Overall, Oksana's temporary watch over the Pub had gone well. Nobody had 1) asked her to sell beer, 2) expected her to wipe anything and 3) assumed this was some kind of attempt by Maeve to train a new employee or, heaven forbid, a replacement (the threat of inheritance being the oldest in her godmother's arsenal.) For the most part the staff left her alone. There was possibly a blip of interest when the wine fridge arrived arrived and she booted everyone out while it was installed...but that a minor note.
(At least until Maeve saw exactly what the "wine" part entailed and got hold of her to yell about it in person. Possibly in three languages.)
The whole experience had been painless enough that Oksana felt comfortable returning to do actual business on the premises. Her business. She'd even thawed enough to get drinks for the table...although admittedly they came from the stash now hidden in Maeve's office rather than the Pub's menu.
Between the two filled glasses sat a flat velveteen box of the sort that held necklaces. One of Oksana’s hands rested possessively near it. The hard shine of her rings echoed echoed the box’s silver clasp.
If Cece were ambitious at all, she might have done her own reconnaissance on her possible mystery employer, but she wasn’t. She also wasn’t particularly leery, considering she all she knew was that this woman needed something reverse engineered. It wasn’t overconfidence or even a total lack of self-preservation (though she had both in mass quantities), but simple reasoning along the lines of: this was a small town full of weirdos. What could she possibly get herself into that would be even remotely surprising. Anyway, she’d been around Summerview just long enough to have caught wind of a handful of rumors regarding the remaining St. Pier sister, so at least she had a vague idea who she was meeting. Not that it really mattered much to her. What she was really here for was a free drink and a chance to give her brain a more complicated puzzle than the Minute Clinic billing department could offer her.
That was her one true weakness. Or. One of them anyway.
Speaking of the Minute Clinic, Cece arrived straight from work, still dressed for work. Her version of what that was supposed to look like anyway. As soon as she was through the doors of the Long Way Down she made a beeline for the small blonde woman with her eyes on the door. If surly-yet-chatty bookseller hadn’t already given her away with his description (alright, maybe Cece had done some light reconnaissance work), that whole air of expectancy gave her away. Without a word, she slid into the seat opposite Oksana, adjusting her glasses. “So. We finally meet.”
"Lucky us. Oksana, a pleasure." Oksana smiled and held out a hand in greeting. It was a surprisingly plain paw, given the rest of her: short, unpainted nails and the thin silver ring. "Thank you for coming, Miss – do you mind if I call you Cece? It'd been a lousy month; I'm somewhat ma'am'ed and mademoiselle'ed out at this point."
"And if I can impose even further…" Hand still out, she nodded towards the glasses. "Do you mind sweet drinks?"
“Likewise.” Cece leaned across the table, clasping Oksana’s small hand with her own spindly fingered one for a firm shake. “Cece is fine. No one’s called me Miss-anything since high school anyway.” And that had been a while ago. Formalities out of the way, she clasped her hands in front of her, elbows on the table with a glance at the mystery box in between them.They’d get there eventually, she supposed.
“Not at all,” she replied, reaching for the glass nearest her. She was a mostly shitty beer and boxed wine kind of woman herself, but if it was alcohol, she’d drink it. And after a long work day, something sweet sounded just fine. “But, I’ll be honest, you probably could offer me anything short of actual poison and I’d probably drink it.” Honesty was the best policy when entering new partnerships, wasn’t it?
The silver around Oksana’s finger pulsed a quick, informative rhythm. In the back of her mind there was a brief bloom of vines of and a mineral tang: witch and earth. The former she’d known coming in and latter was a pleasant reassurance.
“I’m old fashioned; no arsenic until the third date,” Oksana smiled, letting go of Cece’s hand. “The wine’s something of lark from a colleague. He inherited a plot of haunted land back in the ‘50’s and has been trying to squeeze wine out of it ever since.”
The wine itself was an autumnal, ginger-y orange. It had the scent of a gilded fruit basket. In the mouth, though, it was – cold. Startlingly, piercingly, thrillingly cold: like a peach sculpted out of fresh snow. The coldness was surprisingly painless.
“Do you mind telling me a little about yourself? Godawful cliche, I know, but…” Oksana spread her hands: aw, shucks, what can you do? “You’re not from Summerview originally, I understand.”
“How romantic,” Cece said wryly, lifting the glass to her lips for a taste of the mysterious liquid within. Truth be told, save for a few poisons she knew how to make herself, she wouldn’t know the difference anyway. But you only lived once, right? And she preferred to live dangerously. Sometimes. She was pleasantly surprised by the flavor--surprisingly peachy--but the cold was a surprise, Like she’d just chowed down on an entire tin of Altoids and then walked outside on a sub-zero day for a breath of fresh air.
“Oh wow. My compliments to the vintner.” She knew absolutely nothing about wine, but whatever that was, she liked it, which was really all that mattered in the end. Setting the glass back down, she steepled her fingers in front of her. Of course, it was an expected sort of question. This was essentially a job interview, in a way, was it not?
“I’m not. My aunt and I arrived from Baltimore a little over six years ago. I lived there all my life up to that point, and probably would have died there as well but,” she paused, wrists rotating in a similar noncommittal, palms-up gesture to the one Oksana had made a moment before. “Things happened.”
"They tend to," Oksana said genially.
"My vintner friend fancies himself an alchemist." Pretentious weirdo that he was. Unfortunately, there was only so much you could argue with a Fae who was older than electricity. "He didn't just make the wine; he made the vines."
She took another taste of wine then, resolutely, pushed her glass towards Cece. Her expression stayed pleasant.
"Undo it, please."
“It’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? One way or another?” Either something happened that made one afraid enough to uproot and come to a sanctuary city, or one’s family had set down roots in a place like this some time ago to avoid having things happen. Same idea, different methods.
Aha. “Smart. Easier to get the plant to do what you want when you create it from scratch.” Still, all things had a beginning point. Plants weren’t invented like technology. They had a basis in nature that could be tweaked by magic. Humans had done their fair share of attempting to achieve such results through science, but only magic could do something like the beverage she’d just experienced. “This is my bread and butter, though,” she added, lightly. It wasn’t ego, that wasn’t her thing. “Give me a minute.” She signaled a passing waitress for a glass of water, and took another sip of the strange wine, this time savoring it in a way that went beyond what even the most experienced sommelier might do. When the glass of water arrived, she swallowed, took a stack of napkins from the holder on the table and poured a bit of water over it--a plant needed a base to grow or the demonstration wouldn’t be worth spit--and held her hand over the soggy napkin pile, eyes closed as she concentrated on the strange configuration of the grapes that grew on such a vine. After a few moments, a small vine began to sprout on the napkin. It reached about a foot high before she sat back, sighing, honestly a bit exhausted.
She adjusted her glasses, heaving a breath. “I’m going to need some fries now.” Usually she just started a plant, didn’t usually grow it to near full size. That exerted a lot of energy, truth be told. But for the sake of proving herself, she’d gone a little overboard.
"Of course, my apologies. I should've had the food ready on hand," Oksana said with accommodating politeness. She waved a hand at a waitress, ignoring the look returned; Long Way was not the place to showcase with a cheery wave, but there was something to be had from being the owner's…whatever.
At least, there was enough of the something to warrant a pig-intensive Cuban sandwich and a basket of lava-hot chips. Fries, whatever.
Food and obliging tone aside, Oksana's attention was solely on the vine. She studied with a peaceful, academic curiosity. Out of the purse at her side came a slim glass stylus; Oksana used it to bend the vine one way then another, skated it down the stalk, tapped at napkins. She tapped the edge of stylus and it sharpened obediently, allowing her to make a tiny nick in the stem.
In the end, she sat back and rolled the stylus between her fingers. She had never, in the course of her examination, actually touched the vine herself.
"I think, my dear," Oksana said finally, "that you are worth a lot more than bit of bread and butter."
She smiled suddenly, all the bones of her narrow face lightening in welcome. "Tell me, Cece, what are you thought on candy?"
Cece shrugged dismissively, needing a minute still before she could argue properly. Magic manifested so differently from witch to with, it would have been impossible for Oksana to know that little trick would take so much out of her--though that probably should have been assumed, she supposed--but other than that. She could have been hungry, as she was, thirsty, required a nap, perhaps, or passed out completely (she’d seen that happen before) or a great number of other possibilities she hadn’t encountered yet. Usually she was glad she was one of those who simply got hungry though. Much easier to deal with.
She dug into the food as soon as it arrived, watching as Oksana picked apart her handiwork without concern. She knew it was good. Still, she shrugged again at the compliment, though now that she had a little more energy back after inhaling about half that Cuban sandwich, she managed an appreciative smile. “We’re an old line. It’s what we do.”
Candy was kind of a magic word for her. At heart she was about twelve years old half the time. Still, if the rest of this meeting was any indication, it wouldn’t be normal candy. “What kind of candy are we talking here?”
Oksana smiled at the old line. "I know someone who had a similar family motto."
And what the hell did it ever earn you, Dad?
In answer to Cece's question, Oksana tapped the box's lock with her fingernail. There was the brief sensation of pressure in the air and the soft, dark lid opened obediently to reveal a necklace.
It was a relatively simple piece as far as high-lux Victorian "Etruscan Revival " endeavors went: a quintet of gem briolettes alternating with golden drops engraved with 'vermicelli' detailing, all of it hanging from a dense gold chain.
"In 1889 a man called Franklin Nathaniel Crossly fell in love," Oksana said. "Not a very original exertion, sure, especially since the affection was mutual. Nothing duller than a successful love affair, hmm? The pair went on quite happily for, oh, seven years or so. At that point the bloom went off the rose or maybe a chemical imbalance darkened the mood - there are a number of theories, actually. One of them being a curse of melancholy. I think that one in particular was in vogue at the turn of the century. Whatever the cause, shit was sad. Dear ol' Frank, however, had the advantage of being one of the best Enchanters in England. He was determined to make his lover happy. He found rumors a potion from 13th century Persia. It promised - ” Oksana’s glossy mouth quirked “- to suffuse the heart in pure delight."
"The problem was, though, that the delight would only last during consumption of the potion. Aside from the simple discomfort of spending one every waking hour slurping a 600 year old pep smoothie, there was the issue of consuming vast quantities of magically treated ingredients. " Oksana raised her brows. "Obviously I don't need to explain the consequences of that binge. Still, Frank was in love and love finds a way."
"Enchanters don't do potions," Oksana continued. "We can't. And, being in my personal experience a remarkably stubborn bunch of snobs, we tend to avoid employing any in relation to our own works. But Frank - well, Frank was a special little hedgehog. He found the recipe, he found a witch to brew it, and he found to encapsulate the potion’s effects. Rather prettily too.”
She tapped one of the necklace’s four gems; it looked almost identical to the other three, except for a small hairline crack at its edge.
“This tidbit is the last remaining piece of the original Enchantment and the only surviving sample of the potion recipe. It got damaged in the late 40’s. Apparently something tried to eat either the original necklace or the owner, details are sketchy. Needless to say a properly restored piece would be of great interest to some.”
Storytime over, Oksana leaned back in her seat and laced her hands on the table. “Seventeen percent of the sale, post seller fees, if you recreate the potion. Twenty if you manage to do it before April.”
Well.
That was something. A magical candy necklace. Did wonders never cease?
Cece dipped a fry in a pile of catsup, considering for a moment. This would certainly be a real challenge. More interesting than whatever else she did in her day to day, mundane, not very exciting considering the circumstances of where she lived, life. And it was an opportunity to flex her potion making skills on top of her reverse engineering skills. Remaining sharp was never a bad idea.
“Yeah, alright,” she said after a moment. “You’ve got a deal.”