In the mail arrives a handwritten note addressed to one Mr. Lowe; Unkempt Tower; Route 2; Welshpool, Montgomeryshire SY21 7DG. And this seems to be enough for the local authorities to determine the intended delivery location of the note itself, for it arrives on a Thursday afternoon with the rest of the post.
     Decorated on the margins with slightly glimmering ink depicting coats of arms hanging from trees much like the sight seen by those searching the grail when they came on the black knight in the grove. It only shines with a dusting of glamour, almost as though the orderly penwork is too defined to hold the more chaotic magics. The contents of the note in lovely practiced penmanship read as follows:
     Mr. Lowe,
     I will be spending an afternoon in Welshpool to look into some information necessary for the continuation of my literary project. As you have expressed an interest in meeting, I felt it would be rude of me not to inform you of my arrival this Saturday. If you would like to speak with me, I will be taking tea at the dining room of The Cross at town square. I trust you are familiar with it so close to your home.
     Cordially,
     Miss Gwendolyn Meyrick

     And in his tower, in a cozy study a fire crackles. warming cold stone and a large leather chair that the master of the castle is settled into comfortable. In one hand rests a snifter of brandy. It would be the classic posture of immortal brooding where there not a remote control in his other hand and if he were not busy swearing at the Television, "Bleedin' satellites services. 200 channels and I can't find any of them replaying the Winston football match." Of course just who he's talking to is anyone's guess.
     Suddenly the timbers in the ceiling creak and moan as if a strong wind causes the castle to settle just a bit more. The creaking slowly gives way to an all together cheerful voice saying, "You've got mail!" Lowe's only response is to grimace and push himself to his feet.
     "That's it Cynrain, no more tele for you!" Lowe says irritably when he finds the post laying at the front door. He finds a letter that stands out.. probably the one Cynrain noticed. He reads it over and shakes his head, "Well I need to go into town and gas up the Astin Martin anyways..." He makes his way out and heads for the car.

     Just as Welshpool is a picturesque little town, so is The Cross a picturesque little inn. Built sometime between the wars, its cobblestone walls have since become covered with moss and vines of some kind, some of them creeping up to the wooden sign hanging over the door in the traditional style of all taverns. During the day, the fare is that of any good village, hearty stews and roasts and frog in the hole for dinner. And at tea, there are biscuits and clotted cream.
     This seems to be what Wendy is enjoying as she sits at one of the small tables in the light coming through the small windows, making notes on a sheet of paper she has next to her cup on its saucer, already liberally concocted with milk and sugar.
     It doesn't look as though she was planning on painting today, wearing clothes that are actually only a couple colors at a time rather than her usual splattering. A blue kerchief holds back her black curls, matching the blue and green plaid pants with her white t-shirt. A green jacket hangs over the back of her chair against the still chilled Welsh air, and she seems perfectly content to sit there for the rest of her afternoon.

     Lowe is known to the proprietors of the tea house, or at least he is known well enough that they give him wary looks and they decide it's time for anything expensive and breakable to be moved to the back... for cleaning. The tall man makes his way through the cafe to the table where Wendy sits casually.
     "I like your pants." This is Lowe's initial observation, but for what it is worth he seems sincere. "Ms. Meyrick, I do not suppose you would mind if I joined you for a spot of tea?"

     Despite the slight bustling in the nearly empty tavern that starts when Lowe comes in, Wendy doesn't look up. Either she's engrossed in her work, ignoring the probable entrant, or being polite. She does, however, raise her head when she is addressed, glancing at her pants with the compliment.
     "Thanks." She doesn't exactly smile, but her expression is pleasant and polite. Uncrossing her legs to sit upright in her seat slightly to better facilitate the conversation with another person rather than continuing to read, she inclines her chin in a bit of a nod, "You may, if you like, Mr. Lowe. I was about to get another pot."
     She turns a second cup upright on its saucer, apparently having expected that someone else was coming at least. "Milk or sugar?" It's all terribly civilized. But then, tea time generally is.

     Lowe seems to consider his options for just a moment before saying, "Just some brandy will be sufficient I think." The tall man pulls out a chair and settles down comfortably, "You may just call me Lowe, as mister is not my proper title, I normally just allow people to call me familiar."
     "Thank you for finally taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with me by the by. I do appreciate it. How did your discussion with your friend at Stonehenge go." He looks about the rustic little tavern and waves down a waitress who can come and take your collective orders.

     "If you say so." Something about her tone intimates that she finds the entire name business amusing. But, she doesn't adjust her own name for the moment, instead pouring more tea into her cup.
     There's a brief look that says she'd like to be surprised at your drinking during the middle of the afternoon, but that it isn't actually all that shocking and so she isn't going to put the effort into it. Instead she turns to the older woman who runs the tavern when she arrives with her frown and says, "Another pot of tea would be lovely, thank you."
     "Well, you have been persistent about it so since it wasn't out of my way today, I didn't want to be rude." Moving on to the mention of the girl at Stonehenge she picks up her tea, "It was odd. She seems like a nice enough girl, we only just met so I hesitate to say friend." But, then again, who that she's met lately isn't odd.

     "I merely wanted to make sure you were well after that ordeal in the Garden." It was rather... well messy. Lowe nods to the older woman as he takes Wendy's order for tea and adds, "A teacup for me as well with a little brandy in the bottom please." See at least he's not drinking a lot.
     As the woman makes her way off, Lowe then asks, "You should not be so quick to judge what is odd and what is not. I mean... I find you exceedingly odd, but I'm polite enough not to tell you that." He pauses, "Well I was politely enough not to tell you that..." he waves a hand, "Anyway the point is that odd is relative. Like sending a letter when you have my phone number."

     "I never said odd was a bad thing." Wendy clarifies, "And I never said that I was ordinary, either." She takes a sip from her teacup, "She seems nice, just..." Leaning in a bit she lowers her voice as though she doesn't want the rest of the empty tavern to hear her, "I don't make a habit on my first meetings with people of telling them that recently I thought I was going mad and then asking them to go off with me and speak privately somewhere else."
     "She seemed like she was trying to be nice, and she wasn't offended when I didn't want to just go off with her into the countryside, but still..." She thinks briefly and then adds, "And I'm eccentric, it's supposed to come with being an artist. Phones are... strange."

     "Eccentric has nothing to do with being an artist. It's all about hiding from something." Lowe says as the woman returns with the new pot of tea and cup for him, "Bless you, you're a saint." He says to the woman and waves as if to send her on her way. He holds up the pot as if to offer to pour you your first new cup.
     "But I digress. I just wanted to make sure you were ok after the ordeal in the garden. How did your painting turn out by the by?"

     "What's your medium then?" Wendy asks with a perfectly bland expression, smiling to the woman who brings the order back over. Nodding to Lowe she sets her cup down, "Yes please."
     "I'm perfectly fine, thank you for asking. I finished the painting, it's hanging somewhere in Llewellyn's halls now, I'd imagine. He liked it quite a lot I think."

     "My medium?" Lowe asks, "As in artistic medium?" Lowe rubs his chin as he tries to consider that, "I used to play a kazoo...." he shakes his head, "I'm not an artist Wendy, at least I don't consider myself one. I'm told I have a fair singing voice though."
     He settles back in his chair and smiles, "I was at a pub in Devon where the Stones where getting sloshed many years ago. We managed to talk them into playing acoustic instruments and I got to fill in for Mick Jagger because he was too drunk to stand..."

     When Lowe doesn't get the barb of her comment, Wendy just shakes her head. And then starts to laugh, a melodic and easy sound drifting through the tavern as she pours milk and adds sugar into her tea, "You are entirely too much sometimes."
     Still giggling a little as she picks up her cup she arches an eyebrow, "When you were ten? I can actually see you brooding enough to be with a rock band when you were a child, but I don't know that they'd let you perform in a pub with them."

     Either he didn't get the barb... or he was ignoring it. "Please I wasn't that young... this was only twenty years ago or so...." His eyes roll back and you can almost see him counting the numbers in his minds eye, "Yeah that's about right...." He pours you a fresh cup of tea and one for himself then.
     "Ok... now that we've covered the requisite amount of small talk, I'll get down to what I wanted to talk to you about." Lowe says, "you handled yourself very well in the Gardens that day. You have talents outside of just painting. I'm wondering if perhaps you would like to help me round up more roguish trouble makers like the one that you saw that day." Lowe seems to be watching you carefully, waiting to gauge your response or perhaps... see how much you remember.

     She starts to say something about his propensity for aging well but is cut off by the line of thought that follows. Stopping mid raise on her tea cup, her ebony eyebrows raise incredulously, lips paused open in speech and surprise, before she blinks and clears her throat, setting down the teacup again on the table.
     "You... want me to go out with you to hunt down little old men that turn into trees?" Her voice is lower again, glancing over to the counter where the barkeepers have vacated in favor of the back room for the moment.
     Holding up her hand she asks, "Why would I want to do that, exactly?" Running down the center of her palm about a half inch wide is a freshly pink scar, reminiscent of a serious burn and conveniently about the width of a planting pole.

     When you ask why you would want to do that, Lowe merely shrugs, "It's merely an offer. Good opportunity for self discovery. To perhaps find some answers out about yourself. You know stop hiding your head in the sand that sort of thing." He lifts his tea cup up for a brief sip of brandy spiked tea.
     "Now if your perfectly comfortable like that, more power to you.. but the offer stands."

     "So I could hide it in a tower instead? Maybe?" She shakes her head and picks up her teacup again, flexing her injured hand slightly before she gets it off the table, "I'll think about it. As you said earlier, though, my schedule tends to be rather full."
     She takes a drink lightly and adds, "And I don't see what you think I'm hiding from, none of those things really started showing up until you came along." Pausing in a sip she mutters, "Much."

     "My castle is a home... not a closet I hide my skeletons in." And that said he finishes his tea and pushes to his feet. "Anyway I should go. I have a quick trip to Moscow to take." And that said he bows, "I'll see you around I'm sure."

     "Ah." Wendy doesn't seem to buy that much. She isn't inclined to argue the point, though, instead nodding and setting her cup down. "Well, it was... a pleasure to see you again. I'm glad that I could reassure you about my well-being. I hope you have luck with your scavenger hunt, though." She stays seated rather than getting up or moving out of her chair at all. Apparently, she's happy enough to finish her tea.

Posted by rowan at March 20, 2004 08:10 PM