[Imogen] From Grant Park to Chinatown, she sits at a small corner table, a file folder taking up all the space that plates and glasses do not. At this time of night, the restaurant is nearly empty except for a group taking up several tables some ways away. Friends of the owners, they have been there all night and will likely remain there until well after closing.
Her voice is dimly audible as she completes a phone conversation, the words lost through the din and lack of context. When the call concludes she shuts the phone, setting it to rest on the table’s edge, and picks up an egg roll absently with one hand, turning a page in the folder with another.
She has not changed but in this light, it is impossible to tell that there are water-marks on her beige slacks. She’s removed her trench coat, her suit jacket, her short sleeved blouse showing the pale length of her arms, the defined curve of bicep and the line of tricep, the strength of forearm. A black tattoo peeks from beneath the sleeve, the shape of it undefinable from distance.
She takes a bite of her egg roll, careful to avoid crumbs on her work, and turns the page.
[Maija] Someone one pointed out that birds of a feather often flock together, and it has proven true again and again throughout the ages. It’s no different in Chicago, though many would wonder at the probability of the same two kin meeting randomly in two different places on the same night. It happens, though, which is evidenced by the opening of the door, and the entrance of a too-thin streetrat into the establishment. She pushes the hood of her sweatshirt off, letting it fall behind her, and pushing her hair back out of the way, attempting to smooth it at least a little bit. When approached, her voice does not carry beyond the one it is intended for.
“Order for Maija?”
It’s when the small woman trots off to get the order that Maija finally looks around. There are few people in Chicago that stand out as much as Imogen does, and recognition is instant. She hesitates only a moment, before calling out to the waitress, and pointing to the corner table. When she gets the nod, she makes her way over to Imogen’s table.
“Twice in one day. I’d ask if ya was stalkin me, but since your here first, might be the other way around.”
Look at that, she does have a sense of humor.
[Imogen] The kinwoman looks up as movement catches in the corner of her eye. As Maija approaches, she closes the file folder, leaning down to slide it into her brief case. The motion parts her back from the back of her chair, allowing the Bone Gnawer Kinfolk to see the gun at the base, should her eyes be in that direction, should she be quick enough.
By the time she reaches the table, Imogen has straightened and picked up her egg roll again, holding it easily between her fingers.
Her mouth quirks slightly at Maija’s quip, the expression born of mirth, though still closer to a smirk than a smile.
“Bein’ approached by those o’ th’blood seems t’be a theme fer me today,” she says. “Perhaps I should ha’ stayed home.” There is nothing cutting about the comment, nothing directed at the Gnawer Kinfolk.
She gestures with her egg roll toward the opposite chair. “Ha’ a seat.”
[Maija] “Ya mean half blood? Lesser blood?” There’s another brief smirk, and then she pulls out the chair and takes a seat. She peels out of her sweatshirt, something she doesn’t do very often, but the restaurant is warm and the fleece is damp. Better to warm up while she can before she heads home.
She digs out a twenty from her pocket, and hands it to the waitress who brings her bagged meal, and asks for a soda since she’ll be staying at least a little while. She finds her own eggrolls in her bag and pulls one free. She then states the obvious. “You do seem to be the welcome wagon lately.”
[Imogen] Maija mocks an earlier conversation and Imogen scoffs, the sound low in her throat.
“I believe I’ve seen a few full-bloods as well.”
Maija states the obvious and Imogen’s eyebrow arches. “Do I, then?” Perhaps not so obvious to the once-Fianna Kinfolk.
“Seems rather rough on the new-comers.” She dips the remaining end of her egg roll into the sweet and sour sauce and pops it into her mouth.
[Maija] A skinny shoulder lifts in a shrug, as she reaches up with her empty hand to slide the strap of her tank top back into place. She is a polite eater, for all the rumors about Gnawers and they’re table manners, and when she takes a bite she finishes chewing and swallowing before she speaks again.
“All th’better t’weed them out.” Like talking to the once-fianna kinfolk is such an ordeal. Which it hasn’t ever been for Maija, as nervous as she may be around the others.
“That guy.. Templeton? That really ‘is name?”
[Imogen] Her egg roll completed, Imogen turns to scooping vegetables and meat – a sort of chicken dish by look and smell – onto her plate with chopsticks. Her hands are delicate on the slender utensils, careful in their movements.
“It is,” she says. “Or at least, I imagine it is, as it’s the one that was given t’me.”
Her eyebrow arches slightly. “Why?”
[Maija] The waitress drops off her drink and change, the latter of which Maija tucks into her pocket. She then takes a drink, and unpacks another container from her bag. Pork fried rice. She is no stranger to chopsticks, and uses them well enough, though wihtout the grace and care that Imogen possesses.
“Ain’t never heard no one called Templeton before. S’all. S’kinda…” she pauses, takes a bite and gestures with her chopsticks. “Uppity soundin.”
[Imogen] Imogen pauses, her chopsticks poised in mid-air.
“You are speaking to a woman named Imogen about uppity sounding names.” The only betrayal of her humour is a twitch of a muscle at the corner of her mouth.
“Seems rather redundant, doesn’t it just?”
[Maija] She blinks. Pauses, her chopsticks halfway to her mouth as she looks over at Imogen… and then does the unthinkable. She actually laughs – briefly, and soft, but a laugh none-the-less as she looks back down at her rice and takes the bite.
“Point takin. Though ain’t there some singer up in Canada or some shit named Imogen? Only place I done heard Templeton is like in some classic novel or somethin’. They’re always rich pretty boys pining after some lady o’leisure.”
A beat. “Course, my name ain’t much better, I guess.”
[Imogen] “Imogen Heap,” she says. “She’s British. There’s also an Imogen Foulkes at BBC.” Her mouth twists. Humour, shockingly. “We ha’ a committee.”
She lowers her chop sticks, scooping through rice and meat to get a good mouthful, talking as she does. “In either case, s’his name as far as I know. Perhaps yeh can ask him its history the next time you meet.” She glances up, an eyebrow arching before she lifts the chopsticks and their food to her mouth.
[Maija] They have a committee. Maija snorts, amused, but nods.
Imogen arches a brow with her suggestion, and she shakes her head, slightly. “Ain’t that interested. Sides, if he do turn out t’be a pretty rich boy, I’d be like th’scullery maid, only I ain’t lookin for no one t’save me that cruel fate.”
She takes nods, slightly. “I think I done read too many romance novels…”
[Maija] (she takes nods. Yeah, that makes sense. she NODS.)
[Imogen] She shakes her head slightly. “I don’t believe he’s rich.”
Imogen sets down her chopsticks to pick up her water glass, taking a deep swallow before saying, “But I do believe yeh may ha’ read too many romance novels if ‘scullery maid’ is in yer vocabulary.”
A pause. Then, “What book are yeh reading now?”
[Maija] “True.” She grins a little, and settles back into her chair comfortably, the take out container held close as she makes her way through the rice and bits of fried pork.
“Still workin on Socrates. Takin it in small bits n pieces. Found one called Th’ girl with th’Dragon Tattoo in a free bin at th’ thrift store, an’ readin that for fluff in between th’heavy stuff.”
[Imogen] Her breath exhales, a near silent laugh.
“Socrates does require a bit o’ fluff in between.” Of course, Imogen has never read The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and likely never will. Her idea of fluff is probably far different from Maija’s.
They’re a strange pair – completely unlike the other. They have precisely two things in common: books and their blood. And either one can be considered tenuous at best.
[Maija] They have two things in common, and it’s not very much to build on. Oddly, though, it’s enough that Maija is more comfortable sitting here with Imogen than she has been with anyone else since coming to Chicago – except with Will.
Maija has never made friends easily, does not trust, does not open herself to others. Imogen doesn’t expect her too. It oddly works to make the small gnawer girl relax, enough to give a glmpse of the girl she once was, a long time ago.
“Will ‘ad a lotta books. I rescued as much as I could from his landlady when ‘e disappeared. Ain’t able t’read but half o’em though – the other halfs in Latin n’ French’ Russian even.”
[Imogen] A pause.
“I’ll drop off a book or two from my schooldays on learnin’ Latin t’ the Family BBQ.” A faint smirk touches her mouth. “Perhaps it will do yeh more good than they ever did me.”
It’s a conversation she could have with a human, a near stranger.
[Maija] She grins, a little, and nods.”Might. For all m’readin habits, ain’t been much of a school person.”
It’s unsurprisingly, really, when you consider that she dropped out of school in early Jr. High, and never had the chance to go back. “Thought about gettin my GED someday. Ain’t got around to it yet. Might now that th’name issue is all worked out.”
[Imogen] She smirks faintly, “Latin will not help yeh get yer GED.” Her plate is cleared now and she lays her chopsticks over her napkin. “I’ll drop it by, anyway.” A flick of her gaze toward the steel watch on her wrist, “I should go.”
She lifts her purse to her lap and counts out the cash to pay for her meal before sliding her coat on without getting up. She gets to her feet, settling her coat about her body, and looking down at Maija, still in the process of her meal.
“Yeh might see Mary Alice Bradford at Hill House about it,” she says, “I imagine they ha’ education classes t’help folks get their GED. Seein’ as yeh’re o’ the blood, I imagine she’ll find yeh a spot.” She leans forward, picking up her brief case from the floor, straightening. “Ha’ a good night”.
[Imogen] (swaps the order of my quotation marks and period)
[Maija] “Prolly not. But I’m dyin t’know what them book are…” There’s a bit of a smile, a little grin, an admittance to knowing her biggest curiosity lay in discovering what is between the covers of bound pages. It’s her weakness, and sometimes her strength as well.
She looks up as she gets the information about hill house, and Mary Alice. She nods, slightly. “Thanks. I will. G’night, Imogen.”