Re: [Outside AyB: Mari, Dinah, Beckett]
Dinah blinked in surprise when the woman kept talking to her. History. The man who owned the store. Though he was gone his story still lingered, but what stuck out to her most of all? Was the woman had a degree. A degree in history. She had studied and learned. There was a ping of envy, quick and sharp as static that bolted through Dinah. All the things she must know, all the things she must have learned and possibly seen.
"The one--?" She looked from Mari to where Beckett was then back again. She'd seen the glances? Observant. The brown eyed woman was observant. That could be good and bad, her stomach tightened instinctively. Small reminders, little twinges. Deep breath. She shifted, catlike and trying her hardest not to bristle. She wasn't the best at it. The front door to the strange store opened and the sunkissed woman with her rolling voice was inviting her inside where the air was cool, sweeping out over her face and hair.
For a moment Dinah stared, she didn't need to speak the language to understand what she was being told. Curiosity sparked, old acquaintances that hadn't spoken for some time. Okay, maybe just a glance around would be fine. Just to sate her interest. A tick. An inhalation and she was slipping beside Mari into the brisk indoors of the strange shop. Instantly her trapped breath escaped her as her eyes adjusted to everything around her. There was so much. Lifetimes and lifetimes stretched out before her eyes. Art, glass, books. There was a scent under the chill, somewhat like the dilapidated house she and Beck were staying at--aged wood and paper, but it was only an undertow, not what made the place, because what lingered to and fro were whiffs of cinnamon, anis...and of course myrrh.
"When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh." She whispered under her breath from memory, one of the few joyous phrases she could repeat by heart--the scent brought it on; it was burned so much around Christmas that it soaked through the pillars of Crossroads Church and lasted through February until it, too, faded away into the dust.
"...all of this is yours?" She finally asked stepping forward to look down through the glass of a counter at all the glimmering knick-knacks and what nots.