Room 203

[kitchen_maid]

Room 203 is clean and light and warm, and smells, as always, just slightly of lavender, and when Amy opens the door, Mr. Pemberthy and Simon Perryvall scamper over to say hello to her and to Meg.

"Make yourself at home," Amy says.

Peter Aurelious, from his perch above the window, simply says "qwa," but it's a much friendlier qwa than usual.

Or at least, less disdainful.

Comments

[kitchen_maid]

"I'm sorry, my dear," says Amy. "And this may sting a little."

Soap on scratches can sting, after all.

[balletrat]

*Meg smiles at her, a little wearily.*

I can handle a little sting.

[kitchen_maid]

"I know you can," says Amy, who is probably not talking about the soap any more.

"And then we're going to have to get you some new coffee. This has gone cold."

[balletrat]

To be honest, I probably don't need any more caffeine or alcohol, really, *Meg says, eyeing the cup a little ruefully.*

[kitchen_maid]

"Tea, then?" asks Amy, with the hint of smile. "I'm told they can take the caffeine out. Or . . . well, we might have to have chocolate ice cream."

[balletrat]

*Meg is about to refuse both -

and then, sudden and determined, announces,* Chocolate ice cream would be fantastique.

*If there's one good thing about being dead, it's the chance to eat whatever she wants - and it's kind of important to remember that there is even the faintest silver lining, right now.*

[kitchen_maid]

"Then chocolate ice cream it is. Do you want to change into something less . . . dusty while I run down and get some? I can offer you a dress that will probably only be a little too big on you. Or a dressing gown, if you'd rather."

[balletrat]

*Meg glances down at her white-dusted tutu and bodice, in mild surprise.*

- yeah, I guess I'd better - a dressing gown should be fine.

*A small smile.* Merci.

[kitchen_maid]

Amy produces a soft and rather fuzzy blue dressing gown and leaves Meg with water and washrag and clean clothes, and goes off to find ice cream.

[balletrat]

*Meg changes rapidly into the fuzzy dressing gown; the sleeves hang loosely down past her wrists.

. . . yes, when in the oversized gown, she looks about ten. Shut up.*

[kitchen_maid]

Nothing with wrong with looking ten on occasion.

There's a light knock at the door and then it swings open. Amy has two enormous bowls of ice cream. With sprinkles.

Sparkly sprinkles.

"I'm back," she says, somewhat unnecessarily.

[balletrat]

*Meg's eyes widen, a little.*

. . . . I didn't know they made bowls that big, *she says, a little wryly.*

[kitchen_maid]

Amy laughs. "I thought they were very . . . festive," she says. "We don't have to finish them."

There's very little chance they'll finish them.

Unless they become sixteen year old boys.

But that seems at least improbable, though not impossible.

[balletrat]

*At the moment, turning into a sixteen-year-old boy would probably not improve Meg's week.

Maybe when she's in a better mood.*

I don't think I could finish it, *Meg says, eyes round.* Seeing as I think it's larger than my stomach -

[kitchen_maid]

Let's keep Amy and Meg on the girl side of things, shall we?

"But festive," says Amy, handing a bowl to Meg.

"And Bar put very nice sprinkles on for us."

[balletrat]

*They are probably more comfortable that way.*

They are very sparkly sprinkles, *Meg agrees, with a small smile, and takes the bowl. Also, a spoon.*

Bar knows us well.

[kitchen_maid]

"Bar is such a dear," says Amy. "And she does ice cream very well."

She settles comfortably onto her bed.

"Now," she says, "what shall we talk about?"

[balletrat]

*Meg considers, for a moment.*

Tell me, *she says, eventually,* something happy - something that doesn't have anything to do with anything serious at all.

[kitchen_maid]

Amy considers for a moment.

"Very well," she says, finally, and begins to talk about the Forest of Faraway, and running off to play when she was little, and bluebells in the spring and gold-and-crimson-and-flame-colored leaves in the fall, about learning to climb trees by watching squirrels (though not Simon Perryvall or Mr. Pemberthy) and learning to swim by watching otters, and ruining a great many pairs of shoes with water and grass stains and snags on brambles.

Like the hairbrushing, it's gentle, and soothing, and almost rhythmic. Amy is a very good storyteller, after all.

[balletrat]

*And Meg listens, her head tilted and her eyes half-closed - it has, after all, been a long day - and almost-smiles at the appropriate parts.

And nearly manages not to think about anything.*