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[personal profile] blue_ajah
It happens slowly, as most things worth having do.

Moiraine has sorted through the clothes that Lucy bought for her with Harry Truman's money, selecting those that she feels comfortable with and carefully folding those that she does not. The latter she returns to the suitcase and stores at the back of the closet; the former she continues to wear. Long denim skirts matched with cotton and flannel shirts -- even though such things are a far cry from the silk and wool gowns of her youth and adulthood, she is able to adapt.

She is becoming accustomed to the deep and abiding restlessness that she thinks is a legacy of the habits of a life lived without peace, and finds ways to appease it. She spends time at the library, searching through dusty old histories and forgotten files. Eventually, after watching her work, the librarian's demeanor unbends from suspicion of an outsider into something of austere approbation, and Moiraine is given access to genealogical records and handwritten letters, as well.

Occasionally she meets with Pete Martell. She accepts coffee when he offers it -- by now she can even drink it without distaste, although she fears she will never have true affection for the bitter brew -- and listens to his story about the time the fish got into the percolator, as well as the other tales that come to his mind, of this and that family, this event and that story. There is much to be learned from such ramblings, she knows; and if there is something of comfort and familiarity in the seeking, it is something of a grace.

(Catherine Martell does not make her presence known during these meetings, although Moiraine is well aware that she is not unobserved. It is of no great import; she can wait, and has had enough of dealings in the past with similar individuals such that she is not overly concerned.)

Sometimes they play chess. She does not win every game, by no means, but neither does she always lose, and she thinks that the challenge pleases him. Pete tells her the names of others she might talk to in Twin Peaks and elsewhere, such as the library in Seattle and the historical collections there. The former she makes note of, with intent to follow up; when he mentions the latter, she nods and demurs, at least for now, the same as she does when he suggests that she might enjoy fishing.

On some days she walks in one direction or another (excepting always the routes which might lead to certain sycamore groves), breathing in the scent of the air and becoming accustomed to it. She does not drive, of course, and cannot truly fathom what might be involved in learning to do so, but it is of no matter, not at present.

She is content.

It is something of a surprise, when she realizes it.

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Moiraine

July 2013

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