Britannia, NY

Summer for Cecilia doesn't mean that work slows down -- if anything, it means the library has more patrons on its hands than usual. Which means more desk-time for Cecilia, and later evening shifts while she works to catch up on whatever she can't do from the reference desk. This suits her just fine, for a few weeks anyway, since it means she has less time on her hands to sit idle and brood over her thoughts.

The dreams haven't let up. In the past, she might have sought out Arthur, to check on him, or as some means of comfort for herself, but the last few weeks she's kept to herself. She hasn't even really mentioned it to Larry in their phone conversations. Something in Morgause wants to keep secrets, and Cecilia is finding it increasingly difficult to fight that impulse.

She dreams of her brother, and a kind of angry longing sweeps over her and ruins her whole day. Or she wakes with the sense of all the things she could never have, the sense of being half-exiled to Orkney. The best case scenario is dreaming of her own death -- she never thought she'd find cold resignation to be the preferable outcome.

Eventually, she makes up her mind that it's time to get out of town for a bit. So she arranges vacation time, and calls up Larry to see where she might catch him. Then she heads into town to run errands, doing her best to look open and approachable.

It's 3 in the morning. He dimly knows this, but this is important and he's afraid he's going to lose it. It's like a song he needs to write down before the melody goes out of his head. He doesn't know what he's going to say, not exactly. He just knows he needs to talk to Cecilia. Right away.

What will scare Larry later, when he remembers this, is the blurring between his old self and his new one. And he's not sure which of them initiated the phone call.

Larry feels oddly like he's playing hooky. Granted, he got permission to take a long weekend off, and further granted, he's just finished a recording session and he won't start touring for another few weeks. But as busy as his agent's kept him, even if he hadn't gotten permission, he might have run off for a few days anyway.

This, though, is what he wanted. A record with decent distribution. Some radio play. A tour. No more day job. Easy enough to romanticize picking up and going at the drop of a hat, but harder to romanticize the menial series of jobs he worked to pay the rent in the meantime.

He tells himself he's happy.

Of course, he hadn't meant to come back to Britannia. Not really. He missed Cecilia, missed... whatever they were, he'd admit that much, but something about the place made him uneasy.

It's only for a weekend.

He walks from the bus station, guitar over one shoulder and small duffel in one hand. He's heading towards Cecilia's house, but taking his time. It's just a town. Nothing that should set his teeth on edge. Beside which, the sun is out and it's a nice break from the city.

Of course.

It's a couple days before New Year's eve. And, just like that, out of the blue, Cecilia's phone rings. A certain musician is calling her from New York City.

The fifth night in a row that Larry dreams of being violently murdered, he takes it as a sort of sign. Without a further word to anyone except his landlord, who gets payment for the last month of the lease, Larry and his few worldly belongings are gone on the next bus out of town.

His phone, for the moment, goes straight to voicemail.

Larry was not a pacer, but he wondered if it would help if he were. Instead, he stood at the window of his apartment, looking out, letting things roll over in his mind. Looking down the street, he could see all leaves gone flame red and the yellow of no. 2 pencils. He had to admit, Britannia was a pretty little town.

It'd be the first place in years he was even a little bit sorry to see the last of.

But as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he'd already made a decision. He was just stalling now. He picked up the phone and sent Cecilia a text.

Pick you up for dinner at seven tonight? It was last minute, he knew, but waiting wasn't going to help anything.

Larry's posted some fliers in public places: the grocery, of course, the library. Maybe a few others here and there. He doesn't know why he feels nervous, as this isn't the first concert he's played in Britannia, and it won't be the last. At least, he isn't planning it to be, right now.

Maybe it's just that this is the first time he's played with the full knowledge of who he was, then. With the knowledge of why he writes about the things he writes about. And the first time he's played in front of audience who he's certain will know when and if he gets things wrong.

Still. He feels like it's something he has to do.


[Feel free to approach Larry after the show, or use as a post for running into other people at the concert.]

Cecilia had called in to work -- taking a personal day, she said. She didn't want to say she was sick, because then she'd feel strange about being seen out around town. But she needed to walk. She needed to listen. She needed to know where the rest of her sons were.

For the first time in months, Cecilia had found herself sleepless. But it wasn't the dreaming, keeping her awake. It was Morgause's unsettling, cold anger. When Cecilia had met Enfys a second time, with full knowledge of who Enfys was, Morgause had stirred within her. But when Nathan had interrupted them, Morgause had surged forward. Cecilia was used to that give and take, by now; usually, she felt that who she was in this life tempered the ambition, desire, the anger that Morgause had carried. She wanted to believe that this time was different, people changed, this was a fresh start. Cecilia wanted that desperately; even Morgause knew that she wasn't who everyone thought she was. (She loved people. She longed for things. She'd been hobbled by who she was, then. Not now. Not here.)

So today she's on her own time, walking. Listening, in Morgause's way, for a hint that will point her to the people she needs to know. She knows Gary. She felt something about Clara. But Mordred? The others? Still mysteries to her. So she walks; she looks, most likely, determined, almost angry.

"I am going to destroy you," Nathan had said, "You and your bastard son."

Not if Cecilia had anything to say about it.

Things with Mum have been strained of late; Fizz can't really understand where that's come from. She thinks the woman ought to be pleased that she's sticking around in Britannia rather than dashing off to college like she'd always planned on doing - and could, with her record - but apparently it's made her 'directionless'. Which is a fun thing to be called.

She's not directionless, though... she knows this for a fact. Arthur's speculations have, if not confirmed, then at least reinforced this. Something's keeping her here, some greater purpose.

At times she wonders if she's going nuts, because the old Fizz would have scoffed at the idea.

Taking a break from stalking Arthur, and commandeering Ken's wall, she's set up shop outside the coffee shop where Mum works and is trying to figure out exactly what that purpose is. She's had four coffees and no luck yet.

Hmmph.

The start of school, as many in Britannia are no doubt acutely aware, is approaching. As much as Daniel likes to maintain an air of complete disorganization, the beginning of the year is close enough that he has conceded defeat and begun, reluctantly, to work on lesson plans.

Rather than at home or in the school, however, he has found a coffee shop with outside tables and set up camp there. If he's forced to do work, at least it can be in the sunlight. (As for his dreams, they've continued and he's continued not to trouble himself about them. Unlike the others, he has no look of sleeplessness or lines of care, nor does he spend a great deal of time wondering if it's normal for dreams to be so linear and logical, and to feature as players people from his daily life who are, yet aren't, themselves. Really, the only effect has been a great desire to propose Camelot to the principal as the year's musical.)

All things considered, he's in a rather good mood and, considering the way he smiles at anyone who passes, probably seems quite approachable.

Cecilia had been lying low for a few weeks. Just going to work, and keeping otherwise to herself. She'd decided to give Larry his space -- she was starting to worry that she was going to do that thing she does, with the jealousy and the clinging, and so she'd backed off. But the longer she went without calling him, or going to see him, the more she felt his absence.

And every night this week, there he was. In her dreaming. In her arms, somewhere else. As he was, not as he is.

Though her dreams have been clear enough, she'd taken them in stride. Somehow the familiar faces and the knowledge a few of them had brought her felt almost comforting. She'd felt it all as a kind of power; it hadn't scared her, even when she started seeing blood in her dreams. Even when she knew how it ended.

She'd woken up this morning wanting him with her. Not sure of what that meant, or where it led. And she felt a little guilty, too. Like a jerk. So she's done her best to figure out when he gets off work today, and she's managed to find herself outside the grocery store, nervously waiting for him.

It's Saturday morning, not particularly early (unless you ask Gina), so of course she's at work. Grocery store, not at the check out counter this time. No, she's carefully practicing the art of stacking oranges in a pyramid shape. In other words, she wasting time while trying to look productive. No one's really fooled.

She's tired and her boss assumes Gina's hungover--she isn't, she just hasn't had any sleep in the last two nights. Damned dreams are back and they're starting to creep her out but she's not thinking about that, no. She's stacking oranges. Sharp-smelling, bright colored oranges--

Never mind, the fruit is now all over the floor, rolling every which direction and she has to pick them all up. Fuck.

Cecilia would have liked to pretend that she'd been able to focus on anything else but her date with Larry. She would also like to be one of those women who is leisurely and relaxed about preparing for such a date.

Instead, she's been ready since 5:15, for a date at six. She's standing in her kitchen, triple-checking her makeup in a little hand mirror. She's in the kitchen because it's just about the furthest room from the front door, and she doesn't want to pounce when the doorbell rings. She takes a few deep breaths, checks her face again.

She really hopes she isn't about to make an idiot of herself.

A slightly annoying string of morning shifts has left Cecilia with something resembling a regular schedule for the first time since she started at this library. She's not a morning person, but she could get used to the idea of all those free evenings stretching out before her.

This evening, she's back at the coffee shop. It's nice enough that she's sitting at a sidewalk table instead of inside, with a steaming cup of chai and a somewhat embarrassing novel of the kind that's commonly called "chick lit". (She doesn't look particularly engrossed in the novel.)

Clara knows it's completely silly and totally an old person thing to dread one's birthday, but that hasn't kept her from it. And it is why, on the day of, she can be found trekking down to the supermarket. Once there, she makes a beeline for the freezer aisle, the ice cream section. She opens up the door and begins to spend what many people might characterize as "too long" trying to decide exactly what she wants-- or, importantly, how much she can possibly carry.

Larry's tuning his guitar, frowning a bit absently. The coffee house isn't exactly full, but there aren't that many places to go in Britannia on a Friday night. People are filtering in, so at least it won't be utterly pathetic. He hopes. Even so, there's no reason his new song should make him nervous. Not like anyone will take notice anyway. Even so...

He shoved that line of thought away. It was probably just because he hadn't been sleeping well. It was making him paranoid. Just relax, he told himself. You'll be moving on soon, anyway.

But he could probably stand some conversation, either before or after his set.

Lynn sighs in frustration as she pulls up to the grocery store. It's been another long day at work and she just wants to go home, to the condo that's all she she can afford until she finishes paying off her student loans. Just another year or two, she thinks as she locks the door and shoves her keys in her pocket. Then she can get some new debt and her own house: a house that will have, among other things, a bigger kitchen.

But her condo's small kitchen is what brings her here today--it needs to be stocked. She walks listlessly into the store, grabbing a cart as she goes. She's tired. Maybe she'll pick up something to microwave for dinner, unhealthy as it is. The dreams she's been having don't help, and neither do the rumors of a strange man who's just moved into town; parents are anxious, asking her questions she doesn't know how to answer. People are so suspicious in a small town. She bags a few apples, then a head of lettuce, putting them in her cart.

She nods to most of the people she passes in the grocery store; if she doesn't know them by name, she knows their faces. Three of her patients are here now, two with their mothers, one with her father. They smile and wave at her. Four-year-old Lila even blows her a kiss. That cheers Lynn up, and she stands up a little straighter, smiling, but still heads for the frozen foods aisle. She's not paying attention when she gets there, and when she opens the door to reach for a frozen spinach pizza, she almost hits someone else. "I'm sorry!" she exclaims automatically, turning to make sure the person's all right.