"Don't bet on it," came a sarcastic voice from beneath the bar.

Rum Ginny's red hair emerged, a dusty puff-ball of frizz, and a moment later the rest of her face followed. She was smudged in a variety of places and holding an oily cloth. From beneath the bar came a barely audible, intermittent clanking.

"OY!" she yelled up at the rafters, causing everyone at the bar to wince. "PIRAN! NOT AT ALL AMUSING!"

Looking back at the new customers, she smiled beatifically. "Kids," she said, and shrugged, as though that explained everything. "Wet your whistle, kovs?"

"Um. Actually I was wondering if I might speak with...the owner or...whoever might handle...hiring. Someone told me you were hiring?" It came out kind of jumbled, but it was out there. Wendy steadied her heart for another rejection. At least if they were rejected here they could sit down for awhile and drink something. The red haired wick seemed nice enough...maybe she wouldn't even look at her funny when Wendy only ordered a lemonade instead of anything stronger. Wouldn't that be a pleasant surprise!

"It doesn't have to pay very much." She added quickly, and then blushed a little. She sounded desperate. She knew she sounded desperate. Wendy didn't want any pity (to her relief, she'd only gotten that for two or three houses-- it seemed humans were used to seeing others in need of work), but still the note of distress was in her voice. What the doctor had said had been running through her mind all morning, and she'd unreasonably jumped to the conclusion that he'd written letters all night just to stop them from getting work.

It had to be his fault...otherwise it was hers, and she wasn't ready to think about that possibility yet. A small part of her was wishing for Brunnhold no matter how much she wanted to pretend that part of her didn't exist.

Asking Art to carry glasses was a bit like putting a cat to work. Sure, the creature wasn't doing anything else except getting underfoot, sure he was graceful enough weaving his way through a crowd, dodging waving arms and sliding around legs, and sure he was heading in that direction anyway, but that didn't make it a good idea.

Like a cat, Arthur Gibbs didn't really have a concept of steady job, of responsibility, of 'should's and 'should not's. Like a cat, he also considered himself the center of the universe, and simply assumed that people would step out of his way, leave him a straightest-line-course from one spot to the next to get this over with quickly so he could go back to stealing sips and sniffs from bottles behind the bar when no one was looking. And like a cat, Art was also much smaller than the B&B's usual clientele.

That tray of drinks was doomed before it even hit his hands.

His eyes drawn to Ginny, Art lost all focus on the task at hand, and on the people surrounding him. There was a great clatter as he collided with the back of a man he would later call a giant, would swell up to incredible size [he wuz th' size ovva chrove an' smelled like one an' I swear'e roared!] to make his small gaffe and moment of stupidity seem less ridiculous.

The crash was followed up with a quick, loud stream of barely-intelligible curses, likely gathered from hours spent on the docks, from sailors lugging cargo. Art didn't look apologetic. He looked annoyed. Left to his own devices, he'd probably just sweep it all under a table to be done with it.

Ginny had fixed her green eyes keenly on Wendy as she made her shy request, and had not yet begun to mentally process what she had said before Art came crashing into her attention span, as he usually did. This time, he took several drinks with him.

Fortunately, she had opted not to use the glasses since Art and Piran had been there.

Clutching the sides of her head in frustration, she let out a muted mixture between a scream and a groan, her eyes rolling back into her skull. A moment later, she had reverted back to a calm and professional Ginny. Wendy looked important; the galdori features overrode her demeanor in Ginny's mind. She put on a blank face and motioned for Wendy to follow her to the back table, where it was less crowded.

A tall, thin man with the light hair moved into her spot, and looked sternly down at Art.

"Go easy on him, Phineas," warned Ginny. "He's just helpin'."

"Table three wants bread and ale all around," the man answered.

"Right," she said hotly. Apparently she did not appreciate his help, whoever he was. "In a moment. This lady's got a question."

Striding over to the empty table in the corner, Ginny sat down across from Wendy and eyed her levelly. It was relatively quiet beneath the staircase, as sound was deflected; the noisy bar seemed slightly muted, and the stairs blanketed the table in shadow. It was a good place to talk.

"I'm the owner," she said flatly. Young as she was, she didn't appear to be joking. Folding her skinny arms, she frowned thoughtfully. "Who sent you over here?"

Wendy followed, trying to keep the hope from her face. It crept onto it anyway, and the passive sat down looking particularly more hopeful than when she'd first come in. She adjusted her skirts, trying to look presentable and...human. The faces around her were alien and although she rarely noticed it any more every once in awhile it caught her by surprise all over again.

"Okay." Wendy said cautiously when Ginny told her she was the owner. Maybe the laws on humans are more lax than I've been lead to believe. And was that a bad thing? Half of her had immediately reacted to the thought in disgust and shock. How could the galdori have let their rule slip into something so ridiculous?

Her other half was cussing angrily at this one and cheering at the thought that the galdori government was falling. Maybe someday she'd be able to stop hiding.

Wendy took a deep breath. Her conflicted mind obviously wasn't a good place to reside in today.

"A woman named Miriam...she lives in um...these houses called the Painted Ladies...? I don't know if they're familiar to you..." Wendy herself had never heard of it until today.

Go easy indeed. Art stared fearlessly up at Phineas, his eyes too sharp, too narrowed, as he considered his next course of action. Preferably one that would result in not picking up the mess of drinks, mopping the floor, and offering an apology. The dawning of brilliance in his expression was probably enough to warn the man.

"...I'll get th'bread." It spilled out of his mouth even as Art ducked around Phineas, trying to stay out of the adult grasp. He wanted to grab the bread, and then listen in on Ginny and her new friends: they had a serious, important look to them, set up at the back table like that...

Ginny had looked strained, with an odd tinge of her own brand of hopefulness, but at the name Miriam she slumped slightly. Then, she seemed to remember something; her eyebrows raised slightly. Perhaps Miriam knew something, something about Fion, something about Stu...

"Miriam," she repeated. "Painted Ladies. Did she..." She leaned in, whispering. "Did she tell you...anything else? A message, maybe...?"

Without noticing it, she was wringing her hands.

Wendy didn't like that the girl was looking at her like the fate of the world rested on her shoulders.

"I--" She blushed a little, uncomfortable with having to dash Ginny's hopes, "I honestly think she was probably just trying to get me out of her house. There wasn't-- There was no message."

She shifted slightly in her seat, and her head was down. "I'm sorry. I really am just looking for work." The passive wished she didn't have to say that. Whatever the girl had been hoping for, she wasn't it. Wendy was never what anyone hoped for. She was just her.

Viator let the lassies discuss things; he sat slouched in his chair, neither hindering nor helping Wendy. She'd made her comments out his presence by the lack of all comment. He'd let her do as she wished.

His eyes drifted from the bar to the dark corners of everything. Was there some reason the little witch was the only one attending? He wasn't about to question her, but the lassie seemed barely old enough to own the scant curves she did. The world was dry, dry as his home was wet.

Alcohol made him want to set sail or bleed til he couldn't. Maybe it was best he'd not be getting any from Wendy...

He got the bread, at least; he hadn't been lying about that much, but it might just have been exposure to Ginny that left Art making concessions, agreeable enough, creeping out to leave the bread on the right table and then stealthily working his way over, around the corner from the Interesting Table.

Art was a sneak, but he wasn't a proper sneak. His skulking was half-rate at best, and sorely out of practice, nevermind the fact that his legs were starting to seem too long and his hands and feet strangely large and he was dropping things and tripping all the clocking time these days. He tried to stay mostly hidden behind the bulk of large men, so that the redheaded witch wouldn't spot him and send him back to the kitchen, but there was only so much he could do. Especially with Viator apparently looking over every inch of the place.

"If...if there's nothing here I suppose I could just leave..." Wendy mumbled.

Fion had started out walking to the B&B but her steps had grown longer and quicker, flicking her skirt up as her knees rose. Fion did not run places often. It wasn't the done thing. When she did, she ran like horse. Would have taken a road block to stop her.

She entered the Book and Bell with flushed cheeks, her eyes tracking the room for anyone small and boy shaped or even dog shaped. Her arms were aching, wanting to hug her boys. Being away had been difficult but only the last hour had felt truly unbearable.

"Boys? Piran, Arthur?" Fion called, not loud to the point of rudeness but still audible from a distance. "Ginny, are you in?"

Her head was flicking about like a whip, trying to catch hold of her son.