It arrived by traditional post, two nights ago. Another letter of a handmade linen envelope, lightly scented with rose and bundled by a lovely ribbon. Another handmade card from the Sisterhood of the White Rose.
     Dear Ms. Jorgenson,
     Business will have me in Powys in two days, there is some talk there I understand of Welsh language rights in public establishments on the border marches, and I should sincerely like to pay you a visit at your lovely estate. With autumn fresh upon us, the orangerie is one of the true delights and treasures of our fair nation. I could not pass through the border marches without paying such a visit! And we have been much remiss in following our invitation to you with a ladies luncheon.
     I hope this letter finds you well and will find you in Trallwm for my visitation. I am very much looking forward to having the opportunity again to speak with you. The Sisterhood wishes me to convey their greetings, their esteem and their hope that you will join us.
     Yours Most Sincerely,
     Ms. Griffyn Darling, Clan of the Rose
     Sisterhood of the White Rose
     Darling Manor,
     Caerdydd / Cardiff

     It is now the heralded time of Ms. Darling's arrival. Inasmuch, Davydd has made himself scarce (he's quite good at that), murmuring something of 'Ladies Things' and 'Women Talk'. Like every man, he probably expects he'll be a topic of conversation. And while egoists, they usually refrain from being so gauche as to want to be present for it. With a promising kiss -- as his tend to be -- he left you in the gardens and took himself and his two fat dogs out of sight. What a threesome. And ...that feeling you get when he kisses you lingers for a few moments after. Magic. There are some advantages to having a magic man...
     But there's not an arrival of a car in his wake. Instead, upon the darkening of twilight into evening, there is a young, red-haired woman in a Georgian inspired frock, covering a Georgian blouse and skirt, wearing a lovely hat, walking up the drive that winds alongside the castle's world famous gardens.

     Not that she should worry, mind you. Sandrinaar, hjdottir of Ilksgaard, the Noordskejfing, has not had much to worry about in centuries. The world had been seen to by the handsome Christian of Denmark, who'd come to Noord and whisked Ilksgaard's only daughter away.
     But that had been ages ago. How long, it's hard for Sandrine to remember.
     The white storms shield it from her now. To reach back into the freezing gleam chills the skin, instantly forboding like imminent death. Those of the North understand this: it takes no time in the white to realize your end is near. A simple brush against the breath of Odin was enough to know what lay in wait. Knowledge and Memory can be physiological as much as chemical. Only the auslendoor wanders in such, never to be seen again.
     Sandrinaar remains of the Noord, and her hands and feet remain close in such times. She walks not the path of the outsider, preferring the favored hearth of home. The fires she tends herself. There is no chance of the white finding her, no chance of the dark and cold overtaking her. The white storms do not know Sandrinaar, and she keeps herself invisible from his searches forever.
     "Ms Darling?" Sandrine half-asks, standing at the orangerie's south doors. "Welcome," she says, bobbing her head at the departing servant. Now the guest is in Sandrine's charge. "Please, come in," she says softly, standing aside and revealing the enclosed portion of the gardens behind her.

     There was not a cheerier face of Revolution than that of Griffyn Darling's. No one smiled as she did -- does -- while talking about coal miners' rights, and with such plucky enthusiasm. She has an enthusiasm for most things, particularly ideas and ideals, something she can throw her heft, albeit slight, into.
     She a waifish thing really, and the hat -- a Georgian wonder with its pink chiffon scarf wrap -- only calls that to mind. Though her face is roundish and her eyes twinkle with the mischief and merriment that must spring up from this ground like dandelions, everyone seems to have them. The frock is rather sturdy, cream to the primrose-pink rest of her, her gloves match the coat and her shoes are surprisingly dainty. In one hand, tucked against her side and held under her arm is a portfolio. Her other hand is extending to you.
     "Ms. Jorgenson, it is lovely to see you again," her English is very anglicized, spoken like a well-practiced foreigner would. "I was walking up the drive to the path," her cheeks are rosy with the air, accented by her attire, "... and the place looks simply marvelous. Simply! And I am so happy we've had a chance to meet again..."
     She speaks much like she writes -- or writes just as she speaks. You can hear the peeling tones of a Revolutionary Poetess even in her simple greetings. If anything with Griffyn Darling could be called simple. Griffyn Darling glances around briefly, then makes a gesture, "... Look at the castle. I've not seen it better."
     And if you've done this for Powis Castle, just think what wonders you might do with ap Owain himself!

     The shake is friendly enough, if delicate. She's dressed in a peach satin dress, her flared skirt alternated with chiffon panels. Sandrine smiles, explaining, "I can say that I have little to do with it," her own English perhaps simply more often practiced. But once, it was that of a foreigner, and then rapidly sanitized in the face of chilly reception. "But thank you," Sandrine says, hands extended. Might I take your things?" she offers. Not so far away, a table for tea is set.
     "I hope your trip to Powys was well-met, along with the jaunt to the countryside here..."

     "Oh yes, thank you," she hands you the portfolio to hold a moment to free her hands for the untying of the hat. Gloved fingers tug upon chiffon bow-ends as she tilts her head in a smile. "Oh, very well met in Powys. It never lacks for conversation. Being this close to England, there is always excitement." Excitement -- she says it, she lives it.
     Hat off reveals an intricate plait of copper-red hair, three plaits joining togther in one half-French twist it looks like. Curls have escaped -- she can't keep a hairstyle more than an hour or a purse longer than a week -- and tendril around her face.
     Griffyn starts to reach for the portfolio again then remembers, with a laugh, her frock. "I'm more layered than an onion! Thank you," she says with a cheery breath. "I have been well received and merrily entertained. In fact, I have brought a few things for you and Davydd to read. Being the foremost faces of immortal Powys, I think you might wish to see them. But," she laughs again, "I promised, no politics. And you, this is your... is it your second year in our fair land? Or three? You have enjoyed Powys, I hope..."

     "It's lovely being here," Sandrine replies, always far from politic. She blinks at the notion of the reading, though her fingers are adept at taking a hat and scarf, swinging them over an arm, and leaving her hands free to accept a coat and any other accoutrement.
     "I think we have been here over two now, not quite three. I mean," Sandrine corrects, "...Davydd is never far from here, but I have only come to help him with the house recently..."

     The coat is the last bit. Once the frock is removed, it reveals a primrose and cream Georgian ensemble. "I was thinking it was about that amount of time. I do so apologize for not being able to meet with you sooner. We, and I speak for those of my Sisterhood as well, are very excited to have someone of your stature here. You have done quite a lot for those of the Rose. We find it all very exciting."
     And a little surprising, considering ap Owain's past history.
     Particularly with women...
     "It is a lot of house," Griffyn continues, smiling merrilly. "I do not envy you the task to maintain it. Though I will admit to envy about the gardens! The terraces are lovely."

     Stature? Excitement? Sandrine walks over to the nearest table and neatly arranges scarf, coat, and hat upon it. "Thank you," Sandrine murmurs, walking back over, hands brushing at her skirts. "I...um...well, I am glad we are able to meet now. Your invitation was very nice," Sandrine smiles, bobbing her head.
     "Some tea perhaps?" Sandrine offers, "The desserts I made today."

     "Tea would be wonderful, yes, thank you." Griffyn turns to walk with you the very short distance to the table prepared for just such a thing as tea-and-cakes. "It looks lovely, thank you," she pulls out one of the chairs, sitting just ahead of you. The dance of guest and host. It's a waltz all its own.
     "There are precious few Toreador in Cymru. It is a wild country," by that meaning Gangrel, not that that's a bad thing really, "... and so to have our numbers grow, and a woman," thank god! "... who is known and London, and therefore Cardiff, it was a treat for us. We women of the Rose have always been active in Cymru. The men certainly weren't responsible for the close-harmony singing! As much as they would like to take credit for it," she chirps laughter like a bird in song. "We have been able to maintain a civility here, a true independence," as if the Gangrel (or the fae) would have it any other way, "... despite the civil wars of our mortal children. So! When we heard that the Toreador archon was making Cymru -- of all places! -- her home? I, of course, like to keep up on things that happen in London, and who wouldn't, it is our great rival and one must always keep one's eyes open, knew of your work there. Few who serve the clan so serve it with ... such openness, freedom and grace, who openly wishes to teach those of the Clan Rose."

     "I...don't teach much anymore." It's said as a confession, as Sandrine takes her seat and immediately lifts the teapot to pour. And in truth, not many wanted to learn her crafts anyway. Sandrine manages a smile, though her feeling is one of being outdated.
     "You are very kind to say those things, though. I am sure that what makes Wales so lovely have been the women of your organization, who bring beauty to everything. I am sure everyone here is happy to have you all here." Said honestly, if naively.
     The four tiered tray is attached to an arch. On the small plates are both savories and sweets, hot and cool. The sandwiches are delicate work, as delicate at the cakes, small tarts, and petit fours.
     "But, I don't think I am known in Cardiff. I have never been there..."

     "Not to Cardiff, no. But to the Sisterhood." She smiles cheerily again. "We do not miss much. We would love to have you join us. Being out here in the country, we all have to have associations.... my -those- look tremendously tasty," distracted a moment by the lovely preparation. O! The work that went into it, the very artistry of the presentation.
     Reverie...
     "You are kind to say, as well," Griffyn continues, cheeks reddening slightly as she looks to you. Not embarrassed for the open stare at the food -- well, perhaps a little. It was not the height of polite manners! Though, you can probably tell that she wasn't raised with such gentility. It is very much a garment worn.
     "As I was saying, we feel that the bond of sisterhood, of having a social outlet, provides every bit as much -- if not more -- as being in such a large city as London." She takes cream after you pour. "Would you like cream as well?" if so, she would be delighted to return the favor. "In Wales, some structures are very old. The power structures are partially Roman but also very Brythonic simultaneously. Davydd ap Owain of Gwynedd," your paramour, "... has nearly as much 'voice' in Wales as when he ruled this very earth. It is very peculiar. Fortunately, women have enjoyed a particular independence and stature in Welsh society, allowing for a more level playing field. We are able to employ our voices, our hearts, our fingers with our needles, our looms and do so for the betterment of Cardiff's mortal population, and engender such craft among others in the Clan of the Rose. Some artcraft has been lost forever, even the harp was nearly extinct at one time, if you can imagine."
     Griffyn does take a breath, smiling. "We are a confederation of friendship, inspiration and sociability, in short. And we would love to have you join us for cards, tea luncheons, opera in Cardiff, and perhaps even the occasional garden party?"

     The woman looks surprised. "I..." goldish-red brows frown, "...that...sounds nice." As if she has not had such. Is London bereft of such things? "Oh," Sandrine says softly, distractedly, "...no cream for me, thank you." The pot is set down, and she stirs absently, staring at the white tablecloth.
     "I cannot believe that the harp...was once almost gone. Davydd," Sandrine chuffs, smiling as she stares down, "...he is so excellent at it."

     "Good!" Griffyn Darling beams as the matter seems to be decided. She puts down the cream and reaches for a little honey, and a couple of the tiny, artful sandwiches. "It is true, the harp was almost lost to us. In the 17th and 18th century, with the death of Turlough O'Carolan, the world lost the last composer for the harp. The Welsh triple harp all but died out until the resurgence of interest in matters Welsh in the 20th century. When we forget to teach or children, or our children cease to learn, we lose a part of ourselves, I think. That is not to mention some of the wonderful artworks, such as weave-craft and embroidery in particular that have been lost. But we, who do know these things, are trying to share the knowledge. With the harp in particular, that was a challenge. It's a challenging instrument."
     You speak of Davydd and she smiles again, "I regret that I have never heard him play, though... I have heard him sing. Before the world wars of last century, he was more in this country. We are happy to have him returned. England borrowed him a while longer than we imagined. But I hear the mud in London is particularly sticky, sometimes it may trap a man for a hundred years." She lifts the cup with a smile.
     Sip and swallow done, a toast with the cup for the tea most excellent, "This is wonderful. So, I hope this means that you and Davydd will be staying in Cymru? Have you been able to take much of the country in?"

     She seems overwhelmed, and Sandrine looks up at the notion of seeing more. "I have not seen much," she says embarassedly, giving a blushing smile. "I am," don't leave the castle, "...often busy here, helping Davydd, that I...have not seen more."
     And how do you help him?
     A blink and Sandrine picks up her cup, taking a drink and hiding behind the lip.

     Helping Davydd would be an all day... or night task. Griffyn nibbles at one of the sandwiches. As soon as she may she smiles merrily, "Well, when you live with the best gardens in Britain, why go anywhere else," she agrees. "You have plenty of time. You must insist that he take you to the coast some night, some year. It is lovely. I quite like to go, when I can get away from Cardiff, which is not frequently, I must admit. You have the festival coming up, and before you know it, it will be spring again, and the gardens full of activity. Believe it or not, time actually passes quite slowly out here. I like the life," sip, "... I can't imagine being anywhere else."
     She sips at her tea and leans in, quite the animated speaker, "...So how is Black Jack Davy? He hasn't come to Cardiff since his return," she can see why, "... I'm happy that the old pirate of the highways has someone to help him. You probably have your hands full there," she chirps with laughter again, "Welsh men. God love them. It's the rest of us that have a hard time with it..."

     There's a genial smile. Sandrine had been lost in her tea. "He seems alright," Sandrine says, then realizes her words. "I mean, he's well. He was just here. I am sure that he will come by to greet you before you depart."
     A cough. "I try to keep the castle well-appointed, in case he has visitors or business. He's very busy," Sandrine explains to someone. Somewhere. "Maybe he'll visit Cardiff soon, once London business takes a break."
     Another sip and quiet. She doesn't ask about your last statement, though it is clear she wishes to.

     Hmmm, Davydd ap Owain. Busy. Welsh men. Busy. There could be something going on...
     "That would be lovely. It's been twenty years. He's been in London," and with Rose, who forgets she's Welsh, "... but that would be nice. Cardiff would like to see you both, I know. Oh, particularly during opera season and symphony season. The Sisterhood has their own private box. We would let Davydd in, of course. Make him a sister for the night, we wouldn't even demand that he wear gloves and a hat." She winks, pretty periwinkle eyes.
     "Tending this castle must be a labor of love," Griffyn Darling continues, "...even if you were only trying to keep the bloody thing standing. It would be lovely to host a ball in, I imagine. I believe the Herberts added a ballroom in the 18th century. I visited it on several occasions before I was embraced, for poetry salons. I was the only woman in the room! God bless me!" She smiles at the thought, wistful for a moment.
     She notices a question in your look and stops her storytelling for a moment, leaning in and smiling. Yes?

     Another polite smile comes and Sandrine adroitly looks to the petit fours. "I bet it was difficult, being the only woman at functions here?"

     "O! Yes, yes it was. But I relished it. Then, I was always looking for some Right To Wrong. And what wrong needed more righting then than Women's Place In Society? I remember trying not to gawk the first time I stepped foot inside the manor. Of course, the gardens were not as they are today, not fully realized, but they were building the Orangerie. It was starting to take shape. It is simply marvelous now. I'm glad it remains Welsh, in Welsh hands."
     She pauses for a moment to partake of the little sandwiches, to work at her tea. After a few moments of perhaps blessed silence, she wonders, "How long have you been in Britain, Ms. Jorgenson?"

     "Please, call me Sandrine," Sandrine says softly. She reaches for the pot to freshen cups. "I have been in London...since...well, the Revolution." The French once. "I was sent there, then."
     "May I?" Sandrine asks, extending the pot across the table.

     "Thank you, Sandrine. Oh! Certainly," she offers her come for a freshening. "Oh, truly? I was embraced around that time. I was trying to get to the Revolution myself, 1787. But I was arrested for," laughter, as her hand comes to her mouth, "...inciting insurrection. My sire saved me from my execution and well, that was that wasn't it. How extraordinary. Of course, it would make sense that Paris would send delegates away from the City in such a time. It was amazing, when the air was filled with the promise of independence. Though, sadly, some got it more right than others. The Italians are still in a mess..."

     Sandrine's eyes widen and she nods. "It was a..." marvelous time, "...a grand time, until..." her brows lift and fall. "I am glad you left safely." No comment that the now Justicar provided her escape and that she was already a couple centuries old. "Strange, how times change so..."

     Griffyn Darling bobs her head in a nod and sips her tea. "Indeed it is, Sandrine. Now, look at the world! Sometimes I miss having a good king to slander," she smiles prettily, "... but then I could always send slanderous petitions and posters directly to Davydd. He'd probably have a right laugh at them. Dear Majesty of Wales," Griffyn intones full lordly, "...it has come to our attention that ~you~, sirrah, are a tyrant. We ask for your immediate cessation of all tyranny and that you sign our petition to strike you from the lists." Laughter chirps again.

     "Tyrant? Bah," comes a familiar rumble from the path below, approaching you. "You have food and shelter don't you?" Davydd rattles off, grinning as he comes by. The dogs trot-waddle down the stone steps for more playtime meanwhile. And there's the lord of the manor now, dressed in his hand-knitted, crew-neck jumper and his wool trousers, colors mottled browns and periwinkles, earth tones with a dash of heathery floridity about it. But it's manly, mind you.
     "There's nothing wrong with benevolent dictatorship. Hi, darlin," he says to you, Sandrine. "Not you, Darling," he says with a quick look to Griffyn. "Is she filling your head with a bunch of political speeches and revolutionary what-nots?"

     "No," Sandrine grins, shaking her head gently. "We were just having tea and discussing a past time. You are back sooner than I expected," Sandrine adds, "...something wrong?"

     "No," he quips, the Welsh 'no' being quicker than most other varieties, "...and," raising his hands, "I'm just passing through. Don't let me interrupt. Oh, cakes," he interrupts himself and takes a bit of biscuit. And then he takes a sandwich. "My ears were burnin but I don't have the patience to wait it out. Good to see you, Darling. Give Maxen my regards. Might be in Cardiff for the holidays. Take in a bit of a show," a glance to you. Did I suggest that before or did I just spill the beans on my own gift? Damn.
     Davydd waves that off, mouth full of biscuit, gives a wink to Sandrine -- alright, as if that's enough! -- a kiss on her cheek, then and he's prepared to grab food and go.

     "Oh, I'm sure he'd be happy to see you. I hear he's found a new gadget -- the Ventrue are afraid they'll never see him again," Griffyn chirps laughter at the prince's expense, then gives a wave to Davydd. "Nice seeing you, Black Jack," again with the nickname. "Have a good night," and she looks to Sandrine, eyes grinning across the table. You live with the man! How do you manage?

     Davydd laughs at the thought of Maxen Salebiri, Prince of Cardiff, with a new toy, skipping meetings until he figured it out. It's probably a telephone or nutcracker. He'll have to see it for himself. "Alright, alright... I don't want to be the only cock in the henhouse," he rattles in Welsh, "I'm going inside," he gives a smile to Sandrine, takes another biscuit and heads to the castle.

     Sandrine just gives a smile, it looking the same as the one previous. And the one before that. And before that. There's little context switching, no shades of amusement, no noticing of life's ironies or humors in the expression. It's a smile.
     "Sorry," Sandrine offers, "I thought he was out for the early evening."

     Griffyn doesn't seem bothered by Davydd's interruption in the least. She's as merry as she was before he arrived, and likely will be after she leaves here. "No bother," she smiles, "no bother at all. He's a bit more posh than I recall. First time I met him, true story, was when I was a mortal. There I was, all of sixteen, squeezed into a corset, breasts out to here from the pressure," she makes motions with her hands, grinning, "...and traveling in a coach from Monmouth to Cardiff along with an English family and one Irishman. Stand and deliver, it was Black Jack Davy." Griffyn leans in, grinning, "...he robbed the English, gave me two coins and told the Irishman to get stuffed," she laughs with delight.
     "Course, not as small-world as it sounds. He was notorious along the Welsh marches, even more so in England proper back in those days. What a pirate." Griffyn lifts her cup of tea for a sip and goes for a biscuit herself.
     "Where were we?" she wonders, smiling. "Oh! Yes! The French Revolution and the changing of the world. I think I was inspired, first, for that... freedom, that liberty by the whole idea of the highwayman, what the highwayman represented, breaking bonds of class, though I was in the merchant class myself and hardly starving. It was very Jane Austen in its way, maybe Bronte."

     There's a silence from Sandrine, her blue eyes watching across the tea table. She suddenly purses her lips together and smiles once more. "That must have been frightful," she wonders. "A robber. I've heard some of the stories from him. I hope he's not too posh, now," Sandrine smiles. Everything changes.
     "So, you had gone to France, then?" Sandrine finally surmises.

     Griffyn smiles warmly, "Oh lord no, I never made it. I was sired by an Irish revolutionary, Thomas Emett, and we were soon too busy in England and Wales to go to France. Though I tried on several occasions to get there. I mean, getting there was one thing, but getting back something else. We Welsh are always interested in notions of revolution and independence," Griffyn laughs, "...so, we had our hands full here. In the end," she exhales, serious for a moment, "... I'm rather glad I missed seeing some of it. Ghastly that. Not at all as stirring as the American Revolution."
     She glances to the ghost of Davydd's departure and smiles. "It was frightening until he was polite to me. Then, I rather enjoyed it. The Englishwoman was quite beside herself. That's always amusing. It's all quite dashing in an 18th Century way. Songs in his honor, wanted posters, masks." Griffyn chirps laughter again, "...and you can only get Welshmen so posh. They're too hardy to be too fancy."

     She smiles again, even if she's skeptical. "I guess he was famous," Sandrine observes. "Infamous. Maybe it will always be that way."

     "Infamous," she agrees on that term. "But," she laughs, "I didn't come all this way to talk about Davydd. I can do that in Cardiff." She seems to set that whole matter aside, lest it look like she came out here digging for gossip, which may have been what Gorawen wanted, but not Griffyn. "A woman's not defined by the men in her life after all," she says, quite plucky, "...but about her own desires, interests and, yes, achievements."
     Her second cup of tea is done and she's had her share of sandwiches and at least one biscuit. "I'd much rather hear about Sandrine Jorgenson, thank-you-very-much. So," hands on the table, "I have to admit I found out a little from my sources in London, but not much. I take it your calling was the culinary arts? Presentation? Every thing here is so fabulous... and other than Juliet duMontrachet, we," the great Toreador We, she must mean, "... don't have very many of our numbers among culinary artists. Traditionally a bit of a boys club, that..."

     There's a nod from Sandrine at the last statement, the only movement from her during the last explanation. "Well, at least not high-profile artists," she agrees. Those are primarily male, for some reason. "But I am no chef," Sandrine smiles humbly. "I can make things, but...there are others far better." She takes another drink from her cup.
     But, as if to not leave earlier comments dangling, Sandrine quips, "I sometimes helped those newest to..." this life. That word. Unlife. Undeath. "..Just when they needed help."

     "Now, that is an art," Griffyn notes, a bob of her head in the process. "Living this life successfully, it is not for the untrained or the uninitiated. Many of us had to learn the hard way. I can imagine such is needed now more than ever. I've heard in some cities, maybe it was America, I don't recall exactly, but there was a great problem of very young ... initiates, we shall say, who were simply abandoned. We've not had that sort of trouble in Wales. The clans make sure there's none left in the street or in the cold. It's a wilderness, Wales, but it's not cruel..."

     "That is good," Sandrine nods. "It happens often enough. Too often," Sandrine adds. "So, if such are found and want instruction, that is what I do..." she smiles.

     There is admiration in those bright and plucky eyes. What you say, well, maybe it stirs a Revolutionary's heart, the compassion, the common man, rah-rah. Folding her hands in her lap, Griffyn Darling beams, bobbing her head yet again. "The Sisterhood will be honored to have you among us. Please, join us in Cardiff, three weeks, the Cardiff Symphony. We will introduce you to the court, and to our youngest members as well."
     Seriously she says this, looking at you squarely: "What you do is the future of what we are, the hope of what we can be." She sounds like Girault! "It was ... a distinct pleasure finally being able to meet you, Sandrine."

     The future? Sandrine tilts her head, about to say something, but at the seeming valediction, she sits upright at attention. "It's been a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for the invitation," she bobs her head, "I will," a pause, "...ask Davydd if he wishes to go to Cardiff. I am sure he will say yes," she grins. "It would be a nice trip to meet everyone."

     Griffyn smiles brightly again, winsomely as ever. "Oh yes, a wonderful time. You simply must ask him to come. Maxen would never forgive him if he did not and Maxen is long on memory." A pause and a bird's laugh again, "... Ah, Welsh men. Long on memory and short on sense." Delighted, she laughs and rises, extending her hand to you across the table. "We women must insert the sense into the world, hmm? It is our duty."
     She isn't rushing away, but she is making her exit. "I will let them know you will attend, it will be my pleasure to introduce you. You will love Cardiff I am sure. And I am sure that Cardiff will love you in return."

     The hostess doesn't seem too sure about it all, but she extends her hand regardless as she stands to accompany. "I look forward to it," Sandrine offers, moving around the table. Her dress rustles as she angles about, but quiets in her steps forward.
     "Shall I have someone...accompany you?" So that one doesn't walk alone. "I am sure Davydd can walk with you to..." wherever, "...a car? The train?"

     "It's not a far walk to the train station," Griffyn smiles, "it's good for the constitution. No need to trouble Davydd or one of your household. I'm happy to walk and whistle my way!" She gives your hand a vigorous shake, and smooths her hands afterwards on her Georgian frock. "Thank you for such wonderful tea and treats. It'll keep me in good standing for my return to Cardiff. I need nothing more, though thank you kindly for asking."
     It's hat and coat next, both lying nearby. "Oh! And make sure Davydd sees the petitions. There's quite a bit of fuss stirring about use of Welsh in the Marcher villages. He'll want to make sure he votes." And to be sure she's going to call him to make sure he does.

     The petitions. Sandrine nods, "I will put them on his desk," following to the interior doors. "And thank you for coming," Sandrine grins brighter, "...for visiting."

     Gloved hands toss her hats scarves in opposite directions, lying across her frock's shoulders and she smiles, a confection of berries and cream. "We shall have to make regular occasions of it. Visits to the country!" She grins, too. "Thank you for having me. It was simply super."
     Griffyn Darling bobs her head, looks to the trail from the gardens to the road and from the road to the village. With a smile she turns to march back the way she came. Turning, she waves. "See you in Cardiff!"

Posted by rowan at December 07, 2003 04:34 PM