In one hand, Vicka held the handle of a little pot with a hole worn in the bottom. She looked like a child in her late husband's coat, which was sized for a taller, wider human man. She had a kerchief tied around her head, and the hem of her dress was wet and sooty from the street outside her flat. Vicka stood at the door of the Kettle Black, and knocked loudly, once or twice, before letting herself in.

"Hello?" she said, poking her head through the doorway and neatly settling herself on the other side. She nearly choked on the fumes, raising her coat sleeve to shield her nose and mouth. "Helloooo. It's me, Vicka. My pot's worn clean through again. Just need a little mending is all."

This would be the fourth time, Vicka thought to herself, sighing. She hoped that she'd be able to squeak by--she had precious little in the way of money these days.

By midafternoon, Jeremiah Spindle was up and running through his day. He'd been running through it for so long, in fact, that it was almost time for him to stop running and take himself a lunch. He wasn't quite sure where his husband had gone off to-- these days it didn't rightly matter, as all he would do was snarl and snap and scare off any poor soul who happened to step over that threshold.

So when Vicka stuck her head through the doorway, Jer was just about ready to start on the rather simple lunch he'd managed to fix himself-- just bread, cheese, a bit of meat and water. (Never could it be said that Jeremiah fully understood the inner workings of a kitchen.)

"Vicka?" If this wasn't at least the third time that girl had come 'round asking about that pot. He almost wondered what she did with it, to wear it clean through so often. Best not to ask, he decided. He stood and pushed himself away from his workbench, leaving the bits of his lunch behind.

"Vicka, if I fix that pot there for ye again, won't be much of the old metal left."

"I know," Vicka sighed. She grimaced at the worn old thing. "But . . . if you could save it . . . I would really appreciate it, Jer."

She tapped the metal with her fingernail. She didn't have to say it out loud anymore; this pot was one of the things she'd managed to save from the Little Bell, from her wedding chest. Vicka remembered how her mother obsessed over that chest, pleased that her little girl was marrying a respectable man with an occupation outside of a factory.

"Not the least 'cause I don't have the cash to put up for a new one," Vicka said, shrugging. "I was hoping to work out a deal. You know how good I am about burns an' such."

Jer sighed. He did understand. He'd known Vicka, he'd known that whole family, for just about ever, it seemed. He was old enough to be Vicka's pa, old enough to remember when she was no more than knee-high to a grasshopper. That old pot was important to her, sure enough.

Jer extended a hand to take the pot from the girl. Nothing was said or acknowledged about the offer of repayment, though he believed Vicka to be as good as her word. He didn't like charging her for something he did so often, and at so little trouble. Vicka was near as close to family as anyone could be to Jer, and you just didn't do that to family. Or even daughters of what he considered to be friends. Next time, he vowed, if she brought that battered thing in, he was going to just make the girl a new one. If this thing was important enough to her to be brought in time and time again, it should be kept safe.

Vicka smiled. She passed the pot over to Jer, grateful. She'd known this wick all along her life and she felt not a little guilty about shorting him--but if it was reversed, she would probably let him slip by too.

"Thank you, Jer, ever much," she said. "Anytime you need, night or day. You know where I live."

She pulled Cal's coat around her. After a moment, she said, "It's been slow, all along the week. My landlady is explodin' about the rent. Good Lady. It was never like this."

Another thing she didn't quite have to say: it was never like this when Cal was alive.

"Where's Cai? He out?" she asked, changing the subject.

Hunh. Where was Cai, indeed. Jer shook his head. Hell if he knew. Jer made a noise halfway between a grunt and a snort. Cai was in and out all the time, these days, pissier than a bear in a trap. And more like to bite, too. It wasn't his favorite topic of discussion, but Vicka had known the both of them so long... Anyone who'd known that man for more than a week knew this was unusual behaviour for him.

Vicka was dancing around subjects, too, so Jer just shook his head. "Don't matter much," he said, in reference to Cai. "Ye been takin' care of yerself?" He set the broken pot down on his workbench, tearing his bread in half and wordlessly offering some to Vicka.

She sighed and took the bread, tearing it in two again. Vicka nibbled on the smaller piece and shrugged.

"Getting by," she said, snorting. "I expect to lose some weight before the rainy season is done. Just the way of things, I suppose."

Vicka paused. She looked at Jer, hesitating a little. "I've been thinking, Jer. It's getting so . . . I've been thinking about my da. You ran with a tribe for a while, didn't you?"

"Aye, that I did."

That was years ago. Decades, even. He'd been a young man, then, just married. Stupidly happy, too. Oh, he'd run with a tribe. Got himself a broken collarbone and tattoos to prove it. A bit of a smile pulled up at the corners of his mouth. Those had been good days. Whole world out in front of him, and Cai too.

Not like now. Everyone so jumpy, teetering on the edge of who knew what. Weren't nothing good, sure as sure. "Been thinkin' of leavin' our fair city, Vicka?" A bit of bread vanished into his mouth and he chewed it slowly, regarding the girl with no little concern and affection. Hard times were upon them. Him and Cai, they'd be fine, most like. Business was slower, but they'd been here as long as Vicka had been alive. They had some savings yet. But Vicka? She was a woman grown, to be sure, but Jer couldn't help but remember her as still a young thing.

"Y'know," he said slowly, around another bite of his lunch, "if ye ever need anythin'..."

"And you, too, Jer," Vicka said. "Anything."

She twisted the ring on its chain. "I know I've got you, and Cai. And everyone. But I haven't seen my da in two years now, or Harry or Tharc. Haven't heard a damn thing. I'm just thinking that . . . maybe I ought to join them, you know. But I don't know how to reach them, or . . . there are different groups, ent there?"

Vicka pursed her lips. "And I'm a tsat." She popped the rest of the bread in her mouth. Her shoulders loosened. "Thanks for listening, anyway. I'm just thinking a little as late."

"Aye," he said again, simply. It was true enough-- Vicka'd more than like be safter out there, with her fami, than here in Vienda.

But she was a tsat-- the both of them were. Born, bred and raised here in Vienda, it was sometimes difficult for Jer to imagine a life anywhere else. Dangerous and horrible as the city had become, it was still the only city he could ever really call home. It was different for him, though. He was an old man, too set in his ways to easily change. Vicka? She was young, no family to tie her down.

"You should." He gestured with a bit of cheese. "Gotta be a spoke in all of Vienda, ent there?"