12 November, 1892 — Hogsmeade High Street

Things that he knew about Miss Saffron Whitby:

Her mouth opened wider than the average person when she laughed. She didn't laugh often enough, in his estimation. That was something he would endeavor to fix, when they were together. He would give her plenty of reasons to laugh. So far he had only heard it twice: once when he'd found an excuse to be in the Ministry Atrium, loitering by the welcome witches' desk while a message was delivered to someone and he waited on the response. She had walked behind him, side by side with another woman who was probably a secretary in one of the departments. The other woman had made a joke he didn't understand, a reference to someone who they must have both worked with in some capacity, and Saffron had laughed. He'd seen her out of the corner of his eye as she moved towards the lift. The second occasion was when he saw her in front of her family's print shop, trying to lure her cat down from the eaves. The cat slipped and ended up splayed out across the roof in an awkward but clearly harmless pose, and she had laughed and chided it.

The cat's name was Clio. This was another thing he knew about Miss Saffron Whitby. He assumed (but had yet to confirm) that she had named the cat, and assumed (but had yet to confirm) that she'd chosen the name with some intentionality. He wondered if she was interested in history, but had no way (yet, at least) of finding out what sorts of books she read. If she made regular trips to the library or the bookstore then he had yet to pin down her routine for it; so far he'd only been able to reliably catch glimpses of her at the Ministry in the just-before or just-after working hours, and at the printshop in the evenings. It was tricky to find something that worked around his constant shift changes at the hospital, and even trickier to keep thinking up excuses to get himself into the Ministry atrium. At least the print shop was right there on High Street; he could come up with any excuse at all to be within sight of Whitby & Co.

Saffron Whitby hated Quidditch, or maybe hated crowds. It was the first thing he had known about her, so it almost felt like cheating to include it in the list. He'd seen her face scrunch when the crowd roared and thought it was probably more to do with crowds than the sport itself, but he suspected she also wasn't thrilled by the concept of bludgers. He'd gone to three more Quidditch games since he'd first seen her at one, hoping she might be there for work, but he'd give it up forever once they were together if that would make her happier. He was starting to look into houses in Bartonburg, somewhere close to her family, but he had also thought of a place in the country — somewhere quiet, surrounded by scraggly hills and copses of trees and sunrises where the only sound was birds. He was still thinking it through. He didn't know which she would want, yet, but he would. He planned to know everything about her by the time he married her.

She was a Ravenclaw. She would have looked lovely in bronze. She hardly ever wore anything other than Ministry robes when he saw her, but when they were together he would ensure she had nice things to wear. She hadn't come from a life as easy as his, but he could fix that for her. He could take care of her.

He wanted to know her favorite things. These were sorely lacking from what he'd been able to piece together about her so far: her favorite food, favorite flower, favorite color, all a black box for him. He wasn't sure how to get that information — he had been pondering whether there was any feasible way whatsoever to catch a glimpse of them all around dinnertime, but the residence was on the second story of the print shop and he didn't think it would be particularly subtle to levitate outside the window. The problem of how to learn her favorite things was at the top of his mind while he wandered this afternoon — a day off for him, and allegedly one for her too, though knowing her she might fill her week-end with errands for the print shop — but as he rounded the corner of High Street he saw that she was already outside. She was facing away from him but he would have recognized the set of her shoulders immediately, in any context.

She was going somewhere. He was about to find out where.

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Saffron Whitby

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Saffy should have known that the Daily Prophet printing with Forsyte’s Discretionary Ink would cause a frenzy in the print shop. With Tess working full time with their father, perhaps she thought their father’s presence would have tampered down her sister’s reaction, but instead it seemed to light a fire under her; before she knew it the proverbial cauldron had boiled over and the eldest Whitby sister was practically a blur as she made a plan to disrupt the Daily Prophet’s machinations. Saffy shouldn’t have suspected any less from Tess. Oh, she did her best to help where she could; brainstorming, offering to sketch a ridiculous political cartoon of the head editor of the paper…but the sound of the printer - while soothing at times - had become overwhelming when paired with her sister voicing her various plans and Saffy had to make an excuse to go out for an errand.

It wasn’t a complete lie. She could tell by the sheer amount of pamphlets that would result from Tess’ subscription service that they’d need more paper and ink soon.

So with that, Saffron shouted her goodbyes to her family, donned her favorite hat (the blue ribbon had once been their mother’s) and hurried out into the High Street. The cold air blew against her wool skirt and while it did its job to protect her from the elements, Saff still gave an involuntary shiver before she took the end of her scarf and threw it over her shoulder. A pitiful and indignant meow followed her out. She turned to see Clio had taken up her perch near the window, raising up on her hind legs to stretch against the pane before pawing at it. “I’ll be back soon darling!” Saffron called with an amused tone coating her voice as she gave a wiggle of her fingers before turning away.

Right. Printing supplies. She’d also discovered that she had enough pocket money for a new sketchbook, a new eraser, and - of course - a pastry from the Ivy Leaf. Perhaps this plan to get out of the house had been a good one afterall.

  

He wasn't alarmed when she said darling because he knew she was talking to the cat. Saffron Whitby didn't use the baby-talk tone that some people used to talk to animals when she talked to Clio, but it was still subtly different from the tone of her voice when she talked to people. Warner, maybe, less guarded. Smart. You could trust a cat not to let you down; people didn't give those guarantees, no matter how much they cared about you or how hard they were trying. Not most people, anyway. Calvin was never going to be in a position to let her down. That was why he was taking his time with this; he had to hold off on approaching her until he was ready to be everything she needed. Right now he didn't even know her favorite color.

Was it blue? He'd seen her wear this hat before, with the blue ribbon. Calvin marked this idea down in the assumed, yet to confirm part of his list. Maybe she wore the hat because she liked the blue ribbon, but maybe it was simply a comfortable hat. Maybe it was the only hat she had that hadn't already worn thin.

He walked after her, pace slow enough that he wouldn't gain ground unless she stopped to window-shop. As he crossed by the front of the print shop he glanced to the cat. He ought to put some cat treats in his pocket, he thought idly, in case he ever had an opportunity to be on the same side of the window as Clio. He imagined that if the cat already obviously liked him when Saffron introduced them for the first time, that could only work in his favor. He'd have to figure out how to do it without his pockets smelling of fish.

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Bundled up against the cold, Saffron started her trek to her favorite bakery. Wait, no. Best go about getting the supplies for the printer first. She didn’t have to change directions - the bakery was just a few residences away from Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop, but she nonetheless did a small dance in place - stopped in her tracks, took a step to the left, shook her head then continued down the path - as she changed the order of plans in her mind. Letting out a little laugh to herself at how silly that must have looked to onlookers, Saffy kept her pace and simply enjoyed the walk down into Woodcroft Plaza.

She took her sweet time there. As eager as she was to get new drawing supplies - was there anything so thrilling as a new quill? No, there certainly was not. - it wouldn’t do her overstimulation any good if she rushed there and back only to feel as if she had to escape home again. She loved her sister, but Tess in a tizzy was something she had to take in small doses sometimes.

Outside the Three Broomsticks, she saw the proprietress, Mrs. Honeycutt charming a broom to sweep the step of fallen leaves and she raised a hand in greeting. The older witch flagged her down to a stop, wanting to talk to her about a recent order she’d put into the print shop. Luckily Saffy had brought her satchel with her and quickly got out a scrap of parchment to write down the notes to relay to Deck, Tess or whoever was working when she got back. Having settled that affair, Mrs. Honeycutt bade Saffron farewell and headed back into the pub & inn. Saffy enjoyed the brief woosh of warm air her exit provided before picking up her pace to hurry to Scrivenshaft’s; this time, not because she wanted to save time, but because standing in the cold with Mrs. Honeycutt had caused a few of her toes to start to go numb.

As she approached the threshold of the store, Saffy stomped her boots on the mat outside, both in an attempt to rid her boots of any dirt they’d collected, and to goad some feeling back into her exterior limbs before she pushed the door open and inhaled the smell of fresh parchment, ink and quills.

  

You could tell what she was thinking by the way she walked. Or Calvin could, anyway; maybe it was just him. She started off purposefully, heading somewhere she was keen to go, then she stopped herself and seemed to debate it. The way she paused there almost looked like there was something on the ground she was determined to step around, but she never looked down at the cobblestones. Changing her mind. From where to where? He ought to have been able to guess; he wanted to know what crossed her mind first when she left the house and what was an afterthought. He'd figure it out, once he got to know her better. Someday soon.

She laughed. This wasn't the same as the other two. He may have been walking behind her but he could already tell it hadn't affected her face in the same way. A small laugh, subdued, not meant to be overheard by anyone. A just-for-her laugh. He could already tell it would be harder to catch her at this one than the first one, so he'd have to keep on the alert if he wanted to see the way it made her eyes look. In the meantime he filed this away, the second in a collection of Saffron Whitby's distinctive types of laughter.

She stopped by the Three Broomsticks. Calvin's heart rate picked up, because there was no reasonable excuse for him to dally where he was; he was in front of a modiste's with corseted dresses on mannequins in the displays, so he could hardly pretend to be window shopping. He couldn't backtrack without drawing attention. The next shop that might have been a reasonable place to stop and look at the display was two storefronts down, and that would be too close to her. She wasn't guaranteed to notice him — there was nothing especially noteworthy about him, today or most days — but it was close enough to her that she might, and he didn't want that. This left only one option: he'd have to walk past her. Not too far, because he didn't know where she was going yet and he didn't want to accidentally head the wrong direction, but far enough to put a safe distance between them until he could stop and idle by a window.

He had to stop looking at her as he approached. She might not have noticed while he was still behind her, but the woman she was talking to would have. He dared only one glance just as he was passing her. They were still easily an arm's length away at least, but it was close enough for him to see the way the wisps of hair at her neck coiled above her scarf, close enough to watch the way her throat moved when she was preparing to speak, close enough to spot an ink stain on her sleeve, close enough to hear her said of course to the proprietress. He savored the musicality of the words when she said them. Of course.

And then he was past her, moving on to a shop he couldn't have cared less about and pretending to be interested in a flier they'd plastered on the doorpost. He could have read it twice over by the time she stopped her conversation with the innkeeper, but fortunately no one seemed inclined to pay him much attention. Saffron hurried along once she said her goodbyes, but of course he couldn't mimic that pace without drawing attention to himself. He turned away from the flier a beat and a half before she reached him, so that she overtook his leisurely pace as she walked by. Her scarf bounced behind her when she walked quickly.

She turned into a store, and he had a dilemma: to follow her in or not? It would be difficult to kill enough time on the street not to lose her when she came out again. He could make a circle of the downtown area, but then it was hit or miss whether he'd be back around the right time for her to have finished her errand. But if he went inside... well, that was risky. Small shop, crowded aisles, less space to go unnoticed. Which store was it? — Scrivenshaft's. He considered. Probably he wasn't going to learn any of her favorite things by following her in; probably this was something work related. Quills and parchments. Not worth the risk, he determined. Not yet, anyway. He knew so very little about her at the moment; when he could better predict what she was going to do, maybe he could chance being in the same shop as her. In the meantime he kept walking, though he did slow briefly by the window and glance through to see if she was visible on the other side of the window displays.

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Walking into Scrivenshaft’s gave Saffron the peace of mind that little else did; everything was quiet in there. Sure, people bustled around and asked questions, but the constant background noise consisted mostly of clinking glass bottles, the rustling of crisp parchment and maybe the errant sneeze as someone (not Saffy, nope) stood a little too close to the feathered ends of the quills. She took her time perusing the aisles, looking at the ink bottles and also eyeing a particularly gorgeous gold and tortoise shell quill and pen set that was entirely too expensive for her to justify a splurge. After wistfully turning the stylus over in her hand, Saffron put it back and got on with plucking an eraser and basic black ink before heading to the counter. Placing an order for the bulk quantity of ink, Saffron gave the address of the print shop to the new shop girl and exited with her purchases.

She was entirely too focused on making her way to the Ivy Leaf to notice anyone else lingering outside the store. With another satisfied sigh, she put the ink and eraser in her satchel and waited for a horse and buggy to pass by before crossing the street.

Approaching the Ivy Leaf Bakery, she hurried up to the window, almost pressing her nose to the glass to see what new creations Miss Tuttle might have dreamed up before eagerly entering the shop and chirping a hello to Miss Edgecombe who was at the till. She commented on the state of the cakes in the window, delighting in the gold, sparkling foil effect Miss Tuttle had managed to add to the cake’s surface before asking after Miss Edgecombe herself and chatting for a few minutes.

Once she’d noticed the line had built up, Saffy said her apologies for taking up so much time and asked for an apple tartlet.

Miss Edgecombe observed how it wasn’t her usual order that she got, to which Saffron replied she was attempting to stretch her horizons a little bit. The two shared a laugh before the managing witch took Saffron’s payment and gave her change. Feeling generous, Saffron shook her head, indicating that Miss Edgecombe keep the change and she turned to leave as she said her goodbyes again. This time, however she bumped into someone and immediately skittered to the side. “Oh, I beg your pardon, I wasn’t watching where I was going!” She offered hastily.

  

Being patient at Scrivenshaft's had been the right thing to do, because no one had noticed him yet and this was now becoming a very productive trip. He'd meant to only stay at the window a moment but he'd been immediately distracted by Saffron when he caught sight of her through the window. She moved differently inside, where she didn't have to worry about warding off the cold. Most of the occasions he'd had to watch her were out-of-doors and veering more and more towards winter with each passing day. The times he'd seen her in the Atrium were mostly on her way in to work in the morning, which were much better. Of course she was still bundled up, but there was a liquidity to her movements that seemed absent on the street. She liked being here, he could tell. As he continued watching her he began to understand why. It was quiet yet academic, cozy and homely while still... well, he saw the tortoiseshell quill she picked up. She liked pretty things. Not pretty like a set of jewels was; not untouchable in its elegance. Pretty yet functional; beautiful because of how it worked.

She put the quill back. Calvin was going to buy it for her. She wouldn't know that he'd bought it for her, because he'd never say, but he'd buy it and he'd put it on a desk in his house when he had a house, and someday she would be invited in to his house and she would feel immediately that this was a place where she belonged. Someday she would live there and be surrounded by beautiful, useful things.

He realized he'd been at the window too long and moved on. He didn't go far. The shop next door was a cobbler's and he went inside, then struck up a conversation with the clerk about prices for having a set of boots re-heeled. He had no such boots, but it served to fill the time until he caught sight of Saffron Whitby on the High Street again, at which point he stopped coming up with more questions for the cobbler, took the quote and promised to bring the boots, and went back to the street. He had already thought earlier that he shouldn't follow her in to any stores at this point, but the next one she went in to was a bakery, and — well, he couldn't let that go. He'd already been wondering about her favorite foods. This had to be some kind of a sign. She went in ahead of him, since she'd had a healthy lead on the street, and by the time he entered the Ivy Leaf Cafe there was one person in line behind her already. He slipped into the queue.

He could have stood listening to her talk with the baker for hours. She was saying so much — did she realize how much she said? Probably not; so terribly unguarded, and it would have been so easy for someone to have listened in and taken advantage if they'd been of a mind to — figured out when the print shop might be empty based on what she said of the assistant printer's cold and the big delivery coming up, for example. He could talk to her about it, maybe, except that he was also charmed by it. He didn't want to change her, to make her wary of the world. She just needed someone to protect her from it.

Someone else had come in behind him. The bell over the door had gotten her attention, and now she seemed in a rush to order. Calvin didn't turn to look at who had entered, but for a moment he hated them, whoever they were. But there was too much happening to hold on to a frivolous emotion like that: Saffron was ordering an apple tart, but not her usual, she was expanding her horizons, and saying keep the change and all of this was knowledge he would have died for an hour ago. He was too distracted to get out of her way when she turned. His breath caught as she moved to the side, fearful that she was going to fall, but she recovered.

"No trouble," he assured her. His voice was steady and casual but he could hardly hear it over the way his heart was pounding in his ears. These were the first words he'd said to her — but this wasn't their first meeting, he wasn't ready to really meet her yet. He was unremarkable today — forgettable. She would forget this. "I hope I didn't crush your tart?"

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A more suspicious person than she might have clocked that he knew she’d just purchased a tart and found it suspicious, however this was the end of the autumn season and people searched for warmth and comfort; of course, one of those places was the Ivy Leaf, and as such it was a small shop for people to crowd in. It was likely easy for people to overhear other peoples conversations.

So Saffron gave a breathless laugh and shook her head easily. “Oh, nothing of the sort,” she responded, holding up the small paper bag she’d been given. “Even if you had, I’m sure it would still be delicious!” She said this as she was turning towards the door again, now finding herself inexplicably in a hurry to get back to the print shop and to Tess.

Meri Edgecombe trilled her goodbye to Saffron from the counter and Saffy in turn waved back before briefly smiling at the other customer. “If you’re looking for any recommendations, get one of the raspberry tartlets,” She added by way of advice. “It’s my favorite!”

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