milliways_bar | (no subject)

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*Meg is sitting at a table in the bar, engaged in several tasks:

a.) attempting to feed the baby in her arms with some sort of pureed baby food, provided by the bar

b.) keeping said baby from wiggling off her lap to go exploring under the tables

and c.) rather frantically paging through a book on child care in front of her, whenever Derry stops squirming long enough to allow her to use one of her arms.

Derry, meanwhile, is engaged in one task: becoming the universe's foremost artist in the medium of pureed baby food.

Hey, everyone needs to have a dream.*

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I was just there, *Meg says, a little sheepishly.* Er, it - became expedient to leave?

*A quick grin.* - anyways, here, more people are likely to want to take her and spare my arms.

*Derry considers, a moment, then seriously deposits a carrot-covered hand on Moiraine's.

Blue and orange are, after all, complementary colors.*

"Is that a suggestion?" Ever so slightly dry, but she holds out both hands now anyway, in order to take the child.

She is still ill at ease with children, but has become more accustomed to dealing with them, here.

Only if you want to take it, *Meg says, hopefully, and picks Derry up off her lap, holding her towards Moiraine.*

- and, you know, don't mind washing your clothing afterwards - though the magic helps with that, I guess, *she adds, with a laugh.*

Derry chatters something incomprehensible as Moiraine lifts her into the air and then settles her on her lap.

"It is possible to channel such stains from one's clothing, as it happens." Calmly, even as Derry tugs at the bright ring on her finger.

"Would you wish me to do so, perhaps?"

That might be helpful, *Meg admits, a little sheepishly.

. . . secretly, Meg would be even happier to see carrot stains on Moiraine, simply because the mental image is one of great happiness. But she is wise enough not to say that.*

It may yet happen, as she is not overly concerned with Derry's carrot-colored hands.

"Hold still, then." She glows, and the child on her lap laughs in wonder as bright threads of blue and white light race over Meg's discolored bodice, drawing the carrots and peas from the cloth.

*Meg's own laugh, as she glances down at her suddenly-clean bodice, might be vaguely reminiscent of Derry's.*

- now that is convenient.

You must make a wonderful babysitter - you've got all the advantages that make the rest of us start wishing for six hands . . .

"I am not overly familiar with children," she tells Meg, smiling serenely as the glow around her fades. "Seth, and Derry as well, of course; but beyond that --"

She breaks off there, with a half-shrug, not moving her left shoulder.

*A grin, at that, as Meg makes a gesture Derrywards.*

You don't seem to be doing so badly, here - and they do say everything gets better, with practice.

"Perhaps so," she agrees. "Or perhaps she is simply precocious, in her own right."

On Moiraine's lap, Derry bounces, chattering incoherently, and then grabs for a fold of the blue silk dress.

*Meg laughs.*

Who says it has to be either-or? *she says, and makes a quick face at Derry, as one does, with babies.*

I think you don't give yourself enough credit.

She shakes her head at this.

"I grant myself the credit I deserve, Meg. No more than that, perhaps -- but no less."

'No word that is not true,' right, *Meg says, lightly.*

But, you know, no one's their own best judge - at least, that's sort of the way I've figured it to work, generally.

"Is it so?" she murmurs.

Noncommittally, although a shadow flickers in her glance.

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