Britannia, NY

“‘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.

Arthur's encounter with Gaheris... that is, with Gary, has left him shaken. He didn't expect anyone he knew to be alive, in any form. Maybe Merlin, if his luck was exceedingly great, but he hadn't counted on it. He'd appeared without a history, in the wrong country, and had assumed that something had gone wrong in his return.

But now he had to wonder. Perhaps it hadn't.

It was possible, of course, that poor Gaheris had been a special case, because of what happened. If someone were to believe in the idea of unfinished business for a soul, Gaheris would certainly be a reliable candidate. But then again, there were the dreams. He'd heard quite a few people mention odd dreams; he'd observed that even more people looked tired.

Perhaps, after all, he'd returned just as he was meant to.

Which, of course, raised the question of what it was that he was supposed to be doing, now that he was here. It had seemed so obvious, last time. Difficult, certainly, but clear. He wished...

But wishing never got him anywhere, then or now. But he's sitting on a bench, outside Adia's apartment, thinking. He's free for the approaching, however.

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.

It's the weekend, late afternoon, and Clara is jogging. After assuring her mom that she'll be careful-- no, really careful, she swears-- she takes off down the block, iPod on, trying to get as far from home as she can while still having the energy to come back.

By the time she's three blocks away from home, she is gone. The run has become half-jogging half-dancing to the horrible '90s music currently playing through her headphones, and between controlling to her breath and rocking out, she isn't paying a great deal of attention to the people or things around her. Even at crosswalks, which would horrify her mother, no doubt.