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Salmon Fishing In The Alley
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26th August, 1889 — Diagon Alley
Marina would have preferred not to spend the best part of her afternoon - though indeed they had arrived in the morning - watching Miss Vane have a dress fitting (and then another dress, and then another), but then Marina could not recall the last time anyone had heeded her preferences. Lunch had been sacrificed, and Lytton's complimentary nibbles were not enough to make up for the wasted hours.

To think she had used to come to the House of Lytton for herself, frittering away funds on one frock in peach, another in coral. Salmon, really. She had trussed herself up like a salmon on a hook.

(She could certainly eat a salmon now. Maybe two.)

In any case, Marina rather thought she had done well, despite the protestations of her stomach, to refrain from picking up one of the pins and poking it right through Tryphena's beady eyes. The young lady had been testing her patience from the outset (not unusual), but Marina was exceedingly miffed when the girl swanned out of there without so much as a thank-you to the weary assistant. No, but of course Marina would be left to attend to human decency, and to the bill; by the time she stepped out onto the street after her, her charge was nowhere to be seen.

Marina scowled. She trotted off, fast as she could. Wily little minx. She had probably arranged to meet a friend - or a passing suitor - and not bothered to mention it to her. That was fine. Marina was still quick on her feet.

Or she would be, if Diagon Alley was not packed to the brim with people heaving every which way, some of which included schoolchildren. Most of whom were taller than her. Merlin, she despised summer in the city.

Sure Miss Vane could not have gotten far, Marina tried to push her way through the crowd, and, having failed, rapped the tallest person in front of her with the end of her parasol. Rather insistently.
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Tiger's afternoon was being spent carting his Hogwarts aged children to and from different supply stores since the governess had recently quit after being terrorized a time too many. He would need to put up an ad for a new one for his remaining children but for now, Ma was helping out a lot.

Moving through the streets with his children in tow was a challenge but one Tiger was used to undertaking. At the very least, the older ones already knew what to do and could mostly handle things on their own. That didn't make them any less chaotic though. Luckily, Tiger was pretty adept at handling chaos. The streets were crowded and it was like moving through quicksand as he tried to get to the next shop.

Being the size that he was and his build meant that the parasol rapping him felt akin to an annoying bug of sorts so he didn't think much of it at first. Then he realized, it wasn object and he turned. "Yes?" He inquired as he pushed her parasol away from his person.
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Of course she had the misfortune of getting stuck in the crowd behind a sodding giant. Merlin, his arms were like tree trunks. Even with her parasol, she could barely reach his shoulder, and he didn’t seem to be noticing it in the slightest. 

“Honestly,” Marina muttered to herself, tutting under her breath at the lack of notice he was taking (and perhaps at her rumbling stomach, too), “I might’ve scaled you myself by now -”

She was interrupted by him turning, at last, though she narrowed her eyes at the way he pushed off the parasol, feeling it an undue sign of more dismissal to come. “Yes,” she repeated, clearing her throat, drawing herself up fully, and beginning in a more civil but authoritative tone, “Finally. Being as it is that I’ve no hope of getting past -” she used her parasol to gesture at all this, meaning the hopeless crowd (and nearly poking someone’s eye out with the point of it in the process), “- I require your eyes, if you would be so kind.” She hoped, if she spoke briskly enough, she would waste no time and leave him no room for argument. “I’ve lost someone.” And they did not all possess his... freak of genetics.
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Kentigern took in the woman as she drew herself up fully and began to speak. Rather authoritive at that. A bit like how it was when Ma was giving them all a dressing down after one of them had pulled an antic of undue porportions. A bit of a smile twitched on his lips as the woman indicated the crowd - or perhaps his own form, he wasn't sure - and requested the use of his eyes.

"And what does this someone look like?" Tiger asked, amiable enough to having his combination of height and sight be of use to the woman. To do so, however, he did need to know who he was looking for.
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“I daresay it’s not at all funny,” Marina cut in sharply, not missing his flicker of a smile, although she was mollified that he had seemingly agreed to the task, so moved on without further lecturing.

Like the devil’s child, she did not say. Instead, she clicked her tongue between her teeth. “A young lady. My niece. Twenty, and about yea high,” she gestured, disparagingly, a head above herself (not that the qualification disqualified many individuals), and continued instructing. “Light hair. Wearing a striped green frock. Went left out of Lytton’s, can’t have gotten far.”
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Tiger rather thought it was but did his best to keep his features schooled into a more serious demeanor. The first couple of descriptors could literally be anyone so were not much help to him. But green striped frock was a good tell. "And does she have your complexion?" He asked, taking note that the woman was of slightly tanner shade than the usual so called English roses.
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“My complexion?” Marina echoed with a frown, far too used to being bombarded by her husband's whining and her niece's jibes that it took her a moment longer than it should to distinguish between a thinly-veiled insult and a simple fact, remarked upon neutrally.

She supposed that that had been the latter after all. “No,” she replied decisively, pretending she had not been at all wrong-footed, “not quite. Her mother had the misfortune of marrying a pasty-faced Englishman.”

“I say with no offence intended,” Marina added quickly, realising that she had spoken a touch more truthfully than she usually allowed; Tryphena might be a pest and a porcelain doll, but she did try to keep that to herself in public. (Why, if she had her way she'd not care if her charge ever came back.) On the bright side, she supposed, the gentleman before (- above -) her had a complexion that was a little too weather beaten to be properly pasty, and she fancied his accent was a mark of not necessarily being English. (She hoped. She had never been much good at identifying all the odd dialects of the British Isles.)


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