Britannia, NY

Nissa has been seeing a therapist. This helps, at least a little, but every little is important, Nissa tells herself.

Nissa has tools for helping herself. She's made a place on the lawn of the manse, right across from the church, where she can write and work in the leafy green sunshine, away from walls and the isolating effects of windows.

It is, she thinks as she sits there, mug of tea at her elbow, a pity her dreamself doesn't seem to ever be able to remember the things she learns while she's awake.

Nissa dreams of kingship.

In her dream she is the lord of a city, a bright city on a hill, and in the morning the light touches first on her window in the high tower of the palace at the top of the ridge, and slips down to light the harbor by the time she stops working to take the time to break her fast. In the dream she rises, takes the heavy, rough mug that holds her morning cider, and goes down the hill.

The city is built in half rings on the hillside. She follows them down. A beggar stops her. She stands and talks to him, and touches him and he says he feels lighter. He will not take her cider. He laughs at her, calls her a good child, sends her on. There are people crying and she follows them, a child takes her hand and says her mother is sick please help please and she cannot tell where the ground is, or where her feet are. It is a wonder she does not fall. But she goes to the mother. She prays. She prays and she takes the hand the mother holds out to her, and then the mother is pulling back, using her grip to raise herself to her feet, laughing, saying, “What a king we have,” and Nissa feels as lost in that small room as she felt in the palace, where there are many rooms, and the floors are smooth, and she makes very certain to breathe deep on the stairs and always brace one hand against the wall, because it is a sin to wish to stumble.

It is awfully difficult to make yourself breakfast when you’re afraid to touch your knives, or your stove, or your oven, and that is why Nissa is sitting in Sanford’s Diner in the early morning, nursing coffee while she waits for her eggs and pancakes. She is hoping the food will make her feel better, and so will reading both the Bible open on the table in front of her, and the NAMI pamphlet open in her lap.

It's Saturday, and Nissa is keeping her regular office hours, nine to three. The front door of the church is propped open with a chunk of concrete of unknown origin (it's been fulfilling this function since long before Nissa was hired). Most of the windows are open too, including the abstract stained glass ones in the sanctuary, and the lace curtains in the Fellowship lounge, which Nissa's office opens onto, are billowing gently in the breeze.

Nissa's office door is open. She's sitting at her desk, reading through reviews of curriculums for adult Bible studies courses - she's getting close to needing another for her Tuesday night group - and doing a little revising of her sermon for Sunday. Nothing vital. The point of Saturday hours is to make herself available.

Arthur is out and about in Britannia, not going anywhere in particular. And though he's not looking for anyone in particular either, the list he and Enfys made is still in the forefront of his mind. He's not sure what he's recruiting people to, at this point, but awakening people... and determining who they are. That is certainly important.

And failing that, he may just enjoy the afternoon. Sure. Right.

“‘And happy is the man who does not find me a stumbling-block,’” Nissa reads out loud – barely out loud, just loud enough it can’t be said to be under her breath. “‘Happy is the man who does not find me a stumbling-block.’”

She’s sitting at a small table with a chessboard set into it in a park, her Bible lying in front of her, open to Luke chapter seven. The table is under an apple tree, and she must not have moved, nor turned the page, for a long while – there are petals on the page, petals in her hair. Her hands are in her lap, clenched against the fabric of her skirt. She is not quite shaking.

It’s getting late. She knows she should get up, go back to the manse, eat something, but she’s still seeing white hospital walls, a heart monitor, a bustle of confused doctors, a puzzle print of a Thomas Kinkade painting, painstakingly assembled, preserved under glass.

Tiernay is sitting on a large memorial stone in the front garden of Britannia First Presbyterian Church, her long, slacks encased legs partly obscuring the brass plate with the dates of the chapel’s restoration and the names of the primary donors. She has a small, heavy stoneware mug of coffee held casually in her hands, her elbows braced on her knees. The plate that held her coffeecake has been abandoned on the grass, fork crossed across it, and she is watching the church’s young minister play London Bridge with a bunch of kids, further out on the lawn.

Off to her right, at the line of tables set out for refreshments, someone is saying, “Edna, we need more coffee,” and someone else is saying, “It’s a shame we didn’t have a cantata this year,” and someone else is saying, “When are you and James going to baptize that baby of yours, Amanda? It’s been three months already!”

Tiernay smiles over her folded hands. Her shoulder is aching, but she shook the minister’s hand after the service, and something in her lightened up, loosened. She feels as young as the spring.

She hums a bar and sing songs to herself, “…The strength to build the city that has stood too long a dream…”

OOC: Nissa is also more than taggable on this post - provided, of course, a body is willing to deal with disgruntled kidlets deprived of their playmate.

Nissa Sergeant is sitting on the bike racks outside the library, cellphone held carefully to her ear, head tilted, face serious. She’s kicked her heavy hiking boots off and peeled free of her socks, and her feet swing freely in the air, bare toes pointed down. It’s too cold for bare feet yet today, if Nissa were being sensible, but she’s always hated shoes.

“I understand, Mrs. Levin,” she says into the phone, “You don’t have to apologize for calling me. It’s what this number’s for.” A slight flush of color comes into her cheeks and she ducks her head as if to hide it. “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much. God bless you too. Goodbye.” She ends the call, squinting at the little buttons with her tongue poking slightly out of her mouth in concentration, and then folds her hands around it, and sets her hands in her lap.

The shift in balance is a little awkward. She wobbles on the pipe, recovers herself, and sighs, tilting her head back to look up at the sky. It is very bright and very clear and very far away today. April sky. Almost big enough to be Montana’s.

She should get back to her errands.