First Meeting Expanded
Viviane bought all her groceries at the Bellehaven Real Food Co-Op. She found the name a bit silly - what else would they sell, computerized simulations of food? Holograms? Wax fruit? - and it was nearly a mile further from Thornfield Towers than the nearest supermarket, but it had its advantages. It was smaller, and the lighting wasn't as bright, and it normally wasn't intolerably crowded if one stayed away from the bakery/cafe and the deli section. And if the food was a little more expensive than the student staples would have been at the supermarket, at least it was all ostensibly-healthful.
Even under congenial circumstances, Viviane didn't particularly enjoy shopping, but compared to spending a long exhausting day dealing with other people and sundry unpleasant stimuli and then having to choose between legging it to a crowded student dining hall and having breath mints and tea for dinner again, grocery shopping was a day at the library. Unless she were feeling particularly resilient or the listing for the specialite de la maison looked uncommonly tempting, Viviane normally took a light dinner in her rooms and then, on particularly long and strenuous nights, went to the dining hall around nine o'clock to take advantage of the late night sandwich bar under less crowded conditions. Viviane had also experimented with the breath mints and tea approach, but had found that while it worked in the short term, it was not the sort of regimen designed to support prolonged spells of feverish intellectual activity.
Viviane's acquisitions consisted of: a pound of organic Honeycrisp apples, a box of instant miso soup mix, two boxes of ostensibly medicinal herbal tea bags (sleep-inducing and anxiety relief), one box of purely recreational tea bags (apple cinnamon rosehip), a small jar of local blackberry honey, eight ounces of dried instant vegetable soup mix, a box of sesame whole wheat crackers, four packets of udon, and a bag of dry-roasted edamame with sea salt and cracked pepper. Viviane's mini-fridge was full of experiments in progress and she didn't have reliable access to a working stove, so she restricted her culinary repertoire to things that could be made with a microwave and electric kettle, and ingredients that didn't have to be refrigerated before opening.
Despite her general dislike of errands, Viviane was forced to admit that her shopping trip could have been far more unpleasant. She hadn't had to share a seat on the bus and her fellow passengers had been civil without veering into undue familiarity, the store hadn't been inconveniently crowded, everything she'd wanted to buy had been in its accustomed location, and the produce section had been offering free samples of local organic cider. And, not the least important for someone without a car, the weather was cooperating. In fact, Viviane had to squint a little as she left the relatively dim confines of the co-op for the bright Indian Summer day outside. There was a hint of chill in the air, but as a card-carrying member of the Long Swishy Coats Go With Everything club, Viviane didn't mind it. Fashion aside, a still, humid day would have been terribly incongruous with the local scenery. Bellehaven's vine maples in their fall glory demanded crystalline blue skies and brisk autumn breezes. Viviane absently wished she had leaves to scuff through as she shouldered her tote bag full of groceries and walked uphill to the bus stop.
A few minutes later, a young woman about Viviane's age jogged up to the bus stop from the direction of the co-op. She had a cafe au lait complexion and curly, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and she was carrying an empty backpack, a large silk-embroidered felt shoulder bag, and two laden canvas tote bags. "Hey, um, excuse me," she said, as she caught her breath, "Could you tell me how long you've been waiting here?"
Viviane checked her watch. "Certainly. Four minutes."
"Okay, so the 221 shouldn't have come yet. Sometimes it's early, but it's never that early. Thanks!" the young woman said, as she flashed a cheerful - if rather sharp-toothed - smile. She set her backpack and bags of groceries down on the bus stop's bench and began arranging the food and assorted household necessities in her backpack. If she noticed Viviane watching, she didn't seem to mind. "Oh, and I'm Marcella, by the way."
"You're a long way from home, Marcella," Viviane said.
"Now, what would make you think that?" Marcella asked, with what Viviane dearly hoped was amusement. "Was it my accent?"
"Tote bags, actually," Viviane said. "Tacoma Farmers' Market and Pierce County Library."
"Right." Marcella smiled and shook her head. "How absurdly simple."
"You're not in desperate financial straits," Viviane continued, "You can afford organic fruit and fancy ecological dish soap, and your backpack was quite high end when it was new, but you've learned to be frugal. You use souvenir tote bags for your groceries, you've mended the strap on your purse, replaced the laces on your sneakers - which have been through at least one rainy season - sewn back two buttons on your cardigan and replaced the top button entirely. However, your socks and the scarf are new."
"Right on all counts."
"You're interested in fiber arts - knitting, if I'm not mistaken about the origin of your scarf - which you may have learned from the relative who made you that sweater. And you're currently working on a project involving glossy forest green eyelash yarn." At the sight of Marcella's puzzled expression, Viviane explained, "Bits of fuzz stuck to your sweater."
"You do a lot of walking, and you hike when you get the chance," Viviane continued. "You wouldn't buy a backpack of this caliber for hauling groceries and textbooks, and I believe... yes, it's rested against an uncommonly sappy evergreen. Fairly recently, and more than once. You wouldn't buy..." she muttered to herself. "The backpack was a gift. It's not something someone in her late teens with a modest income would buy for herself... there are cheaper models out there with the same purpose."
"You're right about that, it was a high school graduation present," Marcella said. "But I learned how to knit out of a book. Although Aunt Sophia did have to demonstrate purling to me when I couldn't decipher the diagram, so that'd be - half a point?"
"Keep score in whatever fashion pleases you," Viviane said. She gave Marcella a long, searching look. "Hmm... From the way you move, and your overall pattern of muscular development, running errands on foot and the occasional hike in the woods clearly aren't your only forms of exercise. Equally clearly, you are not a competitive sprinter."
"Hey! I'd like to see you run uphill with two bags of groceries."
"I was referring to the state of your shoes and your calf muscles. And you're a bit stocky for a serious marathoner, not to mention the potential complication of your old knee injury. Tell me, was it sports, a car accident, or something more exotic?"
"Rugby, actually."
"But you don't play it now?"
"Not since high school."
"That makes more sense. I was certain you hadn't rolled around on any grass lately. But you don't just work out, either." Viviane narrowed her eyes and looked down at Marcella through her long, silvery lashes. "Indoor sport. From your ankles and leg muscles - not a ballerina. From the state of your hair - not a swimmer. Lack of characteristic calluses on your hands suggests that, while you have therianthropic heritage, you don't spend much time as a quadruped yourself, not that that's relevant to the situation at hand.” Viviane briefly wondered if she should have phrased her last observation a bit more delicately. Viviane thought that the idea that one should treat another person's identity as a piece of bad news to be broken to them gently was a bit insulting, but other people could be oddly sensitive about the strangest things. Marcella wasn't turning away, crying, glaring, turning pale or red, or attempting to punch Viviane in the face, so it was probably all right.
“Pattern of repeated impacts with firm but not dangerously unyielding surfaces, possibly mats or other human beings, with no real injury resulting,” Viviane continued. “Pattern inconsistent with either repeated accidents or serious violence. All other evidence suggests that you are not clumsy, and if the marks were acquired in an abusive relationship or other situation with strong negative emotional associations, you'd be making more of an effort to cover them up. Sparring is the most logical explanation. Ergo: martial artist. Some of these are clearly from hitting the ground, not being hit by another person, you don't have the characteristic specialized musculature of someone who focuses on punches or kicks, and the state of your knuckles indicates that you don't make a habit of punching people. So, more a grappler than a striker."
"I've been studying judo half my life," Marcella replied.
"Splendid!"
"So, with your current data, could you guess my major?"
Viviane sighed. "Not at the moment, no. I can tell that this is at least your third year at Northwestern Polygnostic - you're carrying year before last's reusable portable tea mug - and that you had at least two classes this morning. One of them was a lecture - you took rather copious notes, in pencil - and the other was pottery. But you didn't throw any pots, you spent your time trimming and glazing. There's clay dust and a few dribbles of glaze on your shoes, but no trace of slip. As for your major - all I can say with anything close to certainty is that it's not computer technology or one of the hard sciences."
"I just don't seem like the type?"
"No. The Physics and Computer Tech buildings are both situated on unusual patches of dirt compared to the rest of campus. The soil there has a rather distinctive color and a much higher clay content. I'd notice it on your shoes. I spend a great deal of time pursuing independent research in the chemistry and biology labs and the geology building. If you also spent much time there, we'd have encountered each other before this. And, geologic evidence aside, why would a computer engineer take all her notes in pencil?"
"Overstrained her typing muscles?" Marcella suggested. "Oh, hey, here it comes. You want to keep this up on the bus and amaze and disturb our fellow passengers?"
"I am amenable to continuing if you are."
"So, oh wise and not-quite-omniscient oracle," Marcella said, "tell me about my living arrangements."
"You live with someone. You're on civil enough terms to do small favors for each other, but not notably close. One of you has a wheat or gluten intolerance - most likely your housemate. Neither of you smoke. You live off campus and don't keep a car in Bellehaven. You don't live with a cat at present, but you did at some point in the past - and likely a cat of uncertain temper."
"How on earth?" Marcella asked as the bus pulled up.
"Simple," Viviane said as she boarded. The front half of the bus was occupied, so Viviane headed for the far back, which had enough free space for Viviane and Marcella to sit together with a decent amount of elbow room. As both women took their seats and set down their shopping, she continued, "You bought a bag of regular spinach-cheese tortellini, some pita chips, and a loaf of garlic sourdough. However, you also bought a bag of gluten-free rice pasta. That suggests a second consumer in this scenario. You're willing to pick up a few things for them when you're in the area, but you don't share meals."
"And as for the cat?" Marcella asked.
"Bite and claw marks on your hands and forearms, but all well-healed, and no cat fur on your sweater."
"The freshest bite marks are actually from my aunt's cats," Marcella said. "I house-sat for her this summer. But yes, I come from a family of cat lovers. God help us."
Viviane stared intently at the floor for a few moments with her hands clasped and resting on her knees. She took a few deep breaths, and continued, "You live somewhere along the half-mile between the bottom of Arkham Hill and McMurdo Creek."
"Yes...? How-"
"Simple process of elimination and a basic knowledge of local geology. You live somewhere along Route 221, between here and the Northwest Bellehaven Transit Center - and not on campus. It last rained four days ago, and yet the state of your shoes indicates recent contact with a peculiarly silty mud puddle. The little valley north of Arkham is one of the soggiest residential areas in the city - serves the developers right for trying to pave a marsh - and that is riverside dirt, but 221 doesn't get close to the Memaloostaguamish itself."
"Wow, I- that's..." Marcella smiled in an odd sort of way and shrugged as if at a loss for words, "amazing."
Viviane preened a little in spite of herself. "Really? Some people find it inexplicably disturbing."
"No, it's cool. I didn't know anyone could make the Sherlock Holmes schtick work in real life. How do you know so much about dirt, anyway? Are you a geology major?"
"No, organic chemistry. But I like to have a basic practical knowledge of local geography. Helps me avoid getting lost."
"You know, most people just use street signs," Marcella said, but she didn't sound put off. There was a moment's companionable silence, and then Viviane realized that she'd been monopolizing the conversation since Marcella had introduced herself. Marcella didn't seem to mind, thank heavens, but conventional etiquette dictated a certain reciprocity in these situations.
"So," Viviane said, "Would you like to make an attempt?"
"An attempt at... oh, right. Well, I have just enough knowledge of geology to tell basalt from beryl." She leaned in Viviane's direction and stage-whispered, "Basalt's not green,", then continued in her normal voice, "So this is likely to be brief and unimpressive, but sure. I'll give it a shot." She squinted a bit, tilted her head, gave Viviane a lingering, head-to-toe look, and took a deep breath.
"Okay, um, you're a natural blonde with decent dental hygiene. Your clothes are high quality and in good condition, but not new, and nothing overtly trendy. You probably buy what you like rather than following fashion, and wear it to death. You have some money to sink into things. The coat alone had to be a substantial investment - even thrift shops don't give away something like that. However, your shirt probably really is from a thrift store. Nobody'd pay the retail cost of a real silk shirt if the sleeves were an inch too short. So, um, you come from money but you don't like to impose on them?"
"You could put it that way,” Viviane said coolly. And let's leave it at that, she thought. There was no point in marring a pleasant afternoon.
"You probably don't have a car. I saw you use a bus pass when we got on. You do a decent amount of walking, from the condition your boots are in - and you walked through some recently mowed wet grass earlier today - but you don't get much outdoor exercise otherwise. No residual summer tan. Oh, and you're a tea drinker who doesn't cook from scratch much," Marcella added, gesturing towards Viviane's modest bag of groceries.
"Fair enough. Anything else?" Viviane asked.
"You don't smoke, or live with anyone who does, but you were in close proximity to some smokers earlier today. A bit of the smell sunk into your coat. And you wash with peppermint soap - Dr. Bronner's or something similar. And - um, this is a bit of a wild guess, but - do you play a string instrument?"
"Yes."
"Well, you see, your fingernails are very short, but you don't bite them, and you have long skinny Paganini fingers, and to put it bluntly, manual labor doesn't seem to be your thing. At all. So - maybe you play an instrument where long nails would get in the way?"
"That's... a bit of an intuitive leap for my tastes, but not inaccurate," Viviane said.
"Well, that's a relief," Marcella said dryly. "What do you play?"
"Classical guitar, mostly. A bit of cello. You see-" Viviane held out her hands - "The patterns of calluses on my left and right hands are different, and the nails on my right hand aren't as short, because I use them for picking."
"Oh, right," Marcella said. "Not really my area, I'm afraid, I can't play anything but piano."
Viviane sighed gustily and facepalmed. "Piano. How could I have missed that? Instruments are easy!"
"Um, if it's any consolation, my current apartment doesn't have one and I haven't had a chance to practice since I came back to Bellehaven. Oh, and do you have a name, by the way, or should I call you Sherlockina or something?"
Viviane wrinkled her nose. "Viviane will do."
"Like the Lady of the Lake?"
"Yes."
"So, um, Viviane, I just thought that, since we already know so much about each other, it would, you know, be kind of a shame if we got off this bus and disappeared into the void from whence we came and never saw each other again. Would you like to hang out some time? The public library does free chamber music nights in one of the meeting rooms if that's something you're interested in, although if you are interested, you probably already knew this-"
"Actually, I didn't. I don't really go out. I'm always busy with my studies and my research projects."
"Oh."
"But that doesn't mean I don't want to!" Viviane said hurriedly. "I do. Very much."
"Wonderful," Marcella said, apparently with all sincerity. "So, we'd better exchange contact information, because I don't know about you, but my psychic communication skills are a bit rusty."
Viviane rolled her eyes. "And I fear mine are no better."
Marcella smiled, and excavated a small notebook and mechanical pencil out of the depths of her purse. She wrote a few lines, ripped out the page, and handed the paper to Viviane. "You need paper or anything?" she asked.
"No, thank you," Viviane said. She fished a pen and receipt out of the pocket of her coat and repeated Marcella's actions.
"Okay," Marcella said, "Just to make sure we can read each other's handwriting, your email is whack_a_6022?"
"You may be overly cautious, but yes, that's right. And you're lapucelle1983?"
"Right. And this wouldn't seem paranoid if you had a friend who wrote ones and zeroes just like lowercase ls and os, and who had a fondness for leetspeak."
"Ah, I see."
"Oh, and, by the way, Viviane, where's your stop?"
"Oh, that was three blocks ago," Viviane said calmly.
"What?!"
"I didn't want to cut our conversation off in the middle," Viviane said. "Besides, walking an extra fraction of a mile in mild weather is no hardship. I would, however, prefer to exit before we hit the next hill."
"Sounds reasonable."
Viviane stuffed the slip of paper with Marcella's contact information into her coat pocket and rang the bell. As soon as she noticed the next bus stop on the horizon, she gathered up her groceries. "Goodbye, Marcella," she said, "Believe me, it has been a great pleasure to meet you."
"Me too. See you later."
"Not too much later, I hope."
"I'm looking forward to it," Marcella said. She added, just as Viviane was leaving the bus, "By the way, I'm a psychology major."