“Goodbye, Marigold,” Trystan conceded lightly, with a wave. But – September eighth. Trystan mentally marked her daughter’s birthday in his head with the same gravity and concentration he had once been accustomed to in his former career, tracking dark wizards and taking note of every important detail in a case. Sometime in January would have to do for her mother’s birthday; he would be prepared for the start of the month, if he thought of it then. There was always the possibility his interest in this prickly almost-stranger may have waned by then...

Except then she tried and failed to make her abrupt getaway, and her hand landed on his shoulder. This felt like an unplanned victory; she was far closer to him currently than he imagined she wanted to be; and now Trystan was sure that he wouldn’t lose interest in her until he figured her out. “Careful there,” he joked, with a pleased laugh rumbling in his chest, “or your quick escape might get you into more trouble.” He might have been speaking to Marigold or Mrs. Davenport, but it was the latter he was looking at now, as he planted his hand atop hers on his shoulder – to help steady her – and stood up again, to make the most of their sudden proximity and also to observe her close up, what he presumed were the metamorphagus’ natural features.

“You’re always in a hurry, aren’t you?” Trystan remarked quietly. Always working, perhaps – trying to support her daughter alone? – or just always running from something?

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It had been a mistake, touching his shoulder - and in more ways than one. Like Avery had just started the long process of taking apart the barrier she’d spent so long constructing for the sake of both herself and her daughter. He was less imposing crouched down on the ground of course, and when he anchored her hand onto his shoulder as he stood up, the warmth of his hand searing into her skin, Avery had no choice but to stand there lest she knock both of them off-kilter. She need only tilt her chin up ever so slightly in order to meet his uncomfortably inquisitive gaze.

It made her bristle.

“Stop that — whatever you're doin’.” She commanded, snatching her hand out from under his; doing nothing to hide the fact that she’d wiped her hand on her skirts as if that would get rid of the memory of his skin on hers. “Last time, I was rudely interrupted runnin’ to my appointments and this time I have a previous engagement. You heard me.” She didn’t like the way he was looking at her; as if she was a puzzle to figure out.

Avery was sure if she listened hard enough she could hear the gears turning in his mind like tumblers in a lock. If only she had gotten her abilities under control the first time, perhaps he might have left her alone from there. It only occurred to her now that she ought to ask around and see what he did for a living. At first she’d thought he was a gentleman of leisure, but he seemed too perceptive to be someone so foppish.

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avery speaks with a mixed south appalachian drawl

“I heard you,” Trystan relented, to appease her (– as if she were a spitting wildcat –), although he didn’t know exactly what he had done this time to set her off. (It had been a marginally more productive encounter than rescuing her from the freezing pond, he supposed, so this may be as close to a pleasant encounter as he could expect from her – at least, it had been pleasant while it lasted).

He put his hands up as if surrendering at wandpoint, and took a step back, giving her the space she so clearly desired. “Have fun at Mrs. Cranston’s,” he offered casually to both mother and daughter; and before she could bluster and bristle at his impertinence again, Trystan shot her a last small smile and took his leave, brushing off a little dirt from just above his knees.

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