound. "Should I unlock again, or ... ?"

     Another one. He is early. Sandrine glances at the platinum and diamond watch at her wrist. Clearly a mark of the proletariat. "Davydd," she murmurs. "No, do not worry, he can let himself in," she says with a sigh, one hand on the crate, the other at her side. She returns to look at the small cuttings, motioning Drancy over with a wave.
     "The herbs we discussed," she notes, "...again, not my specialty, but we do need something to look at if we are to talk about them." Wasn't that the reason for meeting? Must be. Beside the crate is a book on herbs for reference.

     And there he is, Mars Himself. Red-headed, bearded, red-faced Mars. It's a might chilly out tonight, even with his layers of cashmere, wool and all. Nice overcoat, long and black, over a white turtleneck, thick-ribbed cashmere, matched with wool trousers, nice shoes and good gloves. He's looking positively posh, fresh pressed, and sober.
     And he's too busy looking at the dogs and giving them an earful -- whilst they circle around his feet, grinning up at him, laughing at the alpha dog, those trickster hounds. And out come the keys, a borrowed set -- and why she lets him have them is anyone's guess -- and the door is open. Click-click-click, the sound of corgie nails upon the concrete floor. "..'allo, 'allo, bonsoir, nos da, and all," he says, and then Davydd looks up from the closing of the door and stops. Hands, with keys, go into his pockets and eyebrows are cocked up. "Should I go away again for a while and come back later? Am I interrupting girl talk?"

     That gets a snort out of her, and Drancy settles for rolling her eyes at Davydd. "Sweeping the floor constitutes girl talk now, does it?" She scowls slightly, setting the broom down and hunching down to let the dogs sniff her hand. "Hullo, you lot." She's ... repressed, tonight, everything kept carefully under wraps. No heat, little fire. "If you two need me to go, though, I understand." Look, everyone offers to leave!

     Sandrine looks at you both, her Nordic features slightly angled. "Come now," informality in that, "...you are invited," she says to Drancy. Meaning, Stop acting as if you're a third-wheel all the time. "He..." hand waves at Davydd, "...lives here. And no, you are not stopping anything. I told you we were meeting to talk about herbs," Sandrine reminds, taking off her gloves. She faces the crate directly, and exposes her fingers to the world. The gloves are set aside and she opens the large folio book with a trickle of her fingertips. "There is tea, Davydd, if you want some," she motions to a side table near the register. "Maybe you can offer something useful tonight about the herbs." You're Welsh. You know some things, yes? "Drancy was interested in poultices, but I really do not know anything about how these herbs can be used in internal or external medicinal fashions," the formality returning now. "Maybe you have some experience?" Sandrine quirks, turning to face you both again. Of course you do, wild-man-of-the-woods type.

     He starts to open his mouth to blurt out that he hasn't been a druid cavorting in the woods, fucking horses and eating the hearts out of fresh kills in aaaaaaaages, but somewhere in that old mind there was a signal to hold his tongue. And so, for the time, he wears a bemused expression and then flashes a comet grin. "Aye...well... you know it's ... been a while," he rumbles. "But I'll see what I can contribute. Anyone else want a cuppa?" he asks as he crosses over to the tea, followed by the dogs. They are at his heels, always, Bwci and Rhyddid -- bugbear and Freedom...
     "You know... just to put this out there, not that I mean anything by it," the worst sort of things start out that way, don't they? "...but love potions are tricky things, you know. I wouldn't recommend it. Just... in case you were...you know...thinking about it. Now," he looks up to both of you, dark green eyes twinkling with delight, "...potions to increase sexual appetite and prolong the act, those can be quite effective. Not that I've ever needed them," he adds quickly.
     He sets to pooring a cup for himself, looking to both of you -- Sandrine in particular. A flicker in the color of his eyes, a wink faster than a mortal eye.

     She holds her tongue, which has to be a first. At least as far as Davydd knows. Climbing to her feet, Drancy wipes dog-snuffled hands off on her jeans, and sprawls back against the wall, folding her arms. And then goes a violent shade of crimson. "I'm not interested in love potions. Wouldn't do a damn bit of good even if I were." So why bother?
     She scowls again, and adds pointedly, "Oh, yes? I'll be sure to mention it to Huw next time I see him. I'm sure he'll be delighted to know I'm dabbling in aphrodisiacs. Welsh fly?" Drancy's tongue couldn't be held for that long, after all. She nods across to Sandrine, straightening. "Poultices, sure. I've been doing a bit of reading homework on my own, but it's slow going. No tea for me, thanks, not now."

     Welsh fly! That gets a cackle...

     Sandrine just stands there, staring. A northern face, blank. Those are the worst kind. Cold, detatched. Ignoring. "She said poultices, not potions." Just to make the point.
     "Now, where were we?" Sandrine murmurs to herself, settling on a page. "I thought we might start with some old traditionals," she says softly, adding, "...no tea for me, Davydd, thank you."
     Another flip of a page.
     "Who is Huw?" she asks, golden brow furrowing. Eyes move from page to the crate, and Sandrine touches the top of a couple of herbs, before finally burrowing fingers between the seedlings.

     He rolls his shoulders and looks to the dogs now at his feet. Looks like it's going to be crowded in the dog house tonight, lads, clips the rise-and-fall lilt of Welsh. And with a cuppa poured for himself, he and dogs back away slowly. You know... get out of the way. In a corner. Hopefully to be forgotten.
     Davydd settles on a free counter. And just for those doing the math at home, if you want to know who the top dog is....
     Well...
     She's the one leading the class, oes...

     A wary glance to Davydd before she answers, turning her attention back to Sandrine. How does one explain who Huw is without there being a force of nature to answer to? "Just this bloke I'm going out with," she mutters. "Been sort of seeing him for a bit now." And, of course, she glances under the fringe of her eyelashes over at the lone man in the room, to see his reaction to this piece of news.
     "Which old traditionals have you got in mind?", Drancy's voice strengthens slightly, on firmer ground with this - less something to be defensive about. "Rowan and hawthorn and elm and ash, or what?"

     Sandrine only nods at the explanation of 'Huw'. Not polite to put a young woman on the spot, and she's not about to do that. Instead, she simply moves on. "Well, I thought, actually, comfrey," a grimace there. "Hmm. I am not sure I have any tree information..." she murmurs to herself, a sigh following. "That is...you know about comfrey?" she turns to ask Drancy now, trying to assess where to begin.

     Davydd sips at his tea, not rising to the Occasion presented by young Drancy. Seeing a bloke? Well, maybe that explains her general disposition, and the drunkenness. Not that he remembers much of that night.
     Except for...he thinks he MAY have danced with Plantagenet...
     And while the two of you talk, and whilst the dogs circle and then sit, settling in for a while and behaving themselves at that, Davydd closes his eyes and relaxes in the happiest place in all jolly old England. A room of well tended flowers and plants, herbs and others.
     ... a few moments after, there's the sound of him humming a little ditty of some sort. That earthy sound of his voice, held in his chest and throat. Soft, nearly imperceptible...

     Drancy rubs a fingertip over the charm she wears, and nods to Sandrine. "I know a little about comfrey. Good for the digestion, said to be able to draw poison out of wounds, yes?" She isn't sure, not really. It all blurs together, after a bit, and she's been successfully knocked off kilter by the side topic of Huw. "You know him," she tosses at Davydd, goadingly, before then promptly turning her attention back to the instructor in the room. "It's a moon plant, if I recall properly."

     "Yes," Sandrine nods, that coming from her own collective memory. The small plant is removed from the crate, still in the plastic holder. It's offered to Drancy. "Look at it, examine, smell, taste," she says, "...that is the way you will know it when you need it most." Eyes turn to the book and she says, "Stops heavy bleeding, some internal bronchial problems, general internal ailments, wound healing, and some broken bones." Brow flicks. She doubts that. "However, studies show that comfrey is also a carcinogen, though most never take it in large amounts for such to happen."
     "There are two general versions: wild and prickly. Wild is the one that most are aware of. Prickly is more of an...agricultral crop now. This, I ordered, is wild. This," fingers reach in and pull out another 1x1 square, "...is prickly."
     "Have you used comfrey?" Sandrine asks Davydd, somewhat sure that he must have.

     "Hmm," he rumbles, coming to a stand, swallowing tea, looking for a chair, even a metal one, a stool, something. "...aye," Davydd says at last. "We used it on campaign...when we could get it. Used mistletoe more often, it was more plentiful. More risky. But not as risky as a knife," a snort. "We used whatever we could get our hands on. The nurse tried to use it on me after my fainting spells kicked in. Didn't help. Still no cure for Caesar's Falling Sickness." Not that he's had an episode for near on a thousand years, but still.
     "After a while, I could use my hands," he notes for the record, softly. "But ...oes... comfrey, very popular in Radnorshire way. It's a good base herb..."

     Picking up the wild comfrey, Drancy rubs it between her fingers absently, eyes distant, as if feeling for something in the plant. She casts a quick, suddenly sharp glance at Davydd, but says nothing, putting the herb down and picking up the prickly comfrey with care, half-expecting to get 'stung' by it. "It's a feminine plant," she comments, "rather than masculine. Hence the moon ties..."

     Campaign? Sandrine's brows unknit, moving along to the next choice. She glances at Davydd, then looks down to the crate. "The root is especially potent," she says, "...for healing tissue. Some of the minerals in comfrey are the same in...nursing milk..." the book says. Sandrine blinks at that and shrugs.
     "Davydd," she says, "...can I talk to you for a moment, please? Drancy," Sandrine turns to the young woman, "...would you excuse us for only an instant? I forgot there was something I needed to speak to Davydd about quickly." She glances at her watch. Sandrine brushes her hands on a nearby towel and looks to Davydd and to the backroom.

     Drancy nods, head bowed as she looks downwards at the herbs. "No problem," she says without looking up. "I'll just go through with the book a bit."

     "Whereas," Davydd adds quietly, "...mistletoe is a masculine plant. The berries are poisonous, have a semen-like resonance, but... the leaves can be used, but not ingested per se. One has to be careful with herbs," in general. "Taken one way, they can save your life. Taken another, they can end it. Tricky things." He finishes the tea and sets the cup aside on another counter. Like any man, he leaves shite all over the place.
     Hands shoved in his pockets, he leans in to smell a flower. He closes his eyes. Was there ever a less likely man to envision in a meadow and yet was there ever a man better suited for it than he? Revealed in it.
     It takes him a minute to hear her, but then he does, he straightens, brows cocked up and then he looks between them. Was it something I said? "Oh sure, cariad..." A clearing of his throat and he steps toward the back of the shop, presuming she'll want to say whatever she has to say in private.

     "Thank you," Sandrine says politely, moving around the table towards the backroom. A glance is given to Davydd as she moves with him, through the door and around the side, out of view.

     Sandrine blinks at you, clearly incensed. "Campaign?" she asks, brow furrowing. "Care to explain what else she knows?"

     A glance is given back to Sandrine -- asking What?
     Having, of course, no idea...
     Hands yet in his pockets, there's a touch of a sigh, already thinking of an apology. But at the whisper, the hands lift in soothing explanation...

     Settled onto a stool, now, Drancy puts her arms down on the worktable's surface, laying her head down on her arms with eyes closed. A nap, or resting, or just retreat without the appearance of eavesdropping.

     "She knows I'm not exactly the guy next door," Davydd whispers. "What I am...well... no. Did I say campaign?" His own eyes widen at himself. That slipped out. It happens. He frowns at it. "She knows I know the fae she travels with, at no fault of my own, but at their own revelation. She knows that if she touches me, the dragons on my skin leap to her fingertips. She knows that. She does not know... why."

     She may be invisible, but her energy can be felt through the wall. Her voice is but an eager murmur. Sandrine's upset about something, and whatever it is, it has to be dealt with now.
     The other energy kicking about is soothing... or at least endeavoring to be...

     Sandrine just frowns at you, shaking her head. "I have been patient, Davydd," she says, "...and have let you...go on with her about whatever..." hands wave, "...whatever you go on with her about. But, I will not have her thinking that I am...not normal." Not like other people. "I..." and now she looks sad, "...do not have many friends, and I do not want ... because you don't mind if she knows about you...I don't want her thinking the same about me." Regardless of Law or rules. "Do you understand?" she asks, face reddening as she tries to keep from crying.

     She's silent, face close to the herbs. Maybe Drancy's trying for a contact high - or just waiting it out. Either way, eventually she does sit up again, hand going to her throat in that unconscious gesture. "Yev' Hashem," she mutters - for the first time in upwards of ten years.

     Davydd is as red-faced as you. "Do you think I wanted it? Hmm? That I enjoy having my entire existence become a ...house of cards? Because of the wind that blew her into me? That knows my name? Why do you think I have spent what little time I have spent with her? To figure out how much she knows, to figure out who is telling her what she knows, to figure out what she will do with the information she has. I cannot take the knowledge from her," Ventrue mind tricks, "...if she has constant reminders around her, Sandrine, or I will be found out. Not just by her, but by Everyone. If you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them, because short of not seeing her and trying not to put questions in her mind and mouth, I'm stock out, love." He backs off, sighing, looking to his feet. "I am sorry you are in this position. I am very sorry I put you there. I have tried ..." his hands come out and he gestures passionately as he looks at you. "... tried very hard to keep That world," a gesture to her and all she means, "...and This world," a gesture between you, "...utterly separate." to Sandrine.

     The little charm has a resonance of its own. You speak the words. You touch the metal. The metal hums. It is no less alive than the plant you touch...
     And as for the voices... well... it's a very quiet discussion... Or maybe they've just decided to stare at one another until one backs down...

     Sandrine stares again, arms folding at her chest. One hand reaches up and wipes away the crimson at her eyes. She tsks, realizing what's happening. Sandrine inhales and turns around to reach for a nearby towel that she uses to wipe her face. She doesn't have much to say, and soon enough, the towel is dropped to the dirties pile on the floor. Arms unfold and Sandrine brushes at her dress and prepares to return to the outer room.

     "I wish I had never offered to help her up after she fell in the street. More than you can know." Davydd's green eyes look aslant to the other room, there are daggers there. "I help her only to save myself. I dare not make her an enemy, I dare not make her a friend... but walk the line of twilight in between." His own complexion is high, still so high. Angry with himself, how foolish he has been, how unsuccessful he has been, how much at risk everything is. He frowns, but he reaches up to touch your face. His touch is gentle. His expression horribly worried. "I am very sorry, Sandrine, that an accident like this... has put you in the middle of something you did not want to be a part of. I am good at that. Maybe... " He doesn't say it. No, he looks to his feet, he lowers his hands, he does not say that maybe you should reconsider your options. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "I'm going to go. I need to think about the.... labyrinth of her mind. What I may take from her now, if anything, or how I should proceed. The only thing she knows about you," he adds softly, "... is that you are not like me... and you do not understand it." And then, with a sigh, he starts to head to the front room.

     Sandrine starts after you. "That is...alright. We can...talk about it later, yes?" Maybe coming back here was a bad idea. Ah well.

     There's the sound of feet, of movement, coming from the back. Looks like the lover's spat is over...?

     "Apologies, Drancy," Sandrine says, a smile at her lips. "Davydd, I think tea would be good," she asks, now taking him up on the earlier offer. "Did you take a look at the comfrey?" she almost chirps, not missing a beat.

     Just in time. The punk was almost ready to just up and leave, her own discomfort with circumstances and her restlessness conspiring. Drancy shifts, standing up, one hand still wrapped round the pendant, not even noticing the edges digging in. "Yeah, I looked at them both."

     There is a pause in Davydd's steps as he returns. His demeanor is much less...jovial. But, he's no less cordial really. "Sure," a softened word. Whatever it was is over now. Amends being made, for whatever it was that came between them.
     "I'm going to take off," he says, pouring two cups of tea, one for each of the women. "You're busy, aye... and I need to go see about that..." whatever it is they were presumably discussing. "Besides, hard to have a talk while dogs are thinking about eating the begonias. I can tell there is mischief afoot..." He looks to the dogs.
     By the time the tea is poured and he sets the cups down for both women in turn, his complexion is back to normal. A lifted look to both of you, with eyebrows lifted. "Have a good night, wot? And you," he says to Sandrine, "...give me a ring when you're done... I'll meet you later..." A look to Drancy and a nod. "Night, kid..."
     And with that, he turns, keys coming out again and a whistle filling the air. "C'mon lads, it's time for a pint..."

     "Oh, good," Sandrine smiles, "...here, have a seat," she offers, motioning to a nearby stool. "Davydd...is correct about the mistletoe, at least from what I can tell. I have a bit of holly here," eyes returning to the crate, but I believe holly is not quite mistletoe. Same family?" she wonders, glancing to the book. "Ah well. We can get to that later. Comfrey..."
     "I think, for a poultice, you would need to grind the root and leaves up, though there is plenty of liquid..."
     He's leaving. Sandrine pauses and watches Davydd. "Oh...well, then we shall see you later," she says. "Are you sure you will not stay and help?" Since you do know some things.

     Drancy glances warily between the two, muttering, "Good night," to Davydd. Well, it could've been more gracious, but she doesn't really like being called 'kid' (even if, to him, she is one), and her mind's on other things than graciousness, anyway.
     "Not sure, about holly and mistletoe. Both are parasitic plants, though - left alone, they kill the plants they grow on. Eventually." Somewhere, she's picked up that bit of trivia. "They leech the nutrients out of their host. Horribly poisonous, of course."

     "Yeah," he says at the door, opening it for the dogs, who trot out quite merrilly, always anxious for some new adventure. "I'm not an expert on herbs. I like them in my food, but that's about where it ends. Big fan of rosem'ry," he adds softly. Besides, I'm not doing anyone any good...
     "Aye well... stands to reason why the Welsh love them so," he quips. And being a parasite himself, quite like the mistletoe, he smirks at that. It's a more wistful look that he gives Sandrine, a shake of his head. "I'll see you later, love." Because I still do, you know.
     But it's a brooding energy I have around me now, and only one thing can cure it. A tried and true recipe: a pint of Guinness and a knock three times on Edward Meurelle's door...
     With a last wave of his hand, Davydd heads out, turning a moment, locking the door behind him and then disappearing in the darkness, flanked by two Welsh corgies.

Sandrine finally exhales once Davydd departs. She is quiet a moment, and in the stillness, picks up her cup of tea. "So..." she swallows and begins again, "...right, yes. Comfrey. Grinding root and leaves into a mixture to be used in a poultice. Rather easy, considering that the leaves, as you perhaps saw, hold much liquid."
"Do you have a mortar and a pestle?"

Posted by rowan at June 03, 2003 01:33 AM