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Very well. Helen Ramirez took a room in Milliways after all, and found it a comfortable room too. Very modern. Remarkable amenities. A little small, a little dull to look at, but free of the kind of magical tricks she had been led to worry about.

On the strength of that, she is now walking about the grounds. It's a pleasant cool day, compared to New Mexico. Fresher flowers in the garden. Greener grass by the stables. A breeze that plucks a little at the black beaded netting over her hair, but doesn't cast up dust into her face.

She's inclined to make a good long walk of it, and see the sights.

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The sight, from a small distance, of a woman dressed in what looks rather like mourning brings Viola up short. It can't be-- but it's not, of course. She lets out a small, relieved laugh at her own foolishness.

...and then realizes she has probably been staring for a conspicuous amount of time.

She has, rather. Helen Ramirez has been looked at by young men before, and does not necessarily mind, but she's hardly about to encourage it.

...on the other hand, young men are not generally dressed like they've stepped out of an old painting. She's curious enough to direct her path in the boy's direction. "Were you never taught not to stare?"

Viola flushes red and ducks her head to stare at her shoes.

"I have, mistress. I did mistake you for-- I did think I knew you, from a distance. I pray your pardon."

"Oh! --I am sorry." She hadn't meant to sound quite so severe, in fact, but now that she thinks back--yes. Oh, well. "Do I look like someone you know?"

"Only your dress, and your-- your bearing," she says. This woman carries herself with the sort of gravity and dignity that even as a woman Viola could never manage, and certainly not now.

She bows hastily, the gesture as old-fashioned as her dress: arms spread, one leg thrust forward. "I am Cesario called, madam."

Her dress? Ah. Helen's face softens a little more, if the boy saw her widow's clothing and took her for someone he knew. And anyway, up close, he looks very young. "I am pleased to meet you, Cesario. My name is Mrs. Ramirez. I came here just yesterday." Which she hopes will excuse a little of her brusqueness. "Are you here often?"

"But yesterday!" she cries. "I marvel, madam, you are not still all in a daze. I am sure I was for days together when first I came. I do come to play the truant from my duties." She gestures down at her livery-- a self-evident indicator of her station in her own time, but likely not to anyone else.

It gets a laugh from her, and she's not so much made of gravity and dignity. "And what duties do you have?" He looks like a picture of a page-boy or squire, but who knows how real any of those pictures are?

"I serve a nobleman-- a duke," Viola replies. "Duke Orsino of Ilyria, if you know the name or country. I have not yet met any here who do."

"Well, you still have not. Where is Ilyria?"

She only half believes that the boy is some--what--some renaissance squire? But of course anyone might be anything here.

Edited 2015-08-18 00:03 (UTC)

"It is on the sea," she says. "The Mediterranean. It is not large, but I think it most fair."

[ooc: *handwavehandwave* >__>]

"I'm sure it is. I have seen pictures of the Mediterranean. Some day maybe I will go there and see it for myself." It's hard to find the energy to plan something like that. It's easier to stay in her small town.

((that's okay helen's from Film Wild West land, which is barely realer than shakespearean countries))

"And where is it you are from, madam?" Viola asks. Up close, she can see that she was quite wrong-- the color aside, Mrs. Ramirez's clothes are quite different from those of her own time and place.

"Mexico," she says. "But I live in the New Mexico Territory now. Does that...do you know it at all?" Very likely not, in those clothes! Unless the boy reads about Spanish explorers and conquests.

"O-- they call it New Spain, do they not?" Viola says. Because she does read about such things! But not by that name. "New Mexico I know not."

"It used to be Spanish. Not any more. And New Mexico is part of the United States now. North of Mexico. --So, does your duke know you come here?"

"It would be a generous lord indeed would keep a raving madman in his employ-- and so, lest he take me for one, I have not spoken of this place to him," Viola replies. And anyway, suppose he wanted to see? And suppose he came here and met one of the people who knows-- well, who she is?

Helen laughs at that. "Very smart. I think if I told anyone about this place they would say I had been taking laudanum." In fact, the thought has occurred to her that that's exactly what has happened, and that really she's asleep in her room. But it seems less and less likely.

"I suppose a more generous excuse than madness," Viola says thoughtfully. "For you could then be as readily rid of the visions as of the drug. But even if I did please to tell him of it, I would not know the way to begin."

"Neither would I." She's tried to think about it! "No, I think this place is better a secret."

"And I hope you find it to your liking, madam?" Viola asks. "I venture you must, as you have stayed, not fled in fear." This last with a grin: it's a joke! She still can't quite tell how that will go over with this woman, but she figures it's worth a try.

Cesario is young enough to joke with women without earning icy looks. Helen laughs, unoffended, though she does give the boy a raised eyebrow. Careful, kid. "You're right. I didn't flee in fear. But I don't know if I like it yet. You do?"

"I do," she replies. And then, more thoughtfully, "I do. I think it good indeed to have a place where time doth stop, and I may collect my thoughts."

One sight she might see is a man riding a horse at a decent but not overly fast pace towards the stables.

It's a familiar sight, but not unwelcome. She's walking without much purpose in the direction of the stables when she sees him coming near, and continues on that vague path; they'll probably reach the stables at about the same time.

Rachat, the gelding Jim always chooses to ride, sees the woman first, and bucks a bit, requiring Jim to rein him in.

"Sorry about this. He's a bit touchy around new faces."

She holds still while he brings his horse back under control. "I am sorry. He must find a place like this very difficult."

"By now, I suspect he's used to it. In fact, I don't think he would want to go back home." People treat him well here, after all. "He's just a bit wild, even at his age."

"I can understand that." She looks the animal over: she's not any great horsewoman herself, but she has an every-day familiarity with them. He looks well-fed, well-groomed. "Where is his home?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Somewhere in the American southwest, I think, from the mid to late 19the century. Not that the time would matter to him." Rachat is calm now.

Helen raises an eyebrow at his way of describing things, which is both strangely broad and strangely specific. But maybe it makes sense here. "I know some of the American southwest," she says. "In the late 19th century."

"You're a native then." The clothing currently fit the time. "I'm from...later."

She lifts her chin, completely mistaking what he means by native. "I am a Mexican woman," she corrects. "And what time is later? I know people here come from different times."

"I'm from the late 23rd century. And I meant that you're from the 19th." Though he can imagine that she would need to stand up for herself in a racist and sexist era such as that one.

"Ah. Yes, it is 1898 where I come from. Soon I will have to say I am from the twentieth century." It sounds strange. And exciting. "But...the 23rd century. That means, your year is twenty-two--?"

"2293. Nearly 400 years ahead of you." Meaning Jim very quietly turned 60 recently. That also takes some getting used to.

"Four hundred years." She says it slowly, trying out the words. "And where are you from?"

"Born in Iowa. Travelled around since." No need to go into the details. You?"

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