I WANT TO BELIEVE

MARGARET BAKER / 29 / FLORIST born under a starless sky

[margaretflorist]

closed for: @ofhoneyblood location: the park time: early evening

“I keep thinking about getting a pet,” Maggie says, watching the pair of dogs excitedly sniff the air in front of them. She’s got one leash wrapped tightly around her hand, the scratching polyester buffered by her thick gloves. “I’m not sure I’ve got the stamina for a dog, but it’s nice to think about having another living creature in my house, you know?” She looks over at Bryce, a smile wrinkling the corners of her eyes. The park is quiet today. There are no seasons in Pleasance that don’t feel haunted, she thinks, taking in the skeletal trees with their frosted tips. Air blows out of her mouth in the shape of a friendly ghost. Everything is still. When she was younger, she was convinced Pleasance existed in a snow globe on some heavenly being’s favorite shelf. Now, she’s not sure it’s a heavenly being. The holidays have come and gone, a new year dawning in the same old town, and Maggie knows that the changing of a calendar has little effect on reality. Still, she’s hopeful. Optimistic, perhaps naively. She has a good feeling about this year. 

“Are you a New Years resolution kind of person?” She asks, turning her gaze forward again. She was glad to be spending time with Bryce. One of her own New Years resolutions was to stop spending so much time alone, to stop wearing a regular path on the streets of Pleasance, to enjoy her friendships as much as her mysteries. “Or are you one of those people unbeholden to time?”

[margaretflorist]

isabelleackermann·:

.

A gentle giggle leaves Isabelle as Maggie’s question comes out no doubt not as she intended. She shrugs her shoulders and smiles, obviously undeterred by the way the other woman asks her question. “Christmas is my holiday. I enrage some of my neighbors with how good my house looks. Like Deck the Halls, but less insane, and no Danny Devito.” Her father used to play the weirdest movies during the holidays, meanwhile her mother adored old classics like the stop motion films and Charlie Brown, leading Isabelle growing up watching both. Isabelle was enamored with the classics and the old ways, with an advent calendar and yule log and every old little trapping and trim that came with the holidays. Even a real tree for the main hall of the too-big-for-one house, glowing and visible from the front door. “What about you? What’s your holiday?”

Listening, Isabelle looked over the flowers intended for her family. It felt nice that someone set them aside especially for her, like someone cared just as much, even though she was sure Maggie had never met her parents or grandparents. They weren’t close in high school, which made Isabelle wish they had been. Maybe… Shaking her curls and smiling, she pretended her mind wasn’t wandering into what ifs and what might have beens. “Hannah’ll no doubt love your taste. You’re both practically attached at the hip as far as I understand.” She shifts the bag on her shoulder and remembers a paper she slipped in the night before, when she was groggy and staying up too late due to perfectionism.

“Oh uh, I drew you something, because of that last spooky story you told me. Well like, an artist’s rendition I suppose.” She gently slides across a pastel and charcoal drawing, one that has stained her fingers a rainbow of colors as she smudged and interpreted words that Maggie told her, the permanent gloss on it keeping her final image from being ruined by transportation. The visage of Edith Alby stares back, in Isabelle’s style of portraying her akin to Ophelia. “It’s got a fixative on it, so it won’t smudge.” She mentions, unafraid of touching the piece. Nervousness makes her bite her lip, hoping that Maggie would like it enough to keep it.

Maggie smiles, thankful for Isabelle’s understanding of her less-than-eloquent question. The smile only grows as Isabelle describes her decorating process, amusement lighting up her eyes. “Jealousy throws people into a rage,” she says, her smile widening. “I’m imagining the scene from The Grinch? Martha May’s lights cannon? You don’t have one of those lying around, do you?” Her smile softens as she thinks about her own holiday traditions. When they’d been kids, it was her and her sibling’s responsibility to decorate the tree, while their parents relaxed on the couch with hot chocolate, an old holiday record spinning in the background. Now, Maggie settles for a few garlands and strings of lights, the bare minimum for the Christmas spirit. “Christmas, too,” she answers. “Though I have to say I am impressed by your decorating dedication. I can’t believe it’s already December,” she says, shaking her head. “Time flies.” When you’re obsessing over a long-forgotten mystery.

A light flush colors her cheeks as Isabelle looks over the arrangement of lilies. Maggie knows how special flowers can be to a person, particularly when said flowers are involved in a ritual. She wants Isabelle to be impressed - which feels silly to even admit to herself - but more than that, she wants Isabelle to feel cared for. It’s clear these Thursdays are special for the artist. Maggie wants to respect that. Isabelle shakes her head, and Maggie wonders for a moment if somehow, the other woman was tuned in to her thoughts. “Oh, yeah,” Maggie says, a light laugh escaping her. She’s sure her friendship with Hannah is as obvious as the sunshine in summer. “She’s one of my best customers. After you, of course,” she adds, a nervous smile flickering over her mouth.

Isabelle digs through her bag, and Maggie’s eyebrows arch slightly. She isn’t used to getting gifts at work - or anywhere, really - but she surely isn’t going to turn anything down. Especially not one of Isabelle’s sketches. The woman slides the drawing over the counter, and Maggie can’t help but let out a gasp. “Oh, Isabelle,” she breathes, delicately picking up the piece of paper like the treasure it is. Edith stares up at the portrait, interspersed with flowers and lace. It’s haunting, yes, but beautiful. “It’s stunning,” she says, admiration practically radiating off of her. “This is...for me?” She glances up from the painting at Isabelle. Her heart stutters. “This is...beautiful, I...wow. Thank you.”

[margaretflorist]

captainxkj·:

x

“Missing,” KJ repeated simply. “It happens to Nessie too, you know. It’s a lake monster thing. There’ll be a few months of no sightings, and then, bam, she turns up in swimming pools, bath tubs, bottled water….” The joke had spiraled into ridiculousness, and he had to genuinely struggle to keep a smile from snaking across his features, for as much as he liked to pretend to be above it all. “I dunno,  though,” he added more soberly. “I worry about natural ecosystems and shit sometimes. We’ve been spared a lot of commercialization so far. Like, we don’t got a highway. But would they blink twice when they start fillin’ in sections of lake to make more parking spaces?” He sighed deeply, playing with a piece of frayed skin near his thumbnail. “Or even worse, fill it in and then don’t build it. How many years on that Community Center now?”

He chuckled, looking up once more to meet her gaze. “I mean, the microwave sucks, so it’ll be cold in the middle. But just bite around the edges; you’ll be okay,” he shot back, leaning into the routine. At the question regarding his parents, he knit his brow. “They’re good. Fine. I’m still over there all the time.” There was no distaste in this, just an observation, but the couple did really rely on KJ for quite a bit. Not that he minded, but perhaps it had not helped with the severing of the strings he had intended upon moving out. And looking up, he almost asked about her older sibling, but cut it back. Although the pair of them had fallen somewhat out of touch, KJ still knew better than to probe. At her offer, though, he shook his head ‘no’ perhaps too eagerly. “Nah, that’s all right. It’s fine, really. I couldn’t ask that, I mean. Uh…thanks, though. ‘Preciate it.” Nor did he want her to see the little card table he had set up to scribble on, or the wastebasket of still not recycled letter drafts.” He watched her prep the food, private worry clouding his features. 

“Got it,” he said hurriedly, taking the plate for the excuse to exit. However, in truth, having to leave his bag unattended was almost daunting, but Jesus Christ, what, was Maggie gonna pounce and rifle through his things? He sighed at his own addled mind.

Catching her gaze, however, KJ seemed to pause in place. He knew where her thoughts were turning because growing up, he had been privy to much of the whole happening. He had not asked R.M.R. about it, but that too was fear, of offending him, of losing this tenuous link they shared. He, had at point, intended to perhaps. But the utter gentleness he had read in their correspondence, he would refuse to believe the writer himself had done anything nefarious. Perhaps, then, he was just plagued by whatever strange force had disappeared the lost Gideon. Bad luck, a shadow that followed him wherever he walked and with whomever he talked, a disease of disappearing. He could not defend that assertion to Maggie.

“Uh, hey, I…uh…” KJ trailed off, finding himself too afraid to actually cross this threshold. “I know it’s probably rough for you in particular when it happens. That’s all.” This was a dumb diversion, a deliberate half-apology meant to cloud his true intention. “But…I, uh, I found some of my grandad’s old journals and stuff. If I find anything interesting about, you know, Gideon and all, I’ll tell you. He woulda been a kid when that started.” 

He snorted now, swerving again away from this stupid half-true offer. “Detective Dagny just sits around glarin’ at me all the time,” he quipped hurriedly, arranging the plate gingerly on the table. “But I’ll keep an eye out, yeah. Always do. Not much happens at Northwood I don’t see.” Also untrue. 

But settling uneasily into a chair, KJ managed an unsteady smile. “Well, good. Good. I haven’t heard nothing, and you can bet your ass he’d have done something by now if he…well, knew.” He shrugged, scratching at the back of his neck. “You weren’t, like, peering in any windows, were you? I think maybe he keeps the undesirable relatives locked in the dungeon.” This was a joke, but it came humorlessly, a new heaviness settling over him. “I’m glad you’re safe too. I’d…uh, I’d be real bummed if something happened to you.” This was about as close to sentiment as KJ could manage. He tapped a hand on the tabletop. “I just want you to know, Maggie, that if I…if I ever did or do something that hurts you, I didn’t mean for it to.” He added a phony specification. “Falling off the grid and all, you know? I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to make it up to you.” 

Maggie stifled a laugh, amusement glittering in her eyes. “Well, if she surprises me in the shower, you’ll be the first one I call.” She drew her lower lip in between her teeth in thought as KJ spoke of ecosystems and lake fillings. Maggie always held out hope that her small town would always remain just that, but even she knew that hope wasn’t always enough. She snorted when he mentioned the Community Center, an old abandoned disaster waiting to happen. She’d used to hang out there, sometimes, with people who were as inclined as she was to sniff out the truth. Now, it served as a monument not only to Hancock’s failures, but hers, too. “I think if they tried filling in that lake, they’d have a hell of a time,” she replied, shaking her head. “Townsfolk would probably have a field day, and I don’t think Edith would be too pleased either.” She spoke, as always, with the confidence of belief - but unlike conversations with others in town, there was no defiance laced between her words. She didn’t have to prove herself to KJ. At the very least, he knew her. Or he’d known who she was back then. And now, hopefully, he’d get to know who she was now.

She laughed, then, delight escaping her in waves. “Only good way to eat a Hot Pocket,” she replied, lifting her hands to her face and miming the activity. She gathered cutlery as he spoke of his parents, humming approval at the good news. She liked KJ’s parents. They were kind, like their son, with roots dug so far in the town she couldn’t imagine Pleasance without the Wakes, and vice versa. “Glad to hear it,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to give him a smile. She’d always harbored small jealousies, tucked deep beneath her tongue, over her friends who kept their families close. Maggie was aware of how large her house was, how empty. “If you say so,” she responded, half-shrugging. “If you ever change your mind, offer stands on the table. And,” she added, face lighting up with a grin, “one day I will take you up on that Hot Pocket dinner.”

She took a moment to gather her thoughts before joining KJ at the table, handing him a plate and silverware and a folded paper towel dressed up like a napkin. He started talking, and she instantly felt that swoop in her stomach, like the floor gave way from underneath her. Old grief, maybe, wrapped in shame. Little Margaret, clinging to ghosts. She released that initial reaction - she knew KJ didn’t pity her. It was kindness that moved him to speak. And - he was right. She’d been occupied by thoughts of her painted man, but some of that had been to avoid the thought of someone else - always, always someone else - being squirreled away by the darkness that lingered at the edges of Pleasance’s shadows. “Thanks,” she said quietly, pressing her mouth together into a thin smile. “I...yeah. I appreciate it.”

He spoke, then, of journals, and Maggie’s eyebrows arched. She tried to arrange her tone into one of neutrality, but it wasn’t as if KJ had brought it up without knowing her fascination with the stories; particularly Gideon. “Seriously? That’s...that would be awesome, KJ. I haven’t been able to get a lot of first-person accounts; this could be huge.” Excitement flushed her cheeks, a pale pink at the thought. It was as if Pleasance was finally rewarding all of her dedication, opening doors and discovering journals and laying them out in front of her, like a breadcrumb trail. Or a trap. “No rush, or anything,” she added quickly, “but if you do come across something, I’d love to read it.”

Maggie reached forward, grabbing a couple dumplings and sliding them onto her plate, grateful for the activity -- and the reason to keep her eyes away from KJ’s face. “Or the attic,” she replied, unable to resist letting just a piece of the truth escape from her. “But no,” she said, shaking her head. “No window-peering.” That was true. There hadn’t been any windows in the attic, nor in the hallway, none she’d peered through, anyway. “Just got to admire the architecture before booking it out of there. Didn’t see anything, though,” she said, shaking her head again, “that might be useful for Savannah.”

She smiled, soft, touched by KJ’s sentiments. “I feel the same way,” she said. It was true - they’d lived nearly their whole lives near each other. Even if their paths had separated slightly over the past handful of years, they were making an attempt to repair that now, weren’t they? He began to apologize, and her eyebrows burrowed together and rose, concern flooding her face. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” she said, placing her hand flat on the table near his. “Things happen. Life, or whatever. I’m just glad you’re here now. And,” she shifted in her seat, leaning closer, “I want you to know that we’re still friends. You can talk to me about anything. Clues and mysteries aside.” She smiled, slightly, hoping her humor translated. “I’m here for you. I know I didn’t check in on you as often as I should have after your accident, and for that, I’m sorry.”

[margaretflorist]

The small bell above the door chimes, announcing her entrance into town hall. The clerk behind the desk looks up, and Maggie’s quick to plaster on a smile. “Here for the museum,” she says, gesturing towards the small room that serves as a gallery. The clerk nods, saying nothing, and returns their attention to the book laid out on the desk in front of them. Maggie nods, pressing her mouth into a thin line, and marches into the gallery. 

She’d spent a lot of time thinking about her next move. For awhile, she’d seriously considered getting back into Alby’s mansion. The man in the attic called out to her, like a lighthouse beacon or a siren song, and she wanted so desperately to return. There was something else there, something she was supposed to see. It was as certain as the rest of Pleasance, a dark gravity that dressed her bones in lead. Sometimes, Maggie would stand on the sidewalk, eyes trained towards the trees that hid the estate. She’d gotten lucky once, escaping by the skin of her teeth. A part of her had gotten trapped in the attic that night, some sliver of her soul stuck on the scraps of canvas that made up her ghost’s face. If she was going to go back, she’d need help --- and that was what stopped her. KJ’s warnings over dinner - the alert staff, the cameras, Alby’s impermanent ignorance - had stayed her. Hannah knew, but Maggie would never ask her to put her life on the line. She could have tried to poke around the hotel and the resort, trying to find someone who knew more about Alby’s schedule, who could have shepherded her into the home. But word traveled fast in a town like this, and word was the last thing Maggie wanted to travel. It’d make it back to George, no doubt, but also KJ. Maggie didn’t want him to discover she’d lied to him. Not like this.

Margaret never considered letting it go. The man in the painting had become her close companion. She’d seen his face in the water of the bath, the glass of Beau & Kaye’s sparkling windows, the moment between flipping the switch and the lights coming on. His shadow followed her home. He watched her as she slept. Someone in the Alby family intended him to stay a secret forever, melt into dust or ash or nothing. Maggie had found him. If a piece of her was trapped in the attic, a piece of him had clung to her, slipped down the staircase and into the world once more. If she was ever to be free of him, she’d need to give him the gift of his name. The library had been a bust -- but the museum held some hope. She doubted anyone in the Alby family would have allowed anyone outside of Pleasance to paint their portraits. All she needed to do was find a matching signature, and the next part of her path would align.

She starts at the beginning. She’s the only one in the gallery - a room barely big enough to garner such a title - and she plans on taking her time. One by one, Maggie stands in front of the paintings hanging along the walls. She studies the brushstrokes, the style, the details of the clothing. The first one has a signature with wild flourishes, the second holds no people, the third is a still life she’s sure was done by a child. None of them match the small scribble in the corner of her shaky painting. She can feel her frustration growing. It’s slow-going, this investigation, and she’s growing hot and uncomfortable in all of her layers. But she can’t give up. He’s there, just out of sight. He needs her to find this, and she needs to find this. She has to find something. She has to. 

By the time she reaches the last portrait in the gallery, her cheeks are flushed and her palms are sweaty. She gives it a cursory glance, expecting failure, when suddenly -- the details on a jacket match his. The brushstrokes of the background have the same sweeping motion. She takes a step back. This is similar. It’s the closest she’s gotten all day. Underneath the portrait, a small caption reads: “Mayor Warren and Arthur Cornish-Alby cut the ribbon for the opening of the Town Hall. Cornish-Alby is with his wife and three children.” She looks back at the picture. There they are -- two young girls, seated primly in pinafores, and a young boy. His face looks out at Maggie. She swallows a scream. It might be him, it might not be. But it’s a start. Her eyes rove over the rest of the painting, searching, searching -- there. The signature in the corner looks exactly like the one she’s been studying for weeks. She lifts her phone, just to be sure, and confirms. Leaning in, she gets as close as she’s sure security will let her. 

F.D.

Frederic Deblanc.

Almost there, she thinks. We’re almost there.

@phqextras

[margaretflorist]

jamiehellstrom·:

 maybe  jamie  shouldn’t  have  disturbed  her.  the  way  her  head  shot  up  made  him  think  she’d  been  deep  in  thought.  maybe  he  should  have  left  her  alone.  he  was  always  contemplating  this  when  he  tried  to  approach  people  in  public.  he’d  changed  a  lot  since  high  school,  when  he’d  done  his  best  to  be  the  golden  boy.  when  he  could  approach  anyone  and  feel  nothing  but  confident.  now,  he  barely  felt  collected  at  all. 

 ❝  what  is  it  you’re  looking  for?  maybe  i  can  be  of  some  help.  ❞  he  says,  gesturing  to  the  books.  if  there  was  anything  he  was  good  at,  it  was  extracting  needed  things  from  books.  he’d  been  doing  it  all  his  life.  he’d  been  writing  them  all  his  life,  too.  it  was  the  one  thing  that  truly  brought  him  happiness,  going  over  and  over  words  and  making  meaning  out  of  them.

 ❝  oh,  i’m  just  killing  time  before  work.  going  over  some  works  of  art.  i  suppose  it’s  my  own  form  of  research,  though  it’s  not  for  anything  other  than  my  own  gain,  so  what’s  it  really…  ❞  he  trails  off,  feeling  himself  going  into  a  self-hatred  spiel.  he  usually  got  into  that  mindset  when  he  thought  about  his  own  art  or  poetry,  and  now  was  no  different,  so  he’d  just  stopped  talking  about  it.  he  did  this  with  jules  a  lot.  he’d  just  go  quiet,  even  though  he  trusted  her  the  most  in  this  world.  

 ❝  anyway…  what  are  you  working  on,  if  you  don’t  mind  my  asking?  ❞

she smiles, slightly, at his offer. she wishes it was that simple, that he could walk over and pluck the clues she needs from the pages like fruit from a tree. she isn’t sure what he’s thinking of - if he recognizes her, if he knows her, if he’s suspicious, at all, of what she’s trying to glean from the books in front of her. maggie knows she walks through town with the word believer stamped on her forehead or floating above her in neon writing. she doesn’t know what jamie thinks of all the stories - of pleasance or of her. she shakes the thoughts away, feeling self-centered and self-conscious. most likely, he isn’t thinking of her at all. most people think of themselves, their lives, their own inner mysteries.

“i was just trying to get some information about the history of this town, but, you know. everything’s all wrapped up in myths. none of the good stuff gets written down.” she shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant. she’s hesitant to even drop the name alby, afraid that the sound will bound across town and ring in his ears and give him a hint of what she’s done. “but if you want a break from your own books, i don’t mind the company,” she adds, offering him a small smile. she doesn’t want to be rude, and she means it. conversation is a welcome respite from her own inner dialogue.

he speaks of art, and her eyebrows arch. an artist! she wonders if he’d know anything about local artists, perhaps in history - she keeps meaning to ask isabelle, but the thought of reaching out to the painter makes her more nervous than she’d like to admit. “no, no,” she says, quickly jumping in to the end of his sentence. she’s been there before. her plays, the other gem of her life, can send her into a spiral faster than anything else. “i get it. but, you know. your own gain is a perfectly good reason. helps hone the craft, or whatever it is they say in mfa programs.” she tilts her head. “do you paint? or something else?”

at his question, she looks back at her books. “my own sort of research project,” she says, twisting her mouth to one side. she exhales, shaking her head with frustration, turning back to face him. “it’s not going well,” she says, a wry smile lighting up her face. “i was trying to write a scene. for a, uh, play.”

[margaretflorist]

maragoransson·:

With Maggies quiet claps force Mara to quickly cover her mouth with her hands. The laughter is coming freely now, as tears slowly begin to form at the corners of her eyes. “Oh god.” She can feel the other people watching them, and her cheeks immediately go pink from the slight embarrassment from the confused gazes. “For a second there, I forgot where we were.” It is a nice change from otherwise darker thoughts that surround Pleasance, which is why Mara adores Maggie. The girl always brings something out of her that makes her forget, even for a second. “Oh, Ellie had a moment where she was really into the Pirates of the Caribbean. So we learned the song so we could sing it, and also sing it to sleep. You don;t want to know the amount of times I had to see it and sing it. It is burnt into my brain forever. You play that at my funeral too.” It wasn’t a thought to dampen the mood for either of them. Simply, she felt that the two could talk about anything, even if it touched their deaths. There were times over and over where the two of them would discuss the most incoherent things. Especially after reading or watching about a serial killer and his techniques. Once they passed that - there was no going back. 

Her eyes quickly catch Maggies gaze, even though she is smiling, she can feel that there is something else that’s bothering. Slowly, she slides off the table, taking up the chair that’s next to her. But instead of words, Mara offers a reassuring shoulder squeeze. At times, words simply didn’t do justice, at times, there were things people did not want to discuss certain things, and Maggie looked like one of those people. Instead, she nodded her head, a silent way of telling her friend she won’t intrude. “Right, down to business and definitely the deep stuff, huh?” It is an effort to slightly lighten the mood, to get her friend’s head out of the space that bothers her. “Well…” Her thoughts drift to her ex husband, only for a split second. Even with everything, she never ripped off his pictures, never tried to make him disappear, no matter how hard it was; seeing his face around the house. “I think… Emotions. They control us, don’t they? I would do it… If I wanted to erase a memory of a person.” This time, her thoughts drift to her own father, who is still in Pleasance, yet there is not a single picture of him at the house - or anywhere. “If someone hurt me so much, at the moment, I would rip their picture apart, not wanting to see their face. It’s the old days, photoshop, isn’t it? Destroying the evidence that someone was there?” 

Her eyebrows raise slightly as she looks at her friend. So beautiful, kind and intelligent. Mara found the goldmine in having people like her - close. “We can dream, but we won’t get that. We’re just going to have to continue walking down blindly.  And hope we don’t get slammed into a wall.” So far, the both of them did well. “I turn thirty-eight in December. I think your sarcasm in going in the right direction.” She grins, knowing full well that there was no sarcasm in Maggies voice. 

//

Mara’s laughter brings tears to her eyes, and Maggie’s giggling feels wild to her. She forgets, sometimes, how nice it is to laugh with a friend. Her whole body has been tight for what feels like months, joints icing together with the winter chill, but here with Mara she feels herself start to melt. She glances around at the other library patrons, their looks ranging from curious to stern to annoyed. They all roll off Maggie’s back like water. She leans in towards Mara, laughter still escaping out of her like bubbles. “I think they should be thanking you,” she says, her grin splitting her face like a sunrise. “That was the best thing I’ve seen in weeks.” Light dances in her eyes, images of Mara and Ellie dancing around their living room like pirates warming Maggie’s heart. She tucks that thought away to pull out next time she sees Mara’s daughter, wondering if there will be a repeat, duet performance. “Scouts honor,” she says, lifting three fingers in the air, another laugh escaping her. Death, like humor, lurks in all the dark corners of Maggie’s life -- and all the bright spots, too. Besides, she’d spent many nights at Mara’s side, dissecting a serial killer’s tactics, criticizing their mistakes. “That was brilliant,” she adds. “Thank you.”

Mara stands from her side of the table to come sit next to Maggie. When she nods, Maggie feels a sense of relief. It isn’t that she wants to keep secrets from Mara; she wants to keep Mara safe. She wonders, for a moment, if this is how Gideon’s friend feels - careful with the people he approaches, knowing something lurks around the corner, waiting to devour their denial. It isn’t often she thinks of the man responsible for her father’s disappearance, but lately, she’s starting to understand how he feels. She, too, is simply drifting, thinking of the man in the photo, long gone yet fresh in her mind. “Definitely the deep stuff,” she agrees, not wanting to shut out her friend entirely. Mara speaks of emotions, and Maggie nods slowly, taking in Mara’s intelligent thoughts. “They do,” she muses, thinking of all the anger she’s harbored over the years. She scribbles a few words on the page in front of her - pain, anger, betrayal, grief - and then adds a question mark after the last word. “Yeah, it’s definitely the sort of thing you couldn’t take back, once it was over.” She draws her lower lip in between her teeth in thought. “And once you destroyed it, would you...hide it away? To forget about what you’d done?” She glances over at Mara. She knows she’s making very little sense, she knows she’s being vague, but she can’t stop. It’s a dangerous line she’s walking.

Her expression softens into a smile. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad to be walking blindly with you.” She leans over, nudging her shoulder against Mara’s, hopeful that her genuine gratitude is radiating off of her. “That’s right,” Maggie replies, her face lighting up. “What are we doing this year? Big party? Fancy dinner? What’s on the docket, young lady?”

[margaretflorist]

nparekh·:

She smiles when Maggie compliments her ability to be comforting. At least she knows she’s doing her job, though it often poses a chicken-or-the-egg question sometimes: Had she always been a good listener, leading her to pursue a job which requires her to listen, or had she simply been trained to do so? Either way, her purpose is maximized. That’s what matters to her in the end. 

“People we know… sometimes we don’t really know them at all.” She shrugs. “That sounds ominous. What I mean to say is… well, we can’t really know what to expect. You see those people on the news, friends and family of convicts, who’ll look at the public in the eye and assert that ‘They couldn’t possibly have done this! They were such a kind person!’ We never know what’s truly going on inside people’s heads.” She flips turns the table on herself. Does that mean her whole career is nothing more but an industry built on capitalizing on people’s pain without truly making anything better? 

She’s sure there are bigger things to worry about. 

“It’s okay. It is a small town. We don’t get a lot of these things, do we?” She smirks, then, like she’s sharing a private joke with the florist. “Anyway, can I expect you at my mother’s birthday party? You know how fond she is of you.”

Maggie shakes her head, her lips pressing into a smile. “You know I like ominous,” she says, a lilting tone lightening the truth of her statement. Her smile softens as Nadia speaks, and she nods. Nadia’s right. People were small mysteries, each one of them the main character in a very complex interweaving of stories. Maggie knows firsthand what it’s like to defend someone to the public -- as she’s sure anyone in Pleasance knows. The town was built on mysteries. Some of that had to have seeped into the water. “You’re right,” she replies, eyebrows arching as her head bobs in agreement. She thinks of the attic, the man in the painting, the hands that had torn him apart. Would she ever know what was going on in that head?

She shakes the thought away, letting out a laugh at Nadia’s pointed statement. “No, no. You know us,” she says, a grin sliding over her mouth, “we love a good story.” At the mention of Nadia’s mother, Maggie grins. “I wouldn’t dream of missing it. Are you kidding me? I hear the floral arrangements are going to be spectacular.” She slides a rose out of the barrel. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good gift. What do you think she wants?” Maggie gestures with the rose towards Nadia. "What are you getting her?"

[margaretflorist]

captainxkj·:

x

“If I can find her. Northy’s missing. She must be down at the bottom. All the ruckus and shit, you know?” KJ replied with such utter nonchalance that one could believe there really was a monster dwelling the tides of Northwood Lake. He discussed it the way one might remark on the weather, casual reality in need of no further elaboration. Still, he appreciated Maggie humoring him; he looked up with a spark in his eye, managing a laugh at the inside joke. And for the moment, there was something like promise, a return to the way things were. Still, the weight of the bag at his feet tugged him abruptly back to the depths, into the gloominess of guilt.

“It’s really not. I don’t deserve any special treatment,” he managed with a sigh, swallowing hard. He had meant the words lightly, a self-deprecating joke, but they carried with them a clear heaviness, one that he hurriedly tried to tuck away. “What I mean is, if you came to my place, I could maybe let you sit in one of the camping chairs and make you a Hot Pocket.” He rolled his eyes, largely at his own incompetence, as he watched her cook, but his little apartment really was a shambles. Piles of moving boxes still sat around waiting to be unpacked. “I lived with my folks too long. I’m glad to be out, but I’m not a homemaker.” He shrugged. “But, no, he abso-fucking-lutely wasn’t. He might dive in if I, like, sunk the yacht or something, though. But I don’t wanna talk about him. It smells good, Maggie,” he added, catching the lightness here and willing it to color the rest of his chatter.

Still, the feeling could not last. Maggie began to talk of suspicions, of paranoia, and although there was no way of her knowing, he felt, suddenly, as if she were directing it in his direction. He stiffened, biting on is lip. “I mean, there were a lotta of outsiders there, I think. Maybe it was one of them who…I don’t know.” He said this too hurriedly, an over-eagerness perhaps to protest his own innocence. “I mean, people keep saying shit like that don’t happen here. But it does. All the time. I know that. We know that.” And you know that because your father is among the disappeared. He tugged the bag closer once more with his foot, his heart thumping in his ears. “You’re a sleuth, right? You got any leads, or whatever?” A purposeful change in the subject.

“Near the house?” His eyes widened, though,  perhaps in genuine shock. “Shit, Maggie. I don’t even go near the house.” He eyed her with curiosity, as if trying to uncover more of the story in her expression alone. “They didn’t, right? No one, like, saw you prowling the grounds?” Asking this, KJ stood up, pacing a bit in place. He leaned on the counter and planted himself. “The resort has security cameras. So they’ll find whoever it was eventually. I think it was an insider. They knew where to hide their face. Someone must have tipped them off.”  KJ was talking out of his ass again; and in truth, he had the sense the whole towel caper was largely exaggerated gossip among hotel staff. But after a beat of silence, he dared speak up once more. “I got lost in the commotion too,” he offered softly. “They got us inside. You must have, been around the edges of the crowd, yeah?” 

//

“Missing?” Genuine concern colored Maggie’s voice. It might have been a small joke, one that KJ liked to carry around, but Maggie was nothing if not a firm believer. She pressed her lips together, mouth turning over in a frown. “Yeah, I bet. If we’re all shaken up I can’t imagine how she must be feeling, with all the commotion near her home and no one to explain it to her,” she replied. It felt a little silly, maybe, to joke about a missing mythical beast, but KJ caught her eye with some of that old, familiar light, and it felt nice. Almost easy, like things used to be. Then he disappeared. Just for a moment, but was enough. There is something else. She eyed him for a moment, but decided not to press him. If there was something clouding his mind, she understood. He would talk when he was ready. She hoped.

He joked about his house, and she welcomed the laugh that floated out of her, shaking her head slightly at his self-deprecation. “A Hot Pocket! Tempting. What are we doing here?” She joked, waving her tongs in the general direction of the steaming stove top. Her grin softened to a smile when he mentioned his parents, fond memories of their home cooking and warm welcomes floating through her mind. “How are your folks?” She asked, lifting the lid off the pan. The sizzling grew louder. She was pleased - they looked pretty good. “You know, if you wanted,” she said, lifting her voice to carry over the noise, “I could always come over and help you unpack. We could rummage around For Keeps, see if they’ve got any good deals on furniture.” Maggie moved around the kitchen with ease, grabbing a large dish and loading it full of dumplings. “You deserve a home,” she finished, handing him the plate.

“Let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells,” she said. She, too, didn’t want to talk about Alby. Not when everything is going so well. The curiosity burning in the back of her brain was outmatched by her desire for one, normal night. “Mind carrying this over to the table? I’ll be right behind you with some rice.”

He started talking about outsiders, and she paused, hand hovering over the lid of her rice cooker. She hadn’t considered outsiders. There were plenty, of course, having drifted in and out of Pleasance with the wind. Logically, she knew that someone from Pleasance could have been as easily involved as someone not from Pleasance, but there was a stubborn hometown pride. We don’t hurt our own, or something like that. She didn’t know if that made things better or worse. “We do,” she conceded, thinking of her father. There had been no search parties for Jonathan. He’d been a grown man, capable of walking out on his own, but Maggie always knew: a search party would never sniff out Gideon’s friend. She wasn’t even sure it was possible to speak with him unless you caught him outside, and he’d avoided her all her life, as if he knew what she would ask. She snorted when KJ called her a sleuth. “Unfortunately, no,” she said, scooping warm rice into a large bowl, shaking her head. “And Dagny’s not really inclined to let me help. It’s official business, and I deal in unofficial things.” She imitated Dagny’s gruff voice, walking over to the table with an exaggerated frown. Her expression melted with a shrug. “But if you see something interesting, let me know. I’m always looking for clues.”

He sounded worried for her. That made Maggie’s stomach twist. She knew the Alby house was off-limits -- she’d been trying to get in there for years -- but the surprise in his voice served as a warning. She’d been dumb -- very dumb -- to take advantage of the chaos. She’d have to be clever if she was going to go back in. “No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I didn’t see anyone, and I don’t think anyone saw me. Alby’d probably have me in front of a judge by now if they did.” She moved to the cabinets to grab plates, grateful for the opportunity to turn away from KJ’s peering gaze. Security cameras. She wasn’t surprised, but it was a detail she hadn’t considered. At the very least, she was sure there were no security cameras in the attic. She nodded, turning back to face him. “Yeah,” she said, twisting her mouth in thought. “I was near the edge, when everything started. I just panicked. I’m glad you were able to get inside.”

[margaretflorist]

hannahyelley​:

✿

   “I think about how people will go their whole lives, without someone to understand them. And somehow, in the Midwest, in a town that floats in a bubble, I’ve found myself being given more warmth and understanding, then I could ever carry in two hands.” There is no baseless aggrandising when it came to respecting the full extent, of how dearly she treasured Maggie. Hannah knew herself to be difficult, odd, and rarely putting coherent words together - yet here the other stood, holding her like water in her hands. “Cracks are growing - I don’t want normal, mind you. But this - it isn’t right, is it?” The words were left at Jenny’s tree, but the sentiments lingered in Hannah’s chest, growing more fervent as they reclined back at Rise n’Dine. 

   Her heart wavers between excitement and trepidation - she’s an ardent supporter of Maggie’s adventures, and a deep, fretful worrier, over said adventures. Maggie was just so good, so kind, unbridled warmth and light. If anything was to transpire - Hannah can barely manage the thought, without pains in her chest. She’d break, simply. If a hair was ever mislaid, she would first storm, burn, then break. “A door in the wall, an attic!” She repeats the words, mulling it over in her mouth - trying to make sense of the phrases, put them to images, conjure it before her eyes. The house seemed a living being, unfolding itself when it desired to be found; it’d opened up to Maggie that night, for what designs? Hannah knew not. She thinks of Sonny too, and how it’d be easier if she could slide them all into her pocket - tuck everyone beneath her rough magic, and assuage the biting knife of Halloween night, still twisting. “I wonder why they built it like that - I mean, yeah, secret attic, duh! But it begs the question, what secrets, exactly?” 

   Hannah gently cups Maggie’s hand, steadying them both - the photo is somehow more potent blurred; the emotions that had swept over Maggie in the moment, preserved in a crisp image. She’s almost breathless, her eyes raking it over and over; the slashed face marred beyond recognition, but horrifyingly familiar. “Do you know him, Maggie? I would cast him as unknown, but for the warning in my heart - I know him, we know him, in some way. I’m not sure.” Falling into a bevy of pillows, she lights up another cigarette; her mind sweeping, but somehow stagnant. “What happened, after you found it? I mean, did you see anyone else, anything? Things walked, that night. Pleasance is shifting, I can feel it. But with the child gone….we’ve gone too far right. We won’t touch the other side, until this has all played out.” 

   She gives a small sigh, offering Maggie an honest, apologetic smile.“Rambling, I know. It’s just this air that fills my lungs, and I have no language to make it make sense, but I believe in it. Question is, what happens next? I’m no sybil, but the Yelley card’s tell me to hold fast onto what I love - something comes now, to tear at bonds.”  

//

Maggie knows Hannah worries for her. It is, she imagines, what comes with the territory of caring for Margaret Baker. It’s part of the reason why she keeps herself tucked away in the privacy of her home, or the store, giving everyone a kind smile and a friendly wave but not letting them in close. Not like Hannah. Hannah, who knows her so well it makes Maggie believe in past lives. She harbors a small amount of guilt, tucked neatly in the space between her ribs at all time, like a flower pressed between pages for preservation. Maggie knows what it’s like to love someone and lose them. But, truly, who in Pleasance doesn’t? It comes with the territory of being alive. She would no sooner give up her myth-hunting than she would the woman in front of her. Maggie is a woven braid of all she cares about. The best times are when they intersect, like now. Hannah breathes her amazement - a door in the wall, an attic! - and Maggie nods her head, eager and breathless and exhilarated to the brink of fear. She knows it’s dangerous, telling her secrets, but there’s hardly a thought that passes her mind that she wouldn’t share with the Yelley woman. “I know. I kept asking myself that same question. I mean, the whole house is locked up tight, and I’m sure Alby’s got all of his workers signing all kinds of NDAs, so why hide an attic inside an already hidden house?” Already, the urge to go back is strong. She swallows it. Not yet.

Hannah’s hands cup her own and she is grateful, not for the first time, for the steady feel of her friend. When Hannah asks if she knows him, Maggie goes to shake her head, but hesitates. “I don’t know,” she professes, twisting her mouth with confusion. She doesn’t know him -- the portrait is ancient, probably of a man long gone -- but Maggie is an expert in all the lost souls of the town. In a way, she does know him. She knows him now, certainly, having thought of his portrait torn to shreds at least once an hour. His ghost visits her in her nightmares, always around the corner, always shredded, always waiting. “It’s like, I shouldn’t know him. No one wants him to be known. But I...I want to. It feels right, somehow. He’s been tucked away in that attic, alone, without...” A face? A visitor? A name? “No one deserves to be forgotten so violently.” She takes another long drink of tea, thinking over the night. She shakes her head.

“I didn’t see anyone,” she replies, eyes staring down into the tea, as if the leaves would tell her otherwise. With a Yelley made tea, she half expects them to. “I got so spooked, I just ran. Didn’t even put the picture back where I found it. I just wanted to get out of there.” Again, guilt lances her like a spear in the throat. If she had been paying more attention, perhaps she would have seen someone hustling Savannah away. “Do you think they’ll find her?” It’s a question that’s been dancing in the shadows of Maggie’s mind. Her voice is small when she poses it, almost as if she’s hoping Hannah won’t hear her. Eyes lift from her tea to her friend.

A fond smile softens her face. “Wouldn’t be you without it,” she says, referring to the rambling. She loves the way that Hannah speaks. It feels like fluid poetry. At the question of what happens next, Maggie shifts in her seat, drawing her legs closer to her chest. “I’m not sure,” she replies quietly. “But it does feel like a reckoning of some kind. A lot of things are going to come to the surface.” She pauses, glancing over at Hannah, mouth curling upwards. “If it helps, I don’t think anything will tear away at our bond.”

[atticusmalik]

@margaretflorist​

location: next page

time: four-thirty pm 

   “I know what you’re thinking - Atticus, no one wants to hear you moan about Song of Achilles again. But god damn it, if I’m not buying it with this cover, and making it the next reading assignment.” Perhaps Atticus pines for the purity of love enjoyed by the protagonists - even through bitter conflict and death, their romance purists, tainted by nothing. Or maybe, he’s just one of those people, bound to inhabbit the same books, same movies, out a need for comfort; familiarity. Maggie wouldn’t judge him for either affliction, and it’s why he looks forward to bumping into her at the bookstore, and various book club meetings. “But you’re young! I’m sure you have a youthful pick for me. If it’s by someone whose name is hard to spell and Russian, I’ve read it. Or perhaps, an exciting tale of your own - tell me, what does a young florist get up to, on a Friday night?”  He’s only got a handful of years on Maggie, but Atticus has simply always been older; decades heaped upon his shoulders, making him no wiser, but invariably tired and lacking current references.

   The bookstore is a comfort to him, one of the few places in this crumbling town, where he feels at home - the near image of Atticus Malik, New Yorker, happily married, that he’d left behind in a two bedroom apartment. “I’ve been thinking of the child, what I can do …. is a vigil a stupid idea? Read some poetry, avoiding Plath so I don’t make everyone feel worse. Or I don’t know, something to bring comfort. Books are the only thing I can think of, though, that can assuage that kind of pain.”

[margaretflorist]

Maggie laughs softly, affection warming the sound. It’s true that she’s heard him wax poetic about the book many times before -- but she’s always been right there with him, reading quotes that she’s saved on her phone that made her cry the first and hundredth time she’s read them. “You won’t hear any complaints from me,” she offers, giving him a grin. “But if you haven’t yet, Circe is a must,” she adds, pulling the book off the shelf and extending it towards him. “When I tell you I wept, I mean it.” She’s speaking with a slight reverent tone, but Atticus understands her love of literature. She loves to hear him speak on the wonder of stories -- it might be cliche, but it reminds her of her father. Jonathan had been an English teacher. The bookshelf in Maggie’s living room is full of all the classics he’d assigned over the years. She’s read them all a thousand times, and occasionally adds her own classics. Circe is one of them. When he mentions her age, she rolls her eyes, waving him off. “This young florist gets up to very little,” she says, pressing her lips together and shrugging. She turns her gaze back to the shelf in front of her, skimming the titles. Her thoughts are elsewhere: specifically, her empty Friday nights, the trek from the closed flower shop to her home, the bookshelf her constant companion. “Not much that’s story worthy, anyway. What about you?” She asks, glad to toss the attention onto him. “Grading papers can be very thrilling, I’ve heard.”

At the mention of Savannah, Maggie glances back over to him, lips pressed together in a sympathetic frown. She, too, has been grappling with a sense of uselessness surrounding Savannah. The more time passes, the slimmer the chance of finding her grows. Maggie knows what it’s like to be with a person one moment and without them the next. She’d been the child, at the time -- she can’t imagine what it must feel like, to have the child be the one missing. “I don’t think a vigil is a stupid idea,” she says softly. “I think people would appreciate a way to grieve together.” She nods in agreement with his musings on books bringing people comfort. Heaven knows she’s turned to them plenty. “Plath might be a bit dark,” she concedes, eyes glancing towards the poetry section of the store. God, she loves this store, “but maybe Dickinson? Hope is the thing with feathers...”

[margaretflorist]

maragoransson·:

“No, no. I’ll prove it to you.” She extended her arm and stretched out her index finger, placing it gently on Maggie’s lips. A simple way to prepare her for what was coming. Already, she could hardly contain her laugh from escaping her lips as she sat up straight, cleared her throat. “This is what I’d be like in an island. Just listen and then you’ll know I would not.” Another chuckle, which she tried to contain before she started to sing. “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me; We kindle and char, inflame and ignite; Drink up, me ‘earties, yo ho; We burn up the city, we’re really a fright; Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.” As she sang, Mara tried her best to imitate her best pirate voice, but was often interrupted by her own laughter. When Ellie was little, she had this minor obsession with pirates, and Mara was forced to watch Captain Jack Sparrow and his adventures in the seas. It came to the point where the two of them learned the song and performed to Mrs Larsson. People could say what they wanted, but Mara was definitely not afraid to let her hair down when it mattered. “so if you think for a moment, that I will not emerge as crazy as can be from that island, you’ve got a thing coming, my dear.” She managed to wink in Maggies direction as the laughter finally simmered to a stop. “And you-” Mara pointed her finger, this time at Maggie, “-are definitely not as innocent. I know you. Those gorgeous lashes won’t do a thing for me.” But it was true, Mara loved their spice too, and in a world that, at times, got so dark, so heartbreaking, Maggie was definitely the person who brought in the light into her life. She was truly lucky to have her. 

It definitely wasn’t a straightforward answer. The three words that were written on the paper didn’t even seem to be an idea for a novel, more of an investigation. The why indicated as much. Wasn’t a main act, but more along the lines of why it was made. It could have been the creative process/ Maggie definitely had a bright head on her shoulders, and she definitely used it to her advantage. Though at this point there seemed to be more. “Why rip canvas?” She repeated the words, but she wasn’t going to press the reason behind them. The true reason behind the header on the sheet of paper that now lay on the desk. “Well, if I could share my thoughts.. Mosty people rip something because they’re unhappy, right? Either the perfectionist in them speaks. Or the focus is on the picture drawn on the canvas. It can cause anger? Fear? Frustration? Even sadness.” She glanced quickly at Maggie. Was there something more she was not saying? There was a small ball of worry forming in the pits of her stomach. So many at this point have been focusing on things that were affecting the town. Everyone’s head was in the darkness, which they tried so hard to navigate through, to find that lifeline to grasp so it could bring them all back. “Yeah, then you just have to think of a reason why would that someone want to rip it apart.” It was an obvious statement, one that seemed far too obvious to even say out loud, but she said it anyway. 

“You’re right about that.” She mused. “Though to what extent can we do that now? I’d like some guidelines of this part of our lives.” Or some boxes to tick, though, as they went on with their days. Just to know that everything can be passed, and the ticked boxes to disappear in the back of their minds, hidden by the present events. Or at the very least for each person to have someone that would take their mind off things. A special someone. Everyone deserved that. “Yeah, I hear the sarcasm in your voice, and I’m not accepting in.” She grinned back. 

//

Mara reached out, placing one slender finger against Maggie’s mouth. Maggie felt her cheeks burn, grateful that she didn’t have to bluster through a response. Instead, Mara leaned back and laughed, and Maggie smiled, willing the pounding of her heart to slow to a normal rate. About halfway through Mara’s perfectly ridiculous pirate song, Maggie felt as if she had returned to herself, and was able to giggle along, ignoring all of the strange looks the other library-goers were giving them. Once the song was finished, Maggie clapped as quietly as she could, nearly doubled over in laughter. Mara was full of surprises -- and Maggie was always delighted to discover something new about her friend. “Where did you learn that?” She asked, a radiant grin brightening her face. Mara winked, and Maggie laughed, batting her eyelashes for dramatic effect. Still, the compliment made her feel flushed. A part of her felt as if Mara had seen right through her -- she wasn’t innocent. The books surrounding them were a testament to that -- and so was the way Maggie’s heart skyrocketed anytime a pretty woman -- even and especially one that was her friend -- so much as looked at her. She felt as if her whole life was made of secrets. Her eyes dropped to the papers in front of her, and she frowned slightly. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Was it a feeling that, if left to fester, could cause her to rip up a painting?

Mara, seemingly reading her mind, said the words aloud. Maggie reached out, twirling her pen in her fingers before jotting down her thought process onto the paper. Shame. Guilt. An anger pointed outward that’s really directed inward. She nodded, quiet, as Mara spoke, writing down what the other woman offered. Even sadness. Margaret looked up just in time to catch Mara glancing over at her. She gave the other woman what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but she wasn’t sure if it reached her eyes. She didn’t want to hide the man in the attic - but she didn’t want to put Mara in an uncomfortable position, either. It was what had curbed her tongue with KJ, and while she knew Mara would never judge her for what she had found, she might feel an obligation to report it to Dagny. Hell, Maggie felt like she needed to turn herself in. But she couldn’t. Not when she was close to uncovering something. “That all makes sense,” Maggie said lamely, nodding. She pressed her lips together, looking down at the paper before looking up at her friend. “What would drive you to rip up a picture of someone?”

Maggie smiled softly. “Some guidelines would be nice,” she mused. “Maybe a syllabus or something. What I’d give for a rubric.” She felt lost. In the past, her friendships had always guided her. Maggie knew she’d just have to rely on them now, too. She laughed quietly, holding her hands up in surrender. “No sarcasm here, I swear!”

[myzuer]

Flower Cats

[margaretflorist]

nparekh·:

·

A lot of people confuse psychologists for mind readers. She doesn’t blame them. But now, as Maggie speaks and tries to pull herself back into the present, Nadia can’t help but detect a hint of something else in the younger woman’s words. She doesn’t think she’s lying— in fact, it’s more of that she’s precisely telling the truth, that a lot had happened that night, a lot that Maggie doesn’t feel comfortable disclosing with her just yet. But again, she is not a mind-reader. She’s not even a psychologist right now. She’s just a friend listening to a friend express her anxieties over what was very clearly a disturbing incident. Someone has to listen.

“It’s not rocket science,” Nadia finds herself saying confidently when Maggie articulates her curiosity regarding the attack. “Probably has beef with Alby. And who doesn’t, in this town?” She doesn’t bother lowering her voice; for starters, that aren’t very many people around. Plus, she just doesn’t care. There’s not a lot that George Alby and his family can do to make life difficult for her. Unlike him, the Parekhs are not attached to material things. “It was a message, for sure. The ‘FUCK ALBY’ graffiti on the tables made that clear.” But she soon finds herself wondering what for, exactly, just as Maggie probably is at the moment. Knowing the man, it could be for a whole list of things.

//

Often, Maggie finds herself surrounded by those who fall in line with her beliefs. Hannah, shrouded in her smoke; Ella, with their tangible arcane knowledge; even Kaye will sometimes reference the ghost bride of the lake as casually as the weather. Maggie loves her fellow believers with the ferocity of a sister -- there’s something inexplicable about the bonds she has with them. It’s hard not to love someone who not only believes the same stories, but holds them with the same reverence. That doesn’t change the fact that Maggie knows she needs someone to keep her tethered to the earth, anchors that keep her from floating in the mist after her father or the Strange Man or Jenny. When Nadia speaks with such certainty, such confidence, Maggie feels herself sink back into her body. She can’t help but smile. What Nadia’s saying makes so much sense it feels obvious.

“I’m sure you get this a lot,” she starts, appreciation lighting up her eyes, “but you are a very soothing person to talk to.” Letting out a small laugh at herself, Maggie shakes her head and looks back at the flowers. “Doesn’t really narrow down the suspect list, but...” she shrugs. “Does make it feel a little more real.” She figures she doesn’t have to explain herself to Nadia - nearly everyone who’s had a conversation longer than ten minutes with Margaret knows how she feels about the paranormal. She presses her lips together. “Which almost makes it scarier, you know? People we know, causing such a mess?” Absentmindedly, she reaches out, running her fingers along the velvet of a petal. “Sorry,” Maggie says abruptly, turning to look at Nadia once more. “You probably don’t want to be talking about this. I’m sure you’ve been hearing all about it from everyone else.”

[margaretflorist]

captainxkj·:

x

“Don’t you know folks with the most dough are the worst about spendin’ it? Alby’ll make me go scuba diving before he goes oar shopping. Glub glub.” KJ made this remark glumly, but in truth, even he knew he was exaggerating. The old man liked to throw his cash around, most citizens of Pleasance had already learned. It led to odd acts of philanthropy, including killer Halloween bashes. KJ grimaced at this thought, pretending to examine a spot on his hand that had been roughened up by work. In truth, he was glad Maggie had not actually broken out any daintier dinnerware; he would not know how to handle it. And smashed teacups were probably not the right start to this attempted rekindling of their friendship.

He let out a sigh then, before inhaling deeply, the pleasant smell of cooking seeming to satiate him in its own way. He leaned languidly on the counter, watching her work and basking in this temporary reprieve, a few moments that felt all too much like normalcy. “Are you sure I can’t help?” he asked again, taking a sip of water. He swallowed it hard, clearing his throat into his shoulder. “I did too. I kind of got corralled inside at some point, but I didn’t really see too much.” He shrugged distantly, placing the pictures of the night in order as he worked through them in his mind. “It’s a good thing too. I coulda taken those dudes.” He took another gulp of water. 

This was perhaps a joke, and KJ said it with a wry sort of glint, catching a half-snort in the back of his throat. But he meant the sentiment of it; he had been among those employees tasked with cleaning up the aftermath. He would no’t have minded popping one or two of the culprits in the nose.

KJ hummed, though, finding no time to foster this fantasy. He furrowed up his brow as Maggie spoke again, ducking his head as he eyed her. “Private property? Whatta you mean?” Something seized his gut, an unpleasant sensation. “You’re not the towel thief, are you? Someone made off with a whole lot that night. Housekeeping is pissed.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it, and the noise died abruptly.

//

“Well, say hi to Northy for me while you’re down there,” Maggie joked, amusement curving her mouth upwards. She knew KJ was exaggerating -- no way Alby would send any of his employees into that cursed lake. The thought gave her pause. In all her years of investigating - first alone, then later with her like-minded peers - she had never thought to go talk to the old man himself. She had always sort of assumed that Alby would be against all the rumors of Pleasance, even (or especially) those that bore his name. She watched KJ study his hand, and shook the thought away. Tonight was about rekindling their old friendship, and she wasn’t going to ruin that by asking strange favors or prying too deeply into what KJ knew of Alby himself. 

Again, Maggie waved away his offers of help with the tongs, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Seriously, you’re good. It’s the least I can do.” Her mouth curled to one side in thought. “Think of it as a thank you. Can’t imagine Alby was out there cleaning up the wreckage himself.” Cooking helped Maggie stay in the present moment. It had been awhile since she’d cooked for anyone other than herself, and if she was being honest, it was nice to get to putter around the kitchen and insist someone take a seat and rest. It reminded her of those nights, long ago, when her mother moved around this kitchen cooking for her, her sibling, and KJ. A smile brightened her face when he said he could have taken those dudes, and she nodded, half-laughing. “Oh, I bet you could have. Wrangled one or two of them, shown ‘em who’s boss.”

Her smile melted into a frown. “It’s weird,” she said, pushing off the counter and peering into the pan, trying to get a good look at the dumplings through the steam. “It feels like...I keep thinking I know everyone in town. And I’ll walk to work, or over to Rise N’Dine or wherever, and pass people on the street and think, you know something. You know? Like,” she huffed, feeling like her thoughts were racing a mile a minute. “Someone is responsible for what happened that night. Both the suits and Savannah. And I just can’t get over the fact that it’s one of us. Someone in town.” She glanced over at KJ.

The tone of his voice cut through Maggie’s thoughts like a hot knife. She let out a nervous laugh. Backtrack. “No, god no,” she started, shaking her head. “I just meant I got a little lost during all the commotion, and ended up near the house. I got so scared someone was going to storm out and have me arrested or something,” she said. It wasn’t technically a lie, but her heart was still racing. Omissions are like lies, she thought. “I didn’t see anyone, though. Wish I could give housekeeping a lead on the towel thief.” Maggie turned her attention back to the dumplings, thoughts racing. Someone else had been in the house that night. But who?

[margaretflorist]

maragoransson·:

Mara winced at the mention of the street night. It was not one of her finer moments, but the memory did not dwell entirely as an embarrassment. More than a night of great adventure where she had one too many drinks and could not show her face to the neighbours for a week. “I don’t think there is much grace in looking like I just got off an island after living there for three years.” Yet, her eyes narrowed at her friends, knowing full well that if Mara was to be on an island, she’d be sure to sneak Maggie in somehow. “But you know what? You are definitely the one who adds to my crazy. You’re just this… Special spice to my already spicy recipe.” That was the best way to put, and she half hoped that it would make sense to the other. The other half wondered if confusion would not make at least a little of fun.  

With the papers out of the way, Mara sat down on the table so her eyes could follow Maggie’s features. There were times that Maggie got lost so much in thought, trying to crack some code or case in her head, that her face looked like someone seeing space for the first time, as if trying hard to understand the difficult equations and finally reaching some sort of ‘eureka’ moment. “Let me be the judge.” Her voice was playful as she answered and gently took the paper that was offered. She was right, there wasn’t much - which in response made Mara’s eyebrow go up in confusion. “So… What exactly are you trying to find here? There’s not much here that gives me crumbs, so maybe if you said it out loud?” A grin crossed her lips as she carefully laid the paper on the table besides her. 

“Ah, El is with Dagny. I think she is worried about him because of the case he has, so she’s been going over to check on him a lot. So.” Mara shrugged. It was sweet of Ellie, and she was also glad. Because it wasn’t something she could do herself - not as often as she would have liked to. “I’ve got more time. Does that mean I am actually getting old now?” 

//

Maggie laughed quietly again, shaking her head at Mara’s response. “You and I both know you’d step off an island looking like its goddess,” she teased, though she was being truthful. If left to her own devices, Maggie was sure that Mara would emerge from her time on a deserted island windswept and gorgeous, as put together then as she was now. So long as there wasn’t copious amounts of wine on the island. Maggie’s smile burst into a grin when Mara referred to her as spice. She knew exactly what the other woman was talking about. Maggie wasn’t sure when her rebellious streak began -- sometime in adulthood, she was sure -- but one didn’t get involved with the mysteries of Pleasance without having a little bit of troublemaker in one’s blood. “Me? A bad influence?” She batted her eyelashes, attempting to play innocent, before dissolving into giggles, trying her best to respect the library and stay quiet. “I love our spice,” she said, giving Mara another grin.

She watched as Mara’s eyebrows rose, faced with the nearly-blank sheet of paper. Maggie pressed her lips together and shrugged, as if to say, told you so. She’d spent so much time tracing over those three words, but she had no idea what else to put down. Mara set the paper down, asking Maggie to elaborate, and her gaze dropped to the books in front of her. She knew she couldn’t go around town, telling everyone what she discovered in the Alby’s attic. She didn’t like that she was still lingering on it, that it hadn’t opened up a doorway for her, that any other clues surrounding the picture stubbornly stayed in the dark. Maggie also didn’t want to worry Mara. She glanced around the library, shrugging again before leaning forward. “I’m trying to write a scene,” she said. Not a total lie. When she was stuck on something, she often tried to work through it with a script. “I have this dramatic action in my head, but I don’t know who the characters are yet. I keep imagining someone taking down a portrait of someone else, and just...” she waved her hands around, “ripping it apart.”

Maggie smiled softly when Mara spoke of Ellie. She was touched, every time, by the care with which Mara spoke her daughter’s name. The thought of Dagny, hunched over his paperwork, drawn out from his hard work by his sweet child also made her happy. “Everyone needs someone to get them out of their heads,” she said, aware of the fact that Mara was doing that for her right now. She laughed. “You? Old? Never.”

[ofbloodmagick]

it was fairly late in the evening when arabella gore finished her shift at dutch’s , but as the witch stepped out onto the sidewalk their feet didn’t lead back to their beautiful , vintage EMPTY gothic home. instead , the silver haired demigirl found herself heading around the side of the bar straight into the thicket of trees the town called simply: SOUTHWOOD FOREST. it didn’t take long for them to find their way to the grove , they frequented the giant sequoia trees rather regularly after coming across them at RANDOM on one of their many nature walks. finding out about the more fascinating and morbid lore surrounding them only proved to make the grove one of their more favorite HAUNTS. 

ella sat down on a nearby bench — an obvious signs of tourism encroaching — to remove her platform shoes , pulling her tights off to ABANDON them on the seat with her purse before moving closer to the humongous trees. wasting no time ella laid back on the damp forest floor , taking a swig from the vodka seltzer they’d SNAGGED from work — all the while wishing it was from their own  — and gazed up at the giant sequoia trees looming overhead as they called them each by name. the SOUND of someone or something approaching did not go unnoticed despite her state of slight inebriation , if they were a threat though she was none the wiser. ella closes their eyes almost as if to accept whatever FATE came their way before sighing out through the dark , “ don’t make me hex you. “

[margaretflorist]

she’d swung by dutch’s, hoping to catch ella as they left their post at dutch’s, but when maggie poked her head inside the bar, there had been no sign of the silver-haired witch. maggie stared out into the quiet streets of pleasance. there were a few places she could look, but maggie had a feeling she knew where ella was. adjusting the strap of her tote bag, maggie shoved her hands in her pockets and began the short walk to the grove. as far as haunted trees in pleasance went, maggie had her preference, but she couldn’t blame ella for her obsession -- appreciation -- for the sequoias. they had been there long before margaret, and she had to assume that they’d be there long after. as a child, she’d just assumed that when someone died, they became a tree. when one didn’t sprout in her front yard, she took it as a sign that her father was still alive. somewhere. now that she was older, she knew better. but still the hope remained.

she found ella right where she’d hoped to: sprawled out beneath the sequoias. maggie had brought a bottle of wine, sort of as an offering, but took note of the seltzer ella clutched in her hand. an affectionate smile flickered over her mouth at the threat. “wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied, slowing her gait and sinking onto the dirt a few feet away from ella. maggie didn’t know what the town’s general opinion of ella was. maggie hardly ever listened to the town’s general opinion on anything. ella was dedicated to the mysteries of pleasance. ella believed. that was enough to win maggie over. she dug through her tote bag as she spoke. “i’ve been looking for you all night. did you get any of my texts? service’s been weird lately.”

[brxtta-deactivated20201226]

   ❛  gee ,  is work  all  you do in life ?  ❜     her tone reeked harsh ,  rude .     maybe the rothchilds outright snobbery had rubbed off on her ?     then again ,  in this particular case ,  it was deserved .     only a matter of time before the snark found her .     at least ,  in this round ,  she’d delivered the first blow as she caught view of the brunette exiting the shop .     at her lips ,  a snarl .    her eyes ,   narrowed .     vanilla cone in hand .     ❛  finally given up on your little  ghost hunts ?  ❜     ebbing the dagger in a touch further .     the smile cast false ,  zero attempts at hiding the fact .

     it was nothing personal ,  well maybe a little ,  off on the wrong foot at first meet .     on the wrong foot they’ve managed to remain on ever since .     was it her fault the other took so much offense to her other-world disbeliefs ?     those first few days in pleasance had been jarring to say the least .     where she’d always assumed small towns were  friendlier  places ,  she hadn’t been entirely correct .     surrounded by an abundance of silly superstitions ,  superstitions she  now  understood  -  yet her stubbornness kept her from relenting whether the other woman was concerned.

@margaretflorist​   \     location ;  b/t beau & kaye’s && cherry on top      \     time ;  evening

[margaretflorist]

she stepped out of beau & kaye’s, careful to close the door behind her softly. it was supposed to be her day off, but they’d gotten a late delivery and kaye had called and asked so sweetly for maggie to pop in for a few hours ( “paid, of course!” ), so here she was, smelling of poinsettias and pinecones, when she heard britta’s grating voice. maggie’s grip on the door handle tightened. “some of us do have to work for a living,” she replied, not bothering to hide her icy tone. “not that you’d understand that,” she added, finally turning to appraise the woman in front of her. britta seemed to believe she was above all of pleasance. she’d floated in shrouded in smoke and mystery, took over for keeps, and looked at the world from her perfect perch above it all. “we don’t all get to live off someone else’s money.”

maybe maggie was being unfair. but something about britta caused maggie’s hackles to raise. she hated the way britta looked at her, down the slope of her nose, as if maggie was soot in britta’s perfect world. “no ghost hunts this week,” she replied coolly, narrowing her eyes. she bit back a comment about research into arson -- better to keep that one in her pocket for when she really needed it. “you walking around harrassing all the locals or should i feel special?”