Chapter Text
Magda is sitting by the window when the news reaches her, in the form of a disgruntled Bong Cha.
"A new one's coming."
Half the town is lounging in the bar. There's Connor in the corner, fiddling with God-knows-what, which is making a distinct smell that's best left undescribed.
Then there's Jeremiah and his father by the counter bickering in their usual casual way; Jodie's opposite to them, and by the way she's been scrubbing that glass, she could wipe it clean from existence in a moment.
Frankie's nowhere to be seen, but with no doubt she was the first to be alerted of this new arrival. Bong Cha has long been part of Frankie's web of informants, and Magda pities her.
She, on the other hand, is only humouring Frankie's delusions of grandeur – mainly for the money she needs to live – and could kill each of her henchmen in her sleep. Her back protests as she shifts in her seat to get a better view of the street. Oh, alright: she could kill them while wide awake, and after a considerably lengthy session of stretching her old bones.
Ageing is a curse, but she's no Dorian Gray: she still has her strengths, thank you very much. For example, she can tell, as the new lady unsteadily makes her way across the street and into the bar, that she is not a spy, nor a drug dealer, nor a hitwoman. She is one of those—
"'Wrong place, wrong time', says Graham," Bong Cha whispers, just before the woman makes her entrance.
Magda tries to conjure a neutral expression. But there's always been that excited glint in her eyes whenever she studies something new, and she doubts it's faded with time.
The woman is about her age, maybe a bit younger, even if the multiple folds on her forehead tell of centuries of grief. Of course she's had to leave a loved one behind – haven't they all?
Magda closes her eyes shut to drive away a memory of warmth. Then she opens them again, just in time to hear the woman's mouth give shape to a shaky greeting. Magda checks if the door is closed, fearing a gust of wind could disintegrate the newcomer in tiny particles of dust.
Jeremiah answers, obviously. There's a tiny smile on the woman that distracts Magda from her analysis – native Australian, from Melbourne, higher education in mathematics – and she frowns at her sloppiness.
Heather (that's the name she greeted them with) scans the room in search of a place to sit. Of which there are plenty, and Magda wouldn't blame her if she chose to join the only friendly face in the bunch who had the good manners to greet her in response.
Instead, it occurs to her that Heather is taking a step, and then another, and then a final one and then she's sitting opposite to her. And she's not smiling anymore – who would in this graceless of a city, if not out of courtesy? But beneath the sadness and the exhaustion, there's the puzzling hint of... curiosity.
"I like to sit by the window," she says, by way of an apology. "It's the best way to—”
"People-watch," Magda finishes with her. "You must be feeling the urge to appraise the townsfolk. I don't blame you."
She did that too, when she first arrived. Although she doubts someone as common as this woman could arrive to accurate deductions as easily and efficiently as her.
Heather cocks her head slightly to the side. "Yes. I'm not sure I've caught your name." She twirls the end of her plait in a pensive manner.
"I haven't told you."
Magda finds herself inadvertently wishing to toy with her. As good a distraction as any, she thinks.
The woman keeps on staring at her, patient. "I know," she says. She probably wishes to distract herself too.
Her voice is deeper than Magda would have guessed, and it relaxes an unspecified muscle under her neck – she can usually name every anatomic part of the human body, but right now she doesn't care to. Heather's fingers are now entwined over the table, Magda's on her lap.
The entire bar is watching them.
Magda smiles, almost imperceptibly, like the Mona Lisa. "It's Magda," she relents. If the woman wants to start with her in her quest to acquaint herself with the town, then so be it. She is pretty, anyway, so Magda can forgive her.
"Ah," Heather says, her eyebrows moving slightly upwards. "I was expecting something more Russian sounding."
It takes all of Magda's concentration not to look surprised. Yes, there is something Slavic about her, but Heather doesn't sound tentative about her guess. As if it's not a guess at all.
Heather shrugs. "But then again, it's fake, right? Just like mine."
"Indeed," Magda answers under her breath.
Were she still in her youth, she'd take this as an affront, a challenge, an attempt at igniting some sort of rivalry. But even if old habits die hard, she could use an astute interlocutor to fill her days with titillating conversations. And Heather seems innocuous enough.
On her part, Heather is not looking at her anymore, elbow propped on the table and chin resting on her hand. She glances at the buildings across the street without purpose. "I can get used to Heather. I like botany."[1]
"You enjoy every branch of science, you mean to say, since you studied mathematics," Magda says to try and re-establish the asymmetric nature of all her interactions with others. But, by virtue of the necessity of the attempt itself, it lacks some force.
There's a shadow on Heather's face now, and Magda can't decide if it's due to a cloud covering the sun, or if the mere implication of her having a life before Misery Bay left her aching to return to it. Either way, the shadow passes as quickly as it came.
"Yes. Say, Magda," Heather says and glances back at her, "I was advised not to divulge anything about myself, but there's no hiding from you, is there?" She blinks slowly, almost cat-like.
"I don't usually say this, Heather, but," Magda says and pushes her glasses up her nose, "you started it."
Heather is getting up now. "I did," she says, quickly sweeping invisible crumbs from her coat. And as she slides the chair under the table, she leaves with an enigmatic: "I wonder if you'd like to continue."
Well, that was certainly une sortie théâtrale[2], Magda thinks. She waits a couple of minutes in complete and absorbed silence, her mind a raging storm of desires, warnings, and an incessant, primal need to follow the woman.
Then she gets up, figuring a walk would be better beneficial to excogitate a plan of action. She's at the door when she hears Jodie speak and remembers there were other people in the room, apart from Heather and her.
"Did we just witness some sort of mating ritual?" the woman asks, probably thinking Magda's already left.
There's the sound of scraping chairs, like someone is trying to hide under a table. "I don't know," says the unmistakable voice of Connor, "either way I'm keeping the hell away from them."
"You? You're not scared of aliens but you're scared of lesbians?" Bong Cha asks in a mocking tone.
There's a snort, coming from either Jeremiah or his father.
"I'm not scared. Lesbians are the reason I haven't been able to contact aliens yet. That one time up North, I was minding my own business when—”
Magda takes that as her cue to leave.