Far from the Fortunate Isle (open)
One thing a good journalist needs, of course, is an eye for a good story (and that phrase always puzzles Enfys, because stories are told, not seen - flash of log fires and great, booming voices and raucous laughter - so in her mind it should be an ear for a good story... but she digresses). Britannia being what it is – a small town, with a small town mentality – news travels fast, and rumour even faster, and while anyone else would wonder whether it was too soon to be pushing, whether it was intruding on the mysterious visitor, or indeed on Miss Connor, Enfys... doesn't think like that.
Not that she's quite got the confidence to stride up to the door and demand an interview either. Instead she finds herself a nice spot opposite the blue house on Mill-and-Spruce, perched on the wall at the bottom of someone else's garden with her knees hugged up to her chest, camera around her neck, dog-eared notebook in her pocket, and waits. She's good at waiting.
It's an odd feeling, being at once compelled to come here and hesitant to commit to doing so. Her mother would probably chalk it up to destiny playing her hand, but Enfys doesn't believe in that sort of thing.