Who: Rosalind Lutece and Jonathan Strange What: Matters of scientific inquiry. Where: Jonathan Strange's apartment. When: 3/19, evening. Warnings: A tale of two gingers. Status: In progress
If nothing else, Rosalind Lutece could congratulate herself this: she had certainly saved Jonathan Strange a good deal of trouble. Outside the bounds of Mr. Strange's curious little affliction, the winter sky was just as it had been for the last several days in Storybrooke, Maine. Orion's girdle was neatly arrayed in its usual row, sharing the heavens with its neighbor Taurus. Outside the event.
Inside the event, the constellations bore no great resemblance to the relative positions of Orion or Taurus, Auriga or Gemini. It didn't even require measurement by any other method; the human eye knew its business here. Whatever reality Jonathan Strange carried with him, he carried this piece for a surprising distance, if not entire.
The stars, but not the Earth. None but a piece, at least: this estate he spoke of, now carved off like one might excise a tumor. It was just Jonathan Strange and a faraway viewfinder into deep space now.
Rosalind waited while the shiny chrome lift rose up to the residence tower's top floor then released her with a pleasantly dispassionate ding. She lifted her new tool bag and a small metal cage into each hand, then pattered down the hall to the number that marked Jonathan Strange's door.
Buzzers were a more pleasant option than knocking; she was pleased that this reality had them. With the knuckles of one hand, she depressed the button to ring the bell.