Who: Zipporah Bakst, Maggie Swinton What: A werewolf in need of a healer Where: A London shop When: 1 Dec, 1888 Rating: PG
Christmas shopping was ever more important now than last year. The year before she’d only had her (now former) in laws, her own relatives, Biddie, and Lucien to get gifts for and the latter two a step removed as they hadn’t been family. Now she was Lady Black, and chosing Christmas gifts for a much larger selection of people, some of which she’d had no idea even existed a few years before.
“As you can see Milady the goblet has an intricate design...” Maggie wasn’t interested in getting a closer look at the silver trinket, but the design appeared to be just the sort of thing Lucien’s colleague Mac would love. But the clerk was so wrapped up in the potential sale that he’d not caught on to the fact she was trying to keep her distance from the item in question and all but shoved it into her hands. “If you look closer you’ll...” the clerk abruptly stopped talking, the goblet shoved back at him as Maggie tried not to scream from the pain.
Zipporah had been perusing the market with a mixture of envy and shrewdness -- she took note of what she was drawn to, or wished for, with the notion of looking for where she might purchase similar items for far less expense elsewhere (although the quality wasn’t assured), but it still gave her plenty of ideas to aspire to.
She’d still no notion of what to get Peter beyond the bracelet she’d commissioned for him. She supposed that was plenty, but she would have had it made even if it weren’t the holidays, and she knew the English put a great deal of stock into their gift giving around their Christmas.
She’d been wandering past the booth with a selection of what looked like pewter and silver plate when she heard a low, sharp cry and saw a sudden movement out of the corner of her eye.
The clerk was stammering an apology, two spots of color high on his cheeks, his expression horrified, and the lady’s hands were already red and painful looking, and she herself looked to be near tears.
Zipporah’s instincts kicked in.
“You should not assume everyone wishes for to touch,” she said sharply to the shopkeeper. “Practice more caution in future.” She looked over at Maggie, tutting a little at her hand. “Are you quite all right madam?” She asked. “I… I am a healer by trade,” she continued, in a low aside, “and am familiar with the allergies of the silver, should you wish me for to provide assistance.”
Maggie waved off George, the pack member assigned as her bodyguard and package carrier for the trip into the city, as he moved to intercept the young woman who’d spoken up. A jerk of her head toward the clerk sent the large werewolf toward the man instead to settle the bill and keep him distracted.
She looked at the young woman, who appeared roughly the same age as her, and nodded even as she struggled to keep her composure. Silver hurt, especially on a body part as sensitive as her hands. Her experience with it since being turned was mercifully limited until now, but enough to know she didn’t want it touching her at all.
“That would be appreciated, thank you.” She managed, voice tight.
The sudden appearance of another man (she assumed he was likewise a wolf) was a little startling -- he looked quite fearsome, largely, she suspected, because he was worried over his friend, but he was sent off soon enough.
Zipporah nodded, and slid her arm through the lady’s, giving it a pat. “I believe the washroom has a sitting area,” she said, quietly. “It will be less crowded, and you shall be able to run some cool waters over the skin, which should help.” She bit her lip as they started walking. “I know it is uncomfortable,” she added, “but you shall heal quite quickly, so it shall be just a matter of minutes.”
Maggie made sure George had heard the young woman’s words, then nodded. It was hard to think about anything but how much her hands hurt right now, but the young woman was correct: she would heal soon. Advanced healing: one of the perks of being a werewolf.
She made her way to the washroom, the other woman following behind her. “I’m Maggie Swinton, you are?”
“Zipporah Bakst,” she replied, taking on that low, soothing tone she tended to adopt when with a patient. (She found the term ‘patient’ a funny one -- in her experience, the people she saw very rarely were patient, but often for good reason.) “We are very nearly there. I am sorry I cannot do much for the pain,” she added, “but I do not carry the opium with me on my person, and in experience, the wolves require a great deal more than humans do anyways.” She said the last in a low tone as they made their way through the crowd, Zipporah maneuvering the two of them around clusters of shoppers.
“Did any flake onto your hands? Are they…” she frowned, trying to sort out the right words. “Are they currently hurting as they did when you first touched the goblet, or is it aching, as a burn?” She didn’t know whether contact left sores -- but she did know that prolonged exposure to silver could contaminate the blood. She’d had to draw some of it out of Peter’s wound so that he could heal.
It was hard not to worry that this could be some elaborate trap, but it was likely paranoia about recent events talking more than anything else. Zipporah didn’t smell different from any other human, and the breeze was empty of that faint odor she associated with vampires. George knew where they were going and Maggie knew he’d be standing outside the wash room when they emerged, so there was comfort in that.
She concentrated on the other woman’s words and thought carefully about what she felt as they wove through the crowd. “Aching, I think. The goblet was well made, I don’t think anything would flake off. It better not for what they wanted for it.” The last bit was more of a mutter under her breath. They’d wanted a very high price for the object, and if the gift had been for anyone but a Sidhe she wouldn’t have considered it.
“Good,” Zipporah replied briskly. “That is good indeed. Some cool water will help for to ease the sting, and I shall attempt to purify the wounds so that it may heal more quickly.” She looked over at the woman with an expression of sympathy. “I am only sorry I cannot do more,” she added.
There was a line to the washroom, but when Zipporah explained they were only in need of the sinks, they were let in readily enough, and the attendant was good enough to provide a damp towel Maggie could wrap over her hands to ease some of her discomfort.
Once they were settled in the sitting room area, Maggie’s hands wrapped up in the damp towel, and a short prayer of cleansing said over them, Zipporah looked over at her expectantly.
“It should only be a few minutes,” she repeated. “Your body shall heal most quickly -- it is remarkable, truly, and a blessing indeed. A friend of mine, he was stabbed in the side with a knife dipped in silver, and the wound knitted after only a very little while. This shall pass most quickly.”
“Thank you.” With the prayer it became obvious the young woman was Jewish, though Maggie had no reason to do anything but take note of it. She hadn't run into many Jews in her life, and those had all been thoroughly assimilated into American and British societies and were nearly indistinguishable from the rest of their peers. Zipporah was quite obviously a recent immigrant.
She could feel the pain receding as they waited and she nodded at the other woman's story. “A knife dipped in silver? He's quite lucky then his wound wasn't more severe. But our healing ability is remarkable. It's one of many things that took getting used to, but a welcome adjustment.”
“He had me,” Zipporah replied, grinning, a proud tilt to her chin. “I pulled the silver from the wound, and his body did the rest.” She looked over at the other woman curiously, her voice pitched even lower as they spoke. “So it is new for you? You were wolf made, not born?”
“Four years ago I didn't know such things existed.” Maggie confirmed. She thought back to the attack that had claimed her first husband and their child, and had turned her into a creature of legend. A shiver ran through her when the fragmented memories came to the forefront of her mind. At least she'd gotten Luce as a result, so something good had come out of that horrible day.
“You must be very skilled to have helped him, did you always know about...special people?” She kept her voice to a murmur, not wanting to attract attention to them from the others using the washroom.
“Before I came to London, through rumors, mostly,” Zipporah replied, shrugging a little. “I lived in a very small village, and my grandmother, she was friendly with one of the Forest Folk, but otherwise, we did not have many exposures to other peoples. Since I’ve been here, though… I have seen many fantastical things.”
The woman seemed lost in an unpleasant memory -- Zipporah knew, from what Peter had told her, that there were some who were turned to wolf against their will, and she didn’t wish to pry. “But now,” she asked, gently, touching Maggie on the arm. “Now you have a place for to go? People who care for you? I know how much that matters,”
“‘Many fantastical things.’” Maggie repeated softly, as if to herself, and couldn’t help but give a little laugh. She could definitely relate to that statement. “I grew up in New York City, in America, but when I was little my father helped build the railroads out west and we travelled with him. The closest thing to magic I heard about were the dances and ceremonies the indians had.”
She looked down at the hand on her arm, then back at Zipporah and smiled, nodding. “Oh yes. It turns out I already was friends with one and didn’t know it. I’m a part of his family now.” And very, very happy to be a part of it.
“New York! Truly?” Zipporah replied, pleased. “I should like for to visit there sometime. I have heard it is quite astonishing. Although there is plenty to see here, I have been here five years and I still have things I have not yet seen.”
She imagined the west of America was not unlike the Steppes -- wide open places with nothing but sky and endless stretches of grass -- and the thought made her smile.
She patted Maggie’s arm. “And good,” she said, grinning. “That is good. I am glad you have landed well. And your hands, they feel better?”
“I'm sure the city has already changed beyond recognition since my last visit.” Maggie’s amusement at the description and fondness for her old hometown were clear in her voice and the smile on her face. “It’s definitely like nowhere else.”
She looked down at her hands at the question. They did feel better, and she cautiously unwrapped the towel to peek at them. “They do, and look better too.” Instead of being an angry red and blistered it now was smooth and bright pink, fading to match the rest of her skin before her eyes.
“Also good,” Zipporah replied, her grin widening. “I thought they would. Your body, it truly is a miracle. You ought for to be careful, putting on your gloves, the skin it is newly healed, and will be sensitive for a little while.” She nodded her head briskly. “I believe your friend, he will be worried if we stay too long?”
“He probably would be yes.” Maggie’s grin was a bit rueful, the idea of a bodyguard was something she was still coming to terms with. “I’m our pack Alpha’s mate,” she explained in a low voice, “and things have been a bit tense lately. It was decided that until everything settles down it would be best if I had an escort when I’m in the city.”
She eyed her gloves and decided to continue to go without until her hands fully healed. There was no use damaging the skin or making the gloves unsightly.
Standing, she gestured toward the door. “We ought to step out before he gets worried enough to cause a scene.” George was a good sort, but not the most socially graceful man she’d ever met.
“Well, then,” Zipporah replied briskly, standing, “We should not keep him waiting. And yes, it has been, hasn’t it?” She replied, shrugging a little. “I am glad you have your escort. I find them quite useful for the peace of mind.” She laughed a little “I would offer for to shake hands, except that would not be welcome, so you should excuse my rudeness? It was good for to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise.” Maggie smiled, more naturally this time. She opened her clutch and removed a calling card. “Thank you for the help, Miss Bakst. Please do keep in touch, I always enjoy meeting new people.” It felt wrong to call the other woman Zipporah on first meeting without her permission, even if it wasn’t your typical first meeting.
“I shall,” Zipporah replied, pocketing the card, and taking out one of her own. “And should you ever be in need again because of enthusiastic shop clerks,” she replied, smiling, “or should just want for some tea,” she added with a shrug.