Myrtle
The library was a welcome respite from the biting cold. The temperatures had dipped down recently, and the rather long walk from Creedie's house to the library had been nothing short of torturous. But her tumbledown cottage hardly protected her from the cold, and she had to save up her firewood for the evenings, so lately she'd been finding refuge elsewhere during daylight hours.

Creedie pulled down the scarf that'd been protecting her face and neck as she greeted the librarian with a smile; it wasn't returned. She settled on a sneer as she stalked over to one of the oak tables nestled between the shelves and settled in. Although Briar Ridge seemed to be more accepting, Creedie had found that not everyone was quite as willing to integrate. She tried to shake it off as she pulled a rather worn, leatherbound notebook out of her rucksack and flipped to the last entry. 

Instead of words, the notebook was full of plant pressings: samples that Creedie had collected over the past few months. These journals (as this one was only the latest in a collection she'd amassed over the years) were a culmination of her passion for learning about the natural world and the basis for her budding business. For a small price, Creedie prepared tinctures and elixirs that healed common ailments like colds and toothaches. For a higher price, she could prepare potions that solved... Other things. And lately with all that'd been going on, folks were hungry for what Creedie offered.

It wasn't uncommon for Creedie to run into unfamiliar plants and add them to her pressings journal and identify them later. But this plant... She'd yet to identify it. Creedie let out a sigh as she stood and began perusing the shelves, searching for a book that had an answer for her. It was slow work so far, as Creedie wasn't much for reading. She'd had to leave school early, but it was starting to come back to her the more time she spent in the library.

Still, though. Creedie found herself having to sound words out loud to understand half of what she was reading. It was embarrassing, and she was grateful for her solitude in the library so she could continue her investigation in privacy.
Martin
As luck would have it, Creedith wasn't the only person that had low stores of firewood this winter. That was sort of the way of things with showing up in Briar Ridge partway through the year, busier looking over one's shoulder than preparing for the cold to come. With his cottage's open drafty rooms and hole in the second floor ceiling yet to be mended by Liam Whitaker, Elias spent plenty of days keeping himself busy elsewhere. 

Of course, he wouldn't leave his girl to fend for herself in the cold either. Poppy, his German Shepherd, had been settled down just inside the lobby, if it could really be called that, little entry room that it was, with coats and canes and whatever else studious folks brought on their way in. Elias had convinced the librarian that she would be good and remain in the lobby. Poppy, the Shepherd, had used her big brown eyes to agree with him that she couldn't be left out in the cold. So it was that the big dog curled up on the tiled floors just inside gave the girl a glance as she entered, but little more.

The doctor, on the other hand, had given her a glance, and a second one, and a third. All behind the secrecy of a shelf of books of course, peering just over their edges. He'd noticed first, the leatherbound journal that she produced from her belongings. He studied for a moment the way she handled it with care, and squinted a little as if he could discern the nature of the pressed plants therein.

The second glance had come because he found her very pretty but also very young-looking. From his best estimation, she could be no older than eighteen or nineteen, but then, he never really was very good at estimating the age of women. No sooner had she looked liable to glance upward than he looked back at the book in his own hands. Why he'd thought a compilation of Farm Press, circa 1906-1912 would contain some answer to the mystery he sought to solve was anyone's best guess, but it was snapped shut and set down with a sigh.

Briar Ridge's literary offerings were really very, very slim. He'd asked, demanded, and implored the librarian to be on high alert for medical journals or even newspaper findings that might pass through this little holler, and made it worth her while too. Just three weeks past, she'd nabbed a newspaper folded and refolded so many times it'd gone blurry on the creases. There were rings of stains from a coffee mug too. Battered though it was, somewhere deep in Page 18, there were findings out of Austria of a pioneering physician studying the typing of blood, and how the findings could bring people back from death's brink. 

Surely there could be wisdom unearthed, even in these lines of old tomes, beyond crops and weather and catastrophes. His eyes traced the faded binding of The Lancet vol. 174. It was over twenty years old and still he'd read it half a dozen times in this very library, as well as the ones that flanked it. They were of scattered ages with no rhyme nor reason to when they'd been acquired.

No sooner had he lifted his hand to pull out the old book once again, than her voice met his ears through the shelves. With most of Briar Ridge's inhabitants hard at work and the rest keeping warm by their firesides, there was almost no one else there. Of course, her privacy was infringed upon by his eavesdropping. It occurred to Elias that she may have been younger than he thought, judging by her struggle in sounding out words. But then, it was a bit surprising that she could read at all, as a woman (girl?) of color.

"It's homeopathic," He said, pushing a few books to tilt so that he could meet her eyes through the shelves. "You musn't forget the second o. It's full of nonsense anyway. One should never trust a German." As if this were a perfectly polite way to approach someone, he seemed to have no empathy towards hesitation or embarrassment. "What are you looking for anyway?" A glance went towards the journal at the old oak tables behind her, and something he thought of just then caused him to shut up the notion of saying anything else entirely presumptuous just yet.
Myrtle
*"It's homeopathic." *

Creedie just about jumped out of her skin when she heard the disembodied voice correct her. So concentrated she'd been in deciphering the book in her hands, she hadn't noticed anyone else in the library, let alone in the alcove just a shelf over from her. Instinctively, she snapped the book shut. She could feel heat creeping up along her cheeks. 

"Didn't anyone teach you that sneakin' up on people is rude," Creedie asked pointedly, her Southern lilt softening some of the harshness she'd meant to impress.

She raised an eyebrow and stared into the small hole in the books from where the voice came from. All she could really tell about who the voice belonged to was that he was a man. Typical. Creedie looked down at the book she was holding, a thick tome bound in black leather. *Species Graminum*, it read in peeling gold-leaf letters. The young woman pushed the book back on the shelf, blocking the space the man had been using to watch her. 

He was right, of course, in a roundabout way. Gramineae was the wrong family, and anyways only a fraction of the book had been translated from Latin to English. She'd waste her whole life trying to find what she needed from that book. Creedie crossed her arms and huffed, but she couldn't help herself. Curiosity drove most of her actions, even if at times it led to reckless abandon – why stop now? She pulled the book back out of the shelf so she could meet his eyes once more: they were a striking shade of blue. 

"I'm lookin' for some information on a plant I collected a few months ago, near some swamps real deep in the woods," She offered. "That anything you'd be knowledgeable about?"

Foraging was something Creedie had done all her life, but using literature to aid in the identification process was new to her. Back home, she knew the trees and shrubs and vines better than she knew herself. She knew that greenbrier was thorny and painful, but that its roots were good for eating and its stem was good for treating rheumatism. She knew that mayapple could kill you just as quick as it could be used to make the jelly on her toast in the mornings. 

Here in Briar Ridge, the local flora were still strangers to her. Creedie figured she could use whatever help she could get.
Martin
Growing up with a mother rooted in Nordic frigidity, two competitive brothers, and then educated in the lecture rooms of John Hopkins full of young men just as arrogant as he, *Rude* Was not something he'd considered often. Of course, he needed to be at least passing polite as he'd become a professional man in the social circles of New York. But so many of his young age had eschewed the era of Edwardian formality for swinging circles full of something raucous, something bright.

And here he was, in some sad excuse for a library, in a middle of nowhere holler, being scolded for his poor manners by a young girl. The idea was enough to make him laugh. He didn't laugh though. He was shut up at once by the sharp gleam of her dark eye through the shelves. Fixed on him. 

Just as he came to focus on it, it blinked away, a book shoved into place to obscure the view. Probably better that way, he assumed, these two still as perfect strangers on either side of the shelf. His eyes had just swung around to look down the length of dusty spines making irregular lines along old oak when the whisper of the book sliding free brought his eyes up again. Catching her gaze, his eyebrows perked. 

The silence seemed to hang a while on the end of her question, and it was evident he was thinking. Probably how to say something that *Wasn't* Rude. The worlds of well-to-do doctors and spirited girls sounding out words were usually kept well apart. So he couldn't help but ask, "Why would *You* Be deep in the woods?" His voice was low, the accent a muddled mix of high society affectation with the lilting ghost of Scandinavian immigrant.

Presumptuous intonation gave her just enough time to roll her eyes before his own blue gaze disappeared. Bootheels whispered a soft staccato against mopped hardwoods. The lanky, fair-haired doctor rounded to her side of the shelf, looking every bit as obnoxious as he sounded in tasteful navy cable knit and brown tweed. He approached her journal rather than her, ginger in flipping a few pages as if he'd been given every invitation. Rude was still probably the right word for him.

"There are a terrible lot of herbs one might identify," He said, glancing up from a page of flattened digitalis. Even crushed and dry, the petals of vibrant magenta shone bright against beige parchment, hearkening to summer fields far away in time from this chilly library. His eyes raised towards her. "Why does this aforementioned... Swamp plant have your attention?"
Myrtle
When one poses a question, they open themselves up to a world of possibilities. Creedie knew this, and yet she still found herself mighty surprised when her new companion rounded the corner and invited himself to flip through the pages of her pressings journal. 

The first thing she noticed about him was his height. He was tall; even taller than Creedie. The soft light in the library bounced off his light hair, which was kept in a sophisticated and modern style. His clothing was maintained in a similar fashion – it was clear to Creedie he came from wealth. New or old, hoarded or squandered – this she couldn't determine yet. She indulged in staring a beat too long while he thumbed through her journal, his attention turned away from her. She was certain she'd seen him in town before, but she couldn't put a name to the face.

Creedie cleared her throat. 

"I-I like to make notes about plants I ain't ever seen before. You never know when one might be useful." Creedie stammered before her voice found its strength. She cursed silently to herself for feeling so suddenly unsure of herself. She was hyper aware of her own dress, which was decidedly shabbier than his. Her trousers and coat matched: they were a drab, gray color, adorned with patches and frays. Her navy scarf was still around her neck, and though her old boots still had plenty of life in them, they certainly weren't the most contemporary design.

Creedie took a step closer to him, and reached out to gently drag the journal back towards herself. Years on the tracks had made her wary of strangers handling her things, although Creedie was certain nothing of hers would be worth stealing for a man like him. 

"You seem like the type to know lots about things," She started with a grin playing on her lips, "So I'm guessin' you probably don't know what this is. Since you're answering my question with a question, that is."
Martin
While Creedie seemed to struggle with confidence for a tick, he seemed oblivious. Thoughtful with the pages, Elias could recognize the care that had gone into this journal. He had stacks of his own at home. It was decidedly different, however, from those lining his shelves. The handwriting, the spacing, the order of it, all spoke to a different sort of mind. Inquisitive and perhaps even a little impulsive in ways that higher education had not broken her of. 

His eyebrows quirked up as the journal was pulled away from him. He looked up at her, half annoyed, half bemused at her asserting claim over her own damn property. Bemusement won the battle, fanned on by her flattering words of his potential knowledge. Though the man played a good and dry poker face, there was something of caprice in him, that much could be sure. 

"You do a lot of guessing," He said, glancing down to her journal, and gesturing for her to slide it back, with a small come hither of the hand, "But you are not always correct." Even a stranger could recognize the subtle dare in his expression. "An answer for an answer, hm?"
 

||
Myrtle
Like a doe that's picked up on the slightest rustling of leaves, Creedie's ears pricked up at Elias' question. Her attitude shifted almost instinctively, but rather than prey, her demeanor was instead reminiscent of a cat playing with a mouse. Sure, maybe she did qualify her own statements with an 'I guess' here and there, but if there was one thing she knew, it was how to recognize a dare. A taunt? No, he didn't seem to be that antagonistic. For now. 

Creedie's eyes, averted towards the pages before her, snapped up at him, gleaming with newfound life. His expression confirmed what she already knew. An eyebrow raised, and she couldn't help keep herself from smirking. She found his uninvited presence and subsequent evasiveness annoying, but his interest in her pressings was refreshing. He wasn't trying to buy something from her, and she didn't have to put on airs. Acting the part was just as important as the service when it came to fortune telling and calling on the dead.

"Now then," Creedie started, handing the journal back over to Elias, "I'm acceptin' your terms, but you've gone and asked more than one question. So which one do you really want answered?" She leaned a hip against the table, continuing on in a playful tone, "Seems an unfair trade, otherwise." 

||
Martin
Growing up, Elias had spent summer days fishing with his brothers. Most of this involved scrambling up to low-hanging boughs, whooping, and shouting, and diving down in the "Search" Of fish. But once in a while their bait left to float aimlessly, suspended from propped rods, would submerge with a splash. A thrashing around would follow, if one of the boys was quick enough. 

He knew that enough that he had her on the hook. Though she was just bobbing for now. Of course, he would never presume it was he who was the fish. Across the span of that old oak table, these two stifled grins at each other like they knew something the rest of the world didn't.

He almost dared to stop hiding his grin as the journal came back his way. "Well..." He said, thumbing through the pages. It was types of men like him that sometimes liked to draw out their thoughts with long spaces, as if each self-important word demanded a lot of breathing room around it. 

"I think the question I shall go with is..." A few of the pages caught his attention as he did a quick peruse through the journal, little ticking sounds of his mouth indicating the process of thought. Rotating it at one point to read some of her sideways scrawling, his brows lofted in surprise, before turning the journal right back around. "What are you doing wandering around in swamps?" Raising his eyes back to her, he set the book back down on the table, open to the page with the pressing of the unidentified plant in question.

"Alone," He added, seemingly as an afterthought after studying the angles of her face with no regard for what some would consider an extended amount of time. 


||
Myrtle
What *Was* She doing wandering around in the woods alone? Creedie didn't answer him immediately. Instead, she rolled her eyes and grinned widely, hoping her dazzling smile and incongruous expression would buy her a moment. She could easily admit to the truth: she was collecting specimens for her collection. *Collection of what*, she could already hear him following up. A collection of herbs and plants that she relied upon to concoct stores of potions, some being remedies of the body and others being remedies of the spirit. This fella didn't seem like the type to be too interested in matters of the spirit, though. 

His stare lingered on Creedie as he awaited her answer, and she found it unnerving. But perhaps he'd taken notice of her watching as he thumbed through her journal and was simply returning the feeling. She liked the way his hands looked when they flipped through the pages: thoughtful, considerate, relaxed. He was in his environment around books, that much Creedie could ascertain. But she was alarmed at the discovery that she'd found some perverse enjoyment of his hands. Creedie buried that insight deep down to be analyzed at a later time (or perhaps never again). 

"I collect plants that I think could be useful. Good eatin', medicinal. That sort of thing," She shrugged. 

A half-truth. It dawned upon Creedie that recent events in town had changed the dynamic of social interactions. With the revelation that the town Sheriff had been a werewolf, terrorizing Briar Ridge residents, everyone was looking at each other with suspicion. Were there other werewolves living amongst them? Any actions outside of the norm could accidentally paint a stinking, hairy, scarlet letter on Creedie's chest. 

She leaned forward, tapping on the page of her journal, her eyes intensely fixed on Elias. 

"Now then, Mister, it's my turn. Do you recognize this flower?"
Martin
Her smile would have lit up that chilly library room if it'd met her eyes. For a moment, he even had the inkling to smile back. It was ignored. While someone with better social graces may have nodded acceptingly at her explanation, he furrowed his brows instead. Head ticked to the side, something here struck him as slightly off. 

Where was her mother? Her father, or a sibling perhaps? Sure, plenty of girls and women wandered woodlands for the sake of herbalism, but not these woodlands. Not here. And never alone. Bright, clever, and curious as she was, there was something vulnerable on her that piqued his curiosity. Perhaps it was that deep south slant to her words that only feigned sweetness. The intrigue of this town played out, unspoken, between them, and for a long moment it seemed he would not make good on his end of the bargain. 

"I do not recognize it," He finally said, never looking back down at the petite pink flower, "So I presume it is not of much use, medicinally, as you say." 

He shrugged, and that seemed to be the end of that. But before she could take her journal back away and be done with him, a "However," Cleared space for itself. 

Once again thumbing through the pages he'd only just familiarized himself with, he counted out the number in his mind before landing back on the flattened yellow petals. A subtle ring of red oil sat around the shape of each yellow petal, soaked into the page.

"*Perforatum*," He said, "A quite useful plant for many ailments. I'm sure it is one of the first you learned. Or were taught?" There was a question in the way he looked at her, but he continued. "And I see you've written most of those uses down. A very good list of them, to be honest. I have not heard of the use of it for insomnia. However, there is one quite important ailment, missing. An ailment of the mind." He paused. Though she was not a formally educated colleague, psychological ailments were still a very new subject for the world of medicine stepping away from spirituality. "Have you heard the word *Melancholia*?"

||
Myrtle
Skilled actress though she was, Creedie couldn't hide the disappointment in her face when the man across from her could not identify the flower she'd been working on. 

*What in the Lord's name could it be?* 

He'd dismissed it as unusable, a fact that didn't surprise her. Men always had a way of dismissing knowledge passed down woman to woman; even if they didn't know that's how the knowledge was transmitted. It was only when a man fancied himself the discoverer that he accepted an idea. They were conquistadors of land, culture, and knowledge. Creedie had learned from a young age that the only way to make a man listen was to convince him her ideas were his first. 

The young woman also accepted that this man had invited himself into her space, and he wouldn't be leaving until his curiosity had been sated. Creedie didn't mind, exactly. She still couldn't surmise whether this interaction was adversarial or not, but she found it intriguing nonetheless. Why had he taken such an interest in her? 

Creedie sat down in the chair next to her, unconsciously (or perhaps slyly) signaling that her guard was down. For now. She reached over and slid her journal back toward herself, peering at what Elias had noted. This motion caused a wayward curl to find its way in front of her face, which she tucked behind her ear. She kept
Her hair cropped relatively short, for convenience, but the consequence of this was a rather unruly mane that had a way of constantly
Escaping from hair ties.

"*Melancholia*," She started slowly, "That's not somethin' I've heard of before. St. John's Wort treats... Sadness?" 

Creedie's brow furrowed as she looked down at her own handwriting. She didn't know sadness needed treating. She was also unsurprised to find that this was something she would be unfamiliar with. Folks like Creedie didn't have the luxury of languishing in their own misery.

"'N how would you know this, anyways," Creedie asked pointedly, glancing back up at Elias as she did so. 

It was the question that both had silently asked of the other, but she had finally said it aloud. Creedie flipped back to the mystery flower, a light pink bulbous shape that taunted her with its mystery. 

"You said there's no known use for this. Maybe we outta find out for ourselves," She added with a sly grin.
Martin
With her guard down, it seemed she had diffused his own. Her slyness was too discreet for him to analyze but he fell victim to it entirely, and took the seat across the table from her. 

Her wild curl, like everything else about her, had to be inspected by that exacting blue gaze before it was tamed behind her ear. His instinct was to touch it, to inspect the texture. But of course, his eyes would have to gather the only information he could. Something about her hair reminded him of chervil, the sweet-smelling wild herb that grew rampant in the French countryside of May. Perhaps it was the endless clusters of delicate green fronded leaves. Or maybe still, the sprays of dainty white flowers that came around June, refusing to be tamed to their stalks. 

"Ah... *Melancholia*, yes," He said, snapping back to attention. "It is not exactly sadness, no, for sadness has reason. More an illogical grief, the dark depth of mourning, though the sufferer has usually not lost anything. You would think think..." His words trailed off. Though he could truly rattle on when he found himself interesting, he suddenly puzzled over the idea that *She* May not find his rambling interesting. That was a novel concept for him.

He gave a ghost of a grin at her questioning of his knowledge but no answer. Framed by that expression, there were circles a faint shade of purple under his eyes, easy to lose in the winter pallor of his skin, until someone really looked at him. 

"What makes you so interested in this flower?" There lay that mixed accent, usually subtle but heavy on the last word. Flower. The inflection on both syllables soft, the r nearly fading away all together, the whole sound light enough that it was liable to blow away on wind. It confirmed what she already knew. Like her, he did not belong here.

He was still at it of course, that same game, a question for a question. Evidenced by the way he perched his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together for his chin to rest atop the back of his hands. The mischievous expression he gave her needled her not to be sly. To tell him the truth, and perhaps he would do the same.
Myrtle
Creedie was frustrated by her companion, not for the first time. She had been hoping for a fellow partner-in-crime; someone who was willing to either lead or be led into the unknown, with her. But Elias didn't give her much to go on. A grin, a long(ing) stare, a sigh. And yet, the lack of compelling answers compelled Creedie to keep digging, keep chasing, like a hunting dog sniffing out its prey.

She observed the way he readjusted himself on table. He was lost in his own thoughts for a moment as he explained what melancholia meant. It was easy for Creedie to get lost with him, and for a moment forgot she was supposed to be having a conversation with him. When was the last time she'd had an easygoing, back-and-forth with anyone? That didn't involve some sort of sleight-of-hand or transaction? Conversation for its own sake? To get to know one another, dare she think. His question drew Creedie back into the present. 

"My mamma showed me it once. Told me it had some uses, but I can't remember now for the life of me. I figure it might heal, or maybe hurt. But these days, a little hurtin' might be helpful. What with these monsters all 'round." 

Monsters. What the hell was going on Briar Ridge, anyways? Creedie was no stranger to hauntings, darkness, or the supernatural. But to see its effects with her own eyes, so abruptly and violently, was something else entirely. Though she tried to push it out of her mind, these things were impossible not to think about when she wandered out alone. 

"If we're still tit for tat, what's your name, anyways?" 

||
Martin
The girl's slanting drawl and dropped letters were an abuse of the English language. He'd had a professor when he was just an adolescent that turned red in the face every time young Elias had pronounced 'lose' and 'loose' in the very same way, with a soft s. That accent perpetuated occasionally in his adult speech as well. He imagined that professor would have a stroke listening to the girl before him. Elias, however, found something melodic in it.

His eyes narrowed at the mention of *Monsters*. Even trying to get a gauge on her, it was impossible to ascertain if honing in on this plant was just a stab in the dark at harming the beasts that cursed these lands or more of an intuition. 

In this age of charlatans and false divining, there was a great deal of study that went into something like intuition. It wasn't something to be dismissed entirely, even he had to admit that. And if he were to be entirely frank, which he rarely was, he'd put his money on something like intuition being carried straight on down in bloodlines. Mentions of her *Mamma* Seemed to whisper a confirmation somewhere in the back of his brain.

"My name is Elias." It was eh-*Lee*-ess, as he said it, unlike the way many Americans might venture towards that name. He considered for half a second shaking her hand, but thought better of it, lowering his own hands beneath the table. It was the wet snout against his palm, unseen under that oaken surface, that brought surprise to his expression. He even tried to hide it, as well as the presence of the large shepherd dog that had found him, but the librarian's annoyed voice ratted him out.

"*Doctor Olander* If you insist on bringing that dog in here, you cannot leave her unattended!" The librarian hissed from her desk, an intimidating hybrid between a shout and a whisper. 

He opened his mouth to argue that the dog wasn't unattended if she was right beside him, was she? But he closed it instead and offered the librarian a placating smile.

Poppy offered Creedie's knees a curious sniff beneath the table before she trotted out, large tail swinging as if she had a secret. Her human, the fair-haired man now rising, looked only a little sheepish. Clicking his tongue, the dog heeled at his side. 

"I suppose I should get her back outside," He sighed, ignoring the librarian staring daggers at his back. "If you do find out more about your flower..." He seemed weighed with indecision for a few blinks. "Well, you can find me at the old Avery cottage," He said at last, "The blue house by the bridge. I have something that might interest you."
Dana
*This thread has ended!!!*