09-14-2016, 07:36 PM
"You know, you can use the voice-to-text feature in your phone and just talk into it-- it'll type for you."
Margot's tone of voice was know-it-all in a classroom sense. Yes, teacher, she knows the solution to the problem, and in fact she could even improve upon the project given the leeway to deviate from the lesson plan. The voice-to-text would no doubt be one of the numerous knowledges she exchanged with the old man. She said she didn't have shears but would see if she could find any (she didn't outright say that she couldn't spend the money on them but it could probably be deduced given her willingness to ask around and do legwork for them). And she said, simply, that she would be there.
Soon after the phone call she'd end up texting with Will.
Hey, did you talk to Nihm?
Guess we ought to go. Carpool? I'll pick you up.
Come Saturday the weather was overcast and cool, but at least it had stopped raining. Over the course of the week thunderstorms had pushed through the region and the tops of the mountains had received their first snows. The rain had been gone for a good 48 hour cycle by now, though, and while the jungle that was Arturo Nihm's yard was probably still a little damp it would still be fine for yardwork. Besides, they were wizards. They could just speed up the drying process if they particularly wanted to.
Margot's inconspicuous little dark-green sedan pulled along the grandiose driveway and up to the front of the house and parked wherever looked and felt natural and simultaneously out of the way (even though she was pretty sure the man never drove away from his sanctuary himself). She and Will would climb out of the car and immediately move around back to the trunk to carry the two heavy totes of collected garden tools together. Margot had dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt and pushed the sleeves up during the drive, with a pair of jeans that had the cuffs rolled up a few times so she wouldn't trod upon them, and a pair of battered but intact tennis shoes. Her hair was back in a ponytail (dark brown with glints of ruby peppered in at the temples, making thin fingers along her scalp reaching backward), and she had sunglasses pushed up onto the top of her head as well. She and Will had become engaged in pleasant enough conversation on the drive over, so to peer down upon them through a window (or other spying mechanism) would be to find the young Witchling with a smile on her face and chatting in good enough spirits.
"We had a big rhubarb plant behind my house. I tried to make pie once and failed, so we just ended up pickling and snacking on most of it. Radishes, too, though those are terrible for pie."
The tote carrying shears and gloves and bugspray and trowels was shouldered, and together they approached the front door. There was a brief debate on the way there as to whether they should just go around back or not and ultimately figured it was unwise to run the risk of springing any booby traps by walking through unescorted. They would knock first.
She left the knocking (or doorbell ringing, whatever) to William. When they had settled on the front stoop to wait for an answer the pleasantness faded from her features, leaving a more serious cast in its wake. Alert and cautious, but present all the same.
Margot's tone of voice was know-it-all in a classroom sense. Yes, teacher, she knows the solution to the problem, and in fact she could even improve upon the project given the leeway to deviate from the lesson plan. The voice-to-text would no doubt be one of the numerous knowledges she exchanged with the old man. She said she didn't have shears but would see if she could find any (she didn't outright say that she couldn't spend the money on them but it could probably be deduced given her willingness to ask around and do legwork for them). And she said, simply, that she would be there.
Soon after the phone call she'd end up texting with Will.
Hey, did you talk to Nihm?
Guess we ought to go. Carpool? I'll pick you up.
Come Saturday the weather was overcast and cool, but at least it had stopped raining. Over the course of the week thunderstorms had pushed through the region and the tops of the mountains had received their first snows. The rain had been gone for a good 48 hour cycle by now, though, and while the jungle that was Arturo Nihm's yard was probably still a little damp it would still be fine for yardwork. Besides, they were wizards. They could just speed up the drying process if they particularly wanted to.
Margot's inconspicuous little dark-green sedan pulled along the grandiose driveway and up to the front of the house and parked wherever looked and felt natural and simultaneously out of the way (even though she was pretty sure the man never drove away from his sanctuary himself). She and Will would climb out of the car and immediately move around back to the trunk to carry the two heavy totes of collected garden tools together. Margot had dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt and pushed the sleeves up during the drive, with a pair of jeans that had the cuffs rolled up a few times so she wouldn't trod upon them, and a pair of battered but intact tennis shoes. Her hair was back in a ponytail (dark brown with glints of ruby peppered in at the temples, making thin fingers along her scalp reaching backward), and she had sunglasses pushed up onto the top of her head as well. She and Will had become engaged in pleasant enough conversation on the drive over, so to peer down upon them through a window (or other spying mechanism) would be to find the young Witchling with a smile on her face and chatting in good enough spirits.
"We had a big rhubarb plant behind my house. I tried to make pie once and failed, so we just ended up pickling and snacking on most of it. Radishes, too, though those are terrible for pie."
The tote carrying shears and gloves and bugspray and trowels was shouldered, and together they approached the front door. There was a brief debate on the way there as to whether they should just go around back or not and ultimately figured it was unwise to run the risk of springing any booby traps by walking through unescorted. They would knock first.
She left the knocking (or doorbell ringing, whatever) to William. When they had settled on the front stoop to wait for an answer the pleasantness faded from her features, leaving a more serious cast in its wake. Alert and cautious, but present all the same.