milliways_bar | (no subject)

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*Meg's sitting at a booth in the bar, with a fire extinguisher well within her sights.

Theoretically, she's working on a lesson plan.

But every fifteen seconds or so, her eyes dart up, scanning the bar for dancing. Which alas means she has not made much progress on the aforementioned lesson plan.*

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*With dignity:* They had us cornered. On a table.

. . . also, have you ever seen a rat doing the macarena? It's enough to justify my reaction and beyond, I think.

"I suspect I would find it more amusing, or bemusing, than scary. But... whatever." She pours Meg more wine and attempts a more soothing tone. "It's over now, anyway. Just relax and... oh, how is the teaching gig going?"

Distraction and alcohol seems like the best plan.

Just started earlier this week, *Meg says, breaking into a smile,* and - it's been the best thing about this whole week, to be honest. Maybe even this whole month.

"Well, there you go!" she says happily. "It's not all chorus lines and combustion."

"I took on a new student myself, actually."

*Meg tilts her head.*

- someone else who wants to learn to shoot? *she asks; and, to her credit, her voice is entirely natural.*

"Not really; though that will be part of it. She's in for the full schooling experience."

*Meg leans back in her booth, stretching her arms up so they crack behind her back.*

Well, that ought to be fun - anyone I know?

A shrug. "Maybe. You seem to know most everyone here."

"A young girl by the name of Mary Lennox."

*Meg thinks a moment, before shaking her head, with a cheerful shrug.*

Nope - her I don't think I know. How old is she?

"Ten. With all the brattiness that entails. Then again, it takes one to know one," she concludes with a grin.

"She's an orphan, and, as such, hasn't had the most pleasant upgringing for various reasons. Feisty, drives a hard bargain, likes gardening, and has a talent for attracting large violent mammals."

. . . good luck, *Meg says, amused.*

And wear a helmet or something.

"Heh. Thanks. Perhaps... a pith helmet," she says cryptically.

- those are the things the British wear, right? *Meg hazards.*

But, I mean, I could be wrong. I'm not exactly an army expert. And . . . they're not actually meant to do much good against wild animals.

Goldy laughs gently. "Yes. The Brits. In the colonies mostly."

"Mary grew up in India around the turn of the twentieth century, and that's where her parents died." Slightly more helpless, "she has got it into her head that they are going to become vampires if she doesn't go back and perform the correct burial rites."

"So..."

. . . well, I wish her luck with that, *Meg says, firmly; then, with a smirk:* And you.

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