Lá Bealtaine [open thread, come one come all]

[mnemosyne]

That sidelong glance (you think so?) from Emmett has Éva lifting her chin in a quiet sort of challenge. Her mouth is still curved from it when her dark eyes return to the young Fian who addresses her, politely, as Miz. "Call me Éva," she invites or instructs, tipping her dark head to the girl and Emmett as she drifts away.

A grateful gleam for Sarah Carey as she shoos away the old man chewing her ear off about right-of-ways and deeds and surveyors and misdeeds of this century and the last and the one before that. Sarah offers a safe place in her home for Ellie whenever the girl gets tired, and Éva thanks her, graciously. Does not say that tomorrow is a school day, and they will slip out before the night gets raucous. That would be rude, and Éva will not be rude to her hostess.

By the time Emmett finds her again, Éva is holding her bottle of spring water in her right hand, uncapping it with her left. The bottle is dripping wet from the slurry of melting ice in the coolers. She wipes her damp palms on the thighs of her jeans, leaving dark marks on the denim, and cuts Emmett a half-glance, taking in his profile as he takes in the spectacle of the bonfire. They are far enough away from it that the heat is no more than a suggestion, but close enough to hear the roar.

"Well," she returns, her voice low-pitched but distinct. Distinctive. Her dark eyes slide away from his profile, here and lace through the crowd, the familiar faces distorted by the dusk, the movement of the flames, the individual decisions to let fucking go and - " - and well enough."

The edge of her half-smile hooks wry. Emmett will not see it, but he may hear the slightly irreverent edge of it in her quiet voice. "Last week I had the questionable pleasure of squeezing in a business trip to Williston, North Dakota. I can't say that I recommend it, unless you're an oil company executive or a stripper." She tips back the bottle and swallows a mouthful of water.

There is a conversational equilibrium here. Both Emmett and Éva watch the crowd more than they glance at each other. She stands flanking him rather than facing him, but her eyes cut here and there to his profile - the full beard, the too-long hair curling over his collar, and so they do now. Her head is canted toward him, tipped upward, dark hair still coiled into a crisply professional chignon. No more than a lock or two out of place, even at this hour, with a cool wind rising over the fields to taunt the flames.

There's Ellie, playing with a short-haired, black-furred dog the size of a young bear, which is rolling around on its spine, delighting the children. Emmett comments that the girl has made a new friend. Éva makes a soft sound at the back of her throat, a quiet hmmph, full of an affection so dark and depthless that - for a sure and breathless moment - it changes everything about her. The careful distance of her stance, the easy solemnity of her half-smile, the air of reserve that infuses the air around her all dissolve into something else, entire - deep and savage and primal.

"So she is. Poor Ellie. She didn't know whether to be thrilled or scandalized that she's being allowed to stay up two hours later than her bedtime on a school night. I think she compromised and settled for a combination of the two."

While they watch, a rumor ripples through the small knot of children about flower-crowns and three girls (two red-headed Carey-relatives, and dark-haired Ellie) jump up and peel off with a few others through the crowd. The dog lopes in their wake, big shaggy paws and a big shaggy head, delighted to distraction by this new game of running! places!

"What about you?" As the children move through the crowd. That edge again, mildly sardonic, layered over something deeper and richer and private. Interest, or concern perhaps, though a quiet sort that does not feel intrusive or hectoring. "I am glad to see you. How are you?"