certainly a woman's thought runs before her actions

[forthsofar]

Flowers, Rosie was quite certain, weren't supposed to grow that quickly. Not two days ago, the vacant lot she passed on her way to and from the Home had been exactly that: a bare rectangle of dirt, drab and a bit unsightly, host to brief skirmishes between stray cats and an occasional dumping ground for discarded cigarette butts and other trash.

Today--how changed it all was! The hard and dusty ground of the lot was now lush and vibrant, covered in a profusion of grass and clumps of the brightest pink wildflowers Rosie had ever seen. Even the air itself felt gentler somehow, sweet scents wafting on the breeze and the faint sound of bees buzzing from blossom to blossom. It's like a bit of Anterwold, plopped into Darrow, she thinks, feeling suddenly, strangely homesick for a place she'd merely visited. Somewhere in Lady Catherine's forest, a place like this must exist; a quiet retreat from the world, a glade or valley of unsurpassing beauty. Rosie wished she'd seen it, if only so she might compare it to the scene before her now.

Out of curiosity, or perhaps to convince herself that it's real, she brushes a hand against the clump of flowers growing closest to where she stands on the pavement--and pauses in surprise almost immediately. There, beyond the curve of the stems, Rosie can just make out a rich golden glow. Crouching down, she uses her other hand to part the stems further, peering through the gap at racks and racks of honeycomb.

Comments

[consummate_beta]

Lyall isn't sure he's seen this lot so full of vibrant pink before. It's possible that he's just not used to the way spring turns into summer - it's only his second summer here and he was very new at this time last year - but he's used to growth taking its time, particularly in Britain where it never gets quite this warm.

The sweet floral scent of it is overwhelming, with a slight undertone of -- something. (Darrow is full of somethings, things that aren't quite usual but that he can't define based on his knowledge of scents, either; it's a little frustrating at times, as his nose is quite good enough to determine one from the other, but he simply doesn't have the experience to catalogue them all.) He's paused, considering this, when he realizes that there's a girl, staring at something in the growth. In the middle of a vacant lot.

He should ignore her, but her intrigue combined with the strange suddenness and scent of the flowers catches his interest. Besides, she is quite young and he'd hate to leave a young woman in need of help when he could offer it.

"Miss," he calls over congenially, "are you all right?"

[forthsofar]

"Yes," she answers, looking reluctantly away from the mysterious scene in the flowers and up at the man who'd spoken. "Just awfully confused--have you ever heard of bees building hives in a flower field before?" With her free hand, she beckons the man over. "It's easier to show you than to explain, I think."

Perhaps it was just something Darrow's bees did; the city was odd enough already, having pulled Rosie and so many others away from their ordinary lives. Why should its insects behave any less oddly? As if in answer, a bee zipped past, a blur of topaz and onyx, and into the gap between the stems.

[consummate_beta]

Lyall isn't sure he understands the question, but he follows over, picking his way carefully so as to avoid crumpling the flowers underfoot. They're weeds, likely, not tended flowers, but as a creature a bit closer to nature than mortals, and moreover as a student of biology, he has a specific aversion to tromping through something that might impart use to the ecosystem.

"Goodness," he says, an understatement of an expression, and leans down further to push aside the flowers next to it. "You were very serious. I've never seen anything like it." He draws back to look at the flowers and their shape, growing in the yard. "There oughtn't be enough room..."

He reaches to touch the honeycomb, experimentally. If he's stung, it'll heal quickly enough.

[forthsofar]

"No," she echoes, "there oughtn't be." She thinks, again, of Anterwold, and the doorway in Lytten's cellar; somewhere else where the room it took up was unexplainably larger than it should have been. "You don't think it goes somewhere else, do you? Somewhere not in the city?"

Rosie watches him stick his hand through the opening, his finger brushing against the honeycomb as the bee, one cell over, buzzes warningly at the intrusion.

[consummate_beta]

Now there's an interesting idea. He tilts his head, both at the notion, and at the easy way the young girl brings up something such as a -- well, a wormhole, is what they call it now. A door that opens into another place.

Then again, Darrow itself is such a place, isn't it? Only one without doors, quite.

"I don't think there are many ways to get outside the city," he muses, "but if there were, they'd have to be quite hidden. Have you -- much experience with such doors?"

He lifts his hand away: he may not be bothered by a few drones attacking him, but a whole hive will certainly harm the girl. Funny, he thinks to himself, how long it's been since he's used those terms to actually refer to bees. "It's real enough, anyway," he adds, lifting his finger so that she can see the glisten of honey left behind on his finger.

[forthsofar]

Rosie looks at him in surprise. "Why, do you?" she blurts, perhaps a touch too enthusiastically. "I was in my neighbor's cellar, and then there was this...this doorway, and then I was in Anterwold, and there was a party, and then when I found the doorway again and tried to take Jenkins home, I was here. Well, in the park, not here with the flowers, but--" She stops, flushing slightly. She really did talk too much and yet say very little, as her teacher had once put it; another of her terrible faults.

She looks at the smear of honey on the man's finger, feeling a small amount of relief that neither of them are in contact, such as it is, with the doorway to the honeycombs. If it operated on the same principles as Miss Meerson's pagoda, it was entirely possible that it might have winked out of existence with the poor fellow's hand inside of it. How awful that might have been! "But why would anyone build a doorway just for honey?"

[consummate_beta]

He blinks at the very rapid explanation, which doesn't quite explain to him what Anterwold is, or who Jenkins is, but he does follow that clearly this young lady has been through a door to somewhere else, and then was dropped here when she tried to return.

"Not personally," he says, almost apologetic in the face of her excitement. "But there are theories, certainly, in my world. And I've met others who use portals where they come from. You were very quick to wonder if it went somewhere, you see." Normally he isn't quite so forthcoming with the details he notices in other people's speech, but she's a child, much as she may have experienced.

"And if I had to suppose, it'd be to hide it. Keep it safe from being stolen, and such, and be able to access their honey stores without having to go out in the open, too," he realizes, recognizing his own often odd work-arounds for being out in the sunlight for too long. "It is food, after all, and full of nutrients."

"Which brings up the question, what sort of creature would benefit from that, and be powerful enough to do it." He had a sort of idea already, but he was hesitant to jump to any conclusions here. "It seems we're partners in a mystery," he smiles and offers a hand. "Professor Randolph Lyall. It's nice to meet you, Miss...?"

[forthsofar]

"When you've tried to go home through one and not wound up there, it's hard not to wonder." Rosie hopes she doesn't look as disappointed as she feels, hearing that this Professor Lyall hadn't any experience of his own with something like the doorway to Anterwold--though the idea that he at least came from somewhere with theories about it was encouraging. Perhaps his world simply hadn't gotten as far along as hers had. There was hardly any shame in that; she hadn't even known such things were possible until that day in Lytten's cellar.

"'Partners in a mystery' sounds awfully like something out of Agatha Christie," she says, shaking his hand. "Rosie Wilson. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Professor."