It looks...well, it looks...Anne blushes, and looks away for a moment, before turning the brightness of her smile on him again, standing to greet him. She's been unpinning her hair absent-mindedly while reading her book, and much of it flows loosely down her back to glow in the firelight.
That jacket really does look absurdly good on him.
"How are you? That's a very nice jacket you have."
"Diolch yn fawr." Bran stands facing her, a little awkwardly. They know each other too well to shake hands, not well enough for anything else. Bran will not sit again until Anne does.
Bran's smile, as he looks at Anne, is sincere but just the slightest bit stretched. "I am all right."
There's a swirl of skirts and red-gold hair, and she's running lightly up the stairs, coming down a few moments later with a plate. With pie. Apple, to be precise--which she hands to him with a smile, and sits once again.
"Amy and I baked," she says, by way of explanation. And in her experience, pie, if it doesn't heal, at least helps most wordly ills.
"It smells lovely," Bran says, admiring it from all angles. "Almost a shame, it would be, to eat it." Nevertheless, he takes a fork and bites. "Excellent bakers, you are."
"Thank you," she says, resting her chin on her hand and curling her feet up under her.
"Amy had never baked before, and we had ever so many apples--there's an apple tree out in the woods, you see, she and Gil and I went to gather them--so we decided to make pie."
She watches him with a small smile, though it is not from amusement.
She bites her lip, the frown deeper, but the image of his strained smile comes back to her and she decides not to argue, this time.
She'll take it up with Gilbert later.
"There are two parts," she says, lightly. "The crust, and the filling. The filling is made first, or by someone else, of apples and sugar and spices and a bit of flour and butter--and when the crust is rolled out, it's placed into the pans and filled. Another crust goes over it, and slits are cut to let them steam escape."
She smiles, slightly. "It isn't very interesting, unles you happen to enjoy baking."
Bran smiles back at Anne, watching her hair glimmer in the firelight. "I enjoy eating pie, and neither my da nor I knows how to bake. A good reason to learn."
"I learned how to cook very early on in life, but for the longest time I was terrible at baking. I once flavored a cake with liniment instead of vanilla, and it was the most terrible thing."
Gray-green eyes consider the leaping patterns in the fire for a moment before she looks back at Bran.
"Luckily, I love baking, and learned from my name and varied mistakes."
Normally, it would be. But something is wrong, and Anne knew it from that one smile when he'd entered.
Cheer fades from the gray eyes, and the smile from her mouth. She begins to reach out, thinks better of it, and catches her hand back to her lap instead.
"...Bran?" Her voice is gentle. "I wish you would tell me what it is that's wrong."
Bran swallows. The pie is almost gone; he pushes the plate away from him and swallows again.
"Meg Giry was a friend. Not a very close friend, but a friend." Bran's hands tighten on the table, but he manages a smile.
"It is not really that, or not only. I had to tell my da that someone, a friend, was killed at Milliways. He always knew it was dangerous, but not that dangerous. And, well, he worries."
Without thinking, her hand comes to rest lightly but warmly on the nearest of his, and the gray of her eyes darkens with sympathy.
"I never met her," she says, softly, "but I've heard of her, and I'm so sorry, Bran. Terribly so. Did--"
She hesitates, but continues gently.
"It doesn't seem as though anyone knew it could be so dangerous here. Your father is right to worry, I think, but it's a hard thing to tell anyone, especially someone who cares for your safety and worries for you. What did he say when you told him?"
Anne feels a momentary twinge of guilt for the spark that passes through her at the feel of Bran's hand entwined with hers, but lets it go, for now.
"That's worse, sometimes," she says, soft. "Marilla scolds when things are not important, and is silent when they are. And Matthew never scolded at all--only looked terribly disappointed. And that hurt worst of all. Do you think he will be angry with you, for coming back here?"
She thinks of a woman growing a bit older and a bit grayer, with the same small bun of pulled back hair, sitting alone on the porch of a rambling house.
"Perhaps he could come with you, sometime, to ease his mind a bit? But perhaps that wouldn't help. Even people here are worried. I'm worried, and so are my friends."
Bran places his other hand on top of Anne's, warming it. "He will be fine," Bran says firmly, and smiles. "Tell me more about your friend Amy. She seemed very sweet."
Her answering smile has a note of gratefulness in it.
"Amy? She's one of the kindest girls I know, and a very dear friend. She helped me ever so much when I was here alone, you know."
She thinks, her eyes shining fondly.
"She's strong, and sweet, and charming. She knows how to dance and how to embroider, and how to peel an apple in one strip. I don't know what I'd have done, without her here."
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Raven is quick, when he chooses to be.
"Bran. It has been some time, I think."
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"I like the jacket, I think. It is very pretty. Particularly the likeness on the back."
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[Thanks.]
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"I do know her, yes. I like her, I think. It is good gift, that. She has taste."
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Raven raises one eyebrow, slightly.
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"Well. What brings you here today, then? Is that a question to be answered?"
The look on his face is a teasing one, perhaps.
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Bran orders tea and biscuits from a waitrat.
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He smiles, wryly.
"I find myself fond of noise, I think. It is a thing."
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[ooc: So sorry for missing your departure!]
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Anne waves, and uncurls herself gracefully.
"Hello, Bran!"
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He has no idea how good the white leather jacket looks on his frame as he walks.
"Hallo, Anne!"
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That jacket really does look absurdly good on him.
"How are you? That's a very nice jacket you have."
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Bran's smile, as he looks at Anne, is sincere but just the slightest bit stretched. "I am all right."
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There's a moment of awkwardness, before she smiles brightly again.
"Do you like pie?"
...Likely not the question he was expecting.
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"One moment."
There's a swirl of skirts and red-gold hair, and she's running lightly up the stairs, coming down a few moments later with a plate. With pie. Apple, to be precise--which she hands to him with a smile, and sits once again.
"Amy and I baked," she says, by way of explanation. And in her experience, pie, if it doesn't heal, at least helps most wordly ills.
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"It smells lovely," Bran says, admiring it from all angles. "Almost a shame, it would be, to eat it." Nevertheless, he takes a fork and bites. "Excellent bakers, you are."
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"Amy had never baked before, and we had ever so many apples--there's an apple tree out in the woods, you see, she and Gil and I went to gather them--so we decided to make pie."
She watches him with a small smile, though it is not from amusement.
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A tiny frown appears between her eyebrows, but she speaks lightly enough.
"Not very, which is why it was good for Amy to learn with. Haven't I told you about Gil before, Bran? Or maybe I didn't mention that he is here, now?"
She can only think that he didn't recognize the name.
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She'll take it up with Gilbert later.
"There are two parts," she says, lightly. "The crust, and the filling. The filling is made first, or by someone else, of apples and sugar and spices and a bit of flour and butter--and when the crust is rolled out, it's placed into the pans and filled. Another crust goes over it, and slits are cut to let them steam escape."
She smiles, slightly. "It isn't very interesting, unles you happen to enjoy baking."
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"I learned how to cook very early on in life, but for the longest time I was terrible at baking. I once flavored a cake with liniment instead of vanilla, and it was the most terrible thing."
Gray-green eyes consider the leaping patterns in the fire for a moment before she looks back at Bran.
"Luckily, I love baking, and learned from my name and varied mistakes."
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"Luckily for you, there's nothing wrong with that pie at all."
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It isn't really funny. The amusement fades from Bran's face.
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Cheer fades from the gray eyes, and the smile from her mouth. She begins to reach out, thinks better of it, and catches her hand back to her lap instead.
"...Bran?" Her voice is gentle. "I wish you would tell me what it is that's wrong."
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"Meg Giry was a friend. Not a very close friend, but a friend." Bran's hands tighten on the table, but he manages a smile.
"It is not really that, or not only. I had to tell my da that someone, a friend, was killed at Milliways. He always knew it was dangerous, but not that dangerous. And, well, he worries."
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"I never met her," she says, softly, "but I've heard of her, and I'm so sorry, Bran. Terribly so. Did--"
She hesitates, but continues gently.
"It doesn't seem as though anyone knew it could be so dangerous here. Your father is right to worry, I think, but it's a hard thing to tell anyone, especially someone who cares for your safety and worries for you. What did he say when you told him?"
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"He did not say much. He never does. It was the way he looked, and the things he did not say."
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"That's worse, sometimes," she says, soft. "Marilla scolds when things are not important, and is silent when they are. And Matthew never scolded at all--only looked terribly disappointed. And that hurt worst of all. Do you think he will be angry with you, for coming back here?"
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Anne's hand is warm and comforting in his.
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She thinks of a woman growing a bit older and a bit grayer, with the same small bun of pulled back hair, sitting alone on the porch of a rambling house.
"Perhaps he could come with you, sometime, to ease his mind a bit? But perhaps that wouldn't help. Even people here are worried. I'm worried, and so are my friends."
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The sound Bran makes is not quite a laugh. "I want to keep him safe too, of course."
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"He's your father. It would be terrible to see someone you loved like that be injured in any way."
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"Amy? She's one of the kindest girls I know, and a very dear friend. She helped me ever so much when I was here alone, you know."
She thinks, her eyes shining fondly.
"She's strong, and sweet, and charming. She knows how to dance and how to embroider, and how to peel an apple in one strip. I don't know what I'd have done, without her here."
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At least, Bran's glad Anne has that friend.
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"And I know she liked you, when you met. I really was terribly glad to hear it."
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