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Baking sweets is not something Demelza has had much practice in and is very much something she would like to learn, for even when she is mildly cross with Ross for not talking to her as he should, she is still the sort who wants to make him happy. And to be able to bake him a fresh, sweet pie would be lovely.

Given her abilities in the kitchen, Demelza is of the mind she'd be able to accomplish such a thing with little effort and few mistakes, but it seems truly silly not to take advantage of having met a woman like Greta, with whom she'd felt a sort of kinship regardless of what she can do. Perhaps she would manage on her own, but some things, she knows, are simply better done with friends, and Greta knows more than Demelza does in this regard.

It's not proper custom in Darrow, to show up unannounced, but Demelza does it anyway, not yet used to her telephone except in emergency situations. The problem Demelza faces now is that she does not yet know where Greta lives and so she cannot simply arrive at her door. Instead, knowing Greta to be a baker, Demelza leaves her children and Garrick with Abby one morning, then goes to the market where she has found some the freshest and most wonderful tasting pastries and it seems as though it might be just the place where Greta would be.

She's perusing a small selection of croissants when she sees a familiar figure and Demelza bursts into a smile, then lifts her skirts, hurrying through the crowd.

"Hello!" she calls. "Greta!"

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Oh, twas just that... well, there are so few people here that d'seem to know what it was like, where I'm from," she admits. "And I know you and I aren't from the same world exactly, but twas so nice, just speaking to someone whose experiences seemed similar to my own. At least in some ways."

Greta had seemed to know exactly what Demelza meant when she spoke of the gentlefolk and people here do try, she can certainly credit them with that, but given that they've not lived through such standards, she doubts anyone will truly understand. There are class differences even here, but they aren't as they were in Cornwall.

"And I did very much want to learn how to properly bake some sweet treats," she adds with a brightening smile. "I d'think there's only so many meat pies my friends can receive from me before they ask for something else. I should very much like to be able to bake them something else from time to time and I thought there no better person to help me learn."

Greta's smile softens. "I know just what you mean," she says with a little nod. She's been pleasantly surprised by some of the friendships she's sparked here, despite the wildly varying backgrounds people come from. That isn't so common back home.

Granted, she was never one for deferring to the upper classes. She might check herself for royalty, but royalty might have her killed. The power to merely sneer at her was far less compelling, and she tended to treat most people as equals with the unspoken assumption that anyone unwilling to return the favor was the one at fault. It generally served her well, but not always. Some people are just snobs; there's no getting around it. And there's no denying that mingling within one's own class is a bit less fraught for that very reason. Compared to some others she's met - even perfectly friendly, kind people - Demelza feels familiar, and reassuringly uncomplicated.

"But baking sounds like fun," she adds, brightening at the suggestion. It's just what she needs after the morning she's had; the wide variety of wares on display might be daunting, but it also leaves her itching to demonstrate that she knows what she's doing, and that her own skills aren't obsolete. "And I've got time. Though I suppose we'd need to pick up some ingredients, unless there's something you already had in mind." It's not impossible that Demelza already assembled everything she'd need for some specific pastry before wandering off in search of her, though Greta thinks it's rather unlikely.

"Perhaps a pie of some sort?" Demelza asks and she's quite pleased to hear Greta feels the same. While she's a woman quite happy to be open and honest about her feelings, she's also not one to dwell on them for too long, especially when they're of the positive sort, so she just accepts what Greta has said, that it's nice for them both to have made a new friend who understands their way of life. Truly, it's how Demelza makes many of her friends. She simply decides they are and moves on from there, finding herself involved in many more lives in Darrow as a result than she'd been able to be back at home.

The miners had all been kind enough to her and she'd cared for them a great deal, but for all that considered Ross their friend, he was still the gentleman of the area and she was still Mistress Poldark. It's very nice here to not have to worry about any such title or what it might mean.

"I expect a crust for a sweet pie is more or less the same as one for something more savoury, so the chances of me ruining it are lower than most other things," she says with a laugh. She's playing it up a little, the idea that she might be a terrible baker, because she very much doubts she will be, but she wants Greta to teach her.

"Yes, that ought to work," Greta says with a nod. "If you're already used to meat pies and so on, it's not that big of a leap. It's just a matter of picking the filling."

She thinks back on the assorted pastries she'd made for Biffy a couple of weeks ago. They might not be limited by what's in season as she would be back home, but the summer fruits didn't taste quite as rich as she'd expected. Maybe something about the journey dulls them a little, or something.

"How does apple sound?" Those have actually exceeded her expectations, even though they're technically not in season, either. There are so many different types, here. Back home, and apple was just an apple. They didn't all have fancy names and specific textures and levels of sweetness or tartness that you could choose right off the shelf.

"Yes, that'd be lovely," Demelza says and she's mostly thinking of herself -- she has to test her own pie, of course, before foisting them off on others -- but she's thinking of Ross as well. Perhaps if she brings him an apple pie, he'll be a little more likely to tell her why he's been spending so many hours away from home in recent weeks. She knows she could simply ask him and a logical part of her says she must before the curiosity drives her mad, but she also believes Ross will be disappointed if she can't simply trust him.

And she should, she knows she should. It's only that she's so curious.

"Is it difficult?" she asks as they walk and then she spots a beautiful display of fruit and shifts them in that direction. She's in no hurry, but there's no sense ignoring what's presented to them. "It must cook different than meat, I d'imagine. With different spices and temperatures. Oh, learning my oven here was that difficult. Twas nothing at all like what I had before."

"Not at all," Greta promises. And she doesn't think it will be - not with someone who already knows how to bake. It's not as if they're truly starting from scratch. "It's a bit different, yes, but I expect you'll pick it up quickly enough."

She's about to mention the cinnamon and nutmeg they'll be needing, but the comment about the ovens sidetracks her. "I know," she says with feeling, eyes wide. "With all those little numbers! I just had to work it out by feel." She's probably lucky that she'd spent enough time in front of her oven back home to have a very clear idea of what it should feel like. "That was before I realized what the numbers meant, but even then..." she shrugs. They probably are helpful measurements for people who don't cook or bake that often, and who couldn't really tell the difference between different kinds of 'very hot,' but it still seems rather arbitrary from where she's standing.

She looks over the assorted apples on display. "Well, we could go for sweet or tart. Or both, I suppose," she muses, picking one up and checking for bruises.

"I terribly burned the first meat pie I made," Demelza admits, picking up an apple as well and trying to settle her mind between sweet or tart. Greta says perhaps they ought to do both and Demelza finds she's pleased by the thought of spending enough time with the other woman to be able to make two pies. It's true what Ross says of her, she has little trouble making friends and has found herself with quite the social circle since her arrival in Darrow, but there is always a little part of her that seems to be waiting on those to judge her.

She'd not take it if they did, of course, and she'd not be friends with them, but she still fears it, deep in her heart.

"But I've a friend at the library and he helped me find the right books to read and understand what all the temperature measurements were for," she continues. She'd had a friend, anyway, for she hasn't seen John in some time and others have told her what that usually means. It's not the sort of thing she allows herself to dwell on, however, for her own sake. "I think both might be nice. If you're willing to teach me both, that is."

Greta blinks in surprise, then smiles. "Oh, there's hardly any difference in how you make them, just how they turn out. We could even do sweet and tart in the same pie." She waggles her eyebrows playfully, though from a baking standpoint, it actually does sound interesting. There was always some variety to the apples in her pies back home, but that was all by happenstance. Being able to choose the differences would be a novelty.

"And then we'll be needing cinnamon and nutmeg, if you don't have them already," she continues a bit absently as she continues to pick through the apples with a critical eye. "Do you have enough flour and so on to make two crusts? We could just make two at once. Then you could follow along with what I was doing." It would be a bit less crowded than having two people work on one dish, and then Demelza would have something against which to compare her own efforts. Greta imagines they'll probably turn out much the same - she has no intention of letting the other woman go astray just to teach a hard lesson - but that will be all the more encouraging.

"Oh, yes, flour and all kinds of spices," she says with a nod, thinking to her kitchen. It's well stocked, she'd made sure of it simply because she hasn't quite gotten used to the idea that she or Ross might simply run down to the store on the corner and buy whatever they need, sometimes even in the middle of the night. Demelza still prefers to cook meals at home, though there had been that week where she had discovered tacos and eaten nothing else for five straight days. Ross had been sick of them by the end of it, but Demelza knows she would still eat them any time if she were given the chance.

"Butter and salt," she continues. "Though t'be honest, I'm much more used to working with lard and it seems hard to come by here. I suppose butter is meant to be healthier, is that it?"

This is part of this new world where she's still struggling. Demelza's choices for food at home were limited, even with Ross' money at her disposal. There had been meat and bread, but fruit and vegetables were limited and difficult to come by without spending more money than she was comfortable with. Mostly they'd survived on the pilchards and she'll be happy if she never has to eat another one again, but she doesn't know what counts as being healthy and what is not.

"Something like that, I'd guess," Greta agrees, though her expression suggests that there's just no accounting for some of the changes that have occurred over the centuries. Some of them make sense, but just as many seem entirely arbitrary. "Back home, we were more concerned with whether something was spoiled or not, not whether it was healthy." After a beat, she adds, "Then again, we didn't have things like 'cheese puffs' back home, either. I don't think cheese has anything to do with those things." They hardly even look real.

She flaps her hand dismissively. "Anyway, all we need is a dozen of these, then, and we should be set." That should be plenty; the apples here are bigger than the ones she's used to.

Demelza snorts out a surprised, undignified laugh before she covers her mouth. She isn't embarrassed, as she doesn't think Greta cares much how or when she laughs, but she remembers too well not being able to laugh properly at certain parties, causing a stir when she wouldn't engage in the polite, party appropriate titter that most other women had perfected.

"No, we mostly ate pilchards and bread and meat," she admits, still looking amused. "I discovered tacos here not long after I arrived and I must say, Cornwall was sorely missing out on such wonderful things. Some snack foods here are appalling, I've been unable to stomach many of them, but tacos..." She could probably find it in her to write poetry about such things and she's never been the particularly poetic sort.

"The pilchards were a necessity, though," she says as she begins to select some apples. "Ross was a gentleman, but he still lived on a parcel of land and rented homes for almost nothing to many of the miners in the area. The pilchards were how many of 'em survived the winter at all. They'd come in toward us in these big schools and there would be men out with nets, women on the beaches to drag them in. If I never eat another one again it'll be too soon, but they did save all our lives at one time or another."

She grins fleetingly at the laugh, pleased to have earned it. It's nice, too, to not be the only one a bit suspicious of some modern fare.

'Pilchards' is a new one, and it isn't until 'schools' and 'nets' pop up that she realizes it must be a sort of fish. An ocean-going sort, no less. She'd never seen the sea until arriving in Darrow, and most of the fish she's familiar with are ones they could pull out of a river or lake - generally one at a time, and not in some kind of marvelous haul. Herring and such arrived at the Village pickled or smoked.

Still, while she might not have done the exact same thing, she understands the idea. "We all had gardens in the Village," she says, not adding that some neighbors were more reasonable about theirs than others. "So there were always a lot of preserves to be made - in the autumn, especially. It was cheaper in the long run than relying on whatever merchants or traders might bring in, but everyone suffered a bit if there were bad frosts or anything along those lines." The Witch's garden never seemed to suffer such environmental hardships. Those were the only times Greta had resented the fact that whatever magic the old woman had at work studiously avoided crossing the property line.

But it's something Demelza said earlier that really caught her attention. "What are tacos?" she asks curiously. Other people's advice on what she ought to try has been hit-or-miss, in her experience. Chocolate had been rapturous, but coffee had been more like a strange and not very kind joke. Of all the people she's met here, though, Demelza's palate is probably closest to her own. If she thinks something is amazing, Greta's inclined to give it a try.

"Tis difficult to make things grow in Cornwall. The ground is tough and filled with minerals, which makes for decent mining, but terrible gardens, and the winds are cold and brutal. I hid some flowers and vegetables around one sheltered corner of the house, but even there, with the winds ever changing, twas so hard to make them flourish."

She'd longed for a garden. Even here in Darrow it's something she dearly wishes for, though she knows such a thing isn't possible while she and Ross still live in their apartment and she doesn't expect their situation to change any time soon. For now she grows herbs in a box under one of the windows and she has a small tomato plant in one corner, but nothing so fancy as her own real garden.

"Tacos," she says, then smiles at the fond memory. Demelza has discovered herself truly a woman who loves food nearly as much as any other physical pleasure. "Oh, they're... well, I think 'ee must try 'em to really know. They have meat and spices and tomatoes and something I'd never had before called avocado and you can get 'em spicy or not and tis all wrapped up in a... a... shell? Tis made of corn or wheat. I shall take you one evening, there's a place that makes them very close to where I live and they serve drinks made with sweet ice."

"They do sound interesting," Greta says, trying to imagine what they might taste like. "I'd like to try them. Though I'm not sure about flavored ice, at least this time of year," she adds, nose wrinkling dubiously. It sounds like a better summer treat than a winter one. Then again, depending on how spicy the tacos are, it might be nice to have a cold beverage on hand.

It doesn't take long to ring up the apples, and then they're back out into the brisk winter air. "I don't think I've been to High Gate Terrace," she muses, "though I do know someone who lives there." That's where the Balladeer had wound up, isn't it? She's seen him out and about since New Year's, but hasn't yet visited his apartment. She probably should one of these days, just to see how he's getting on. "The Balladeer," she clarifies. "He's tall and sort of lanky, usually has a guitar with him." Maybe Demelza's seen him around.

"Well, the ice drink is made better by the alcohol they include," she admits with a small, secret sort of smile, one only for Greta. Ross has never said a word about her drinking and Demelza truly rarely imbibes, but there are times when drinks are called for, such as an intimidating party or a special dinner. In truth, she prefers port and will always turn to it when it's available, but she's discovered Darrow has many more options than what used to be offered to her at parties and the like.

"I don't think I've yet met him," she says thoughtfully as they walk in the direction of her home. She can't know everyone who lives in their building, though she has to admit she does try to meet as many as possible, thinking it only the right thing to do in order to be a proper neighbour. "I've not heard a name like that before. Do it mean something?" It sounds like a title and Demelza is beginning to wonder if perhaps there's some sort of royalty living in her apartment building without her even realizing it to be the case.

Greta's eyebrows creep up. "I see," she says slyly, reconsidering the relative merits of such a beverage. One of the myriad ways in which Darrow is different from home is what they've done with alcohol. Even the tiny fridge in that room up at Kagura had more variety than most pubs back home could boast.

Demelza's question reminds her, once again, that most other worlds seem to place a heavier value on proper nouns than her own. She hadn't batted an eye when the Balladeer had introduced himself to her, but she supposes it would seem a strange title to people who aren't so used to thinking of people by their professions.

"Well, it's his job - or it was, back where he came from. He's a sort of bard, at least as I understand it." She shrugs and resettles her bag of apples over her arm. "I know it isn't the same here, but where I'm from - and I think where he's from, too - it really isn't so strange to just call people by what they are instead of who. Like the Princes were just... the Princes. Their names weren't important."

Greta says it's his job and Demelza considers it for a moment, trying to work out the root of the word before it's explained further and then her eyes light up in understanding. "Because he sings," she says, making the connection between the guitar and the word balladeer. She would be the first to admit her grasp of language is sometimes tenuous, having only learned to properly read and write a few years ago, and so she's pleased with herself for having gotten there, even if Greta had all but led her to the understanding.

"Judas, I hate to think what'd they call me if that were the case in my home," she says, shaking her head as she digs into the deep pockets of the dress she wears for her keys. "The Scullery Maid most likely. Or the Slut. They were terribly fond of that one after I married Ross." Francis would probably call her the Troll and she didn't even want to dwell on what Elizabeth might call her.

With a breath, Demelza shakes her head and unlocks the front door of her building, holding it for Greta to go in ahead of her. "I quite like just being known as Demelza, I d'think. You say it's usual where you're from as well? What did people call 'ee, if not Greta?"

"Exactly," Greta says with a nod, electing not to mention how that works back home. It had been a pleasant surprise when the Balladeer had understood where she was coming from, but she doesn't expect lightning to strike twice. "But not like most people do here. It's more like... telling a whole story, but set to music." It might be a little unfair to dismiss modern music as not telling any stories worth hearing, but frankly, the obsession with love songs is a bit tiresome at best, and embarrassing at worst. How can the people the songs are meant for take them to heart when the songs themselves are being blasted out of speakers to anyone within earshot? It all seems terribly self-indulgent on the singer's part.

Her brow furrows in mingled confusion and indignation at Demelza's guesses - especially the second one. "After you were married?" she repeats incredulously. She'd like to think no one in the Village would have stooped to calling someone 'the Slut' irrespective of their behavior, but it makes even less sense if the subject was wed. Unless it wasn't their husband getting all of their attentions, but Demelza doesn't strike her as the type. Women lucky enough to marry up have fewer reasons to stray.

Or perhaps the implication is supposed to be that Demelza slept her way into such a position, but Greta's not sure what's so shocking about pre-marital relations. If they wed, that rather suggests it wasn't just some sort of dalliance, and that ought to be enough for people.

She tsks under her breath in admonishment of absent parties, then steps into Demelza's building. "Well, since my husband was the Baker, plenty of people just knew me as the Baker's Wife. I suppose it comes of living in a Village small enough to know most people by sight but too large to know everyone personally. 'Greta' wouldn't have meant anything to most people, but if you said 'the Baker's Wife,' everyone would've known who you were talking about."

"Oh, yes," she says as she jabs the button for the elevator a little harder than necessary. In Darrow, Demelza is not ashamed, but sometimes it's admittedly still difficult to let go of the anger she's carried with her for the gentlefolk who were so terribly cruel. She'd unfairly expected it of Elizabeth, who had in turn been nothing but kind, but she'd not been so prepared for it from others. "Because they could see little reason why Ross might marry me except that I'd let him into my bed and he felt the gentleman's duty to make it right in the eyes of God."

She pauses for a long moment, then looks at Greta. "T'be honest, I d'think that was his intention at the beginning. I've no doubt Ross came to love me or that he loves me now, but when we first married, it was because I was a convenient distraction from the woman he truly wanted to be with. So perhaps the whispers weren't all wrong, but they can no longer hurt me as they once did."

It's more than she's said to many people about those first few months of her marriage to Ross and her cheeks are slightly pink, but she doesn't regret it at all. Sometimes it's good to confide in others.

Her smile brightens as the elevator doors open and she steps on board. "I shall continue to call you Greta," she teases. "Though I do suppose that'd be useful as you say, so long as you have something that makes you stand out from others. There are far too many scullery maids for that to have been useful for me."

Ugh. Even though she'd guessed at it, she still rolls her eyes to have it confirmed. Leave it to gossips to be both nasty and predictable about it. Despite never having met Ross, she's all set to huff something in Demelza's defense - she's sweet and sensible and lovely and obviously any man with his head on straight would count himself lucky to have her - but she stays herself when Demelza quietly admits that she saw their point.

That does change things a bit. Her willingness to speak out in defense of her new friend feels suddenly and unexpectedly directionless: the gossips might not have been entirely wrong, and if Ross failed to appreciate what he had at the time, it sounds as if he's caught on since then. Greta deflates, her indignation dissipating into the empty air.

But she has to acknowledge it all somehow. It can't have been an easy thing to share. She ends up curling an arm around Demelza's shoulders and giving her an encouraging little squeeze, the gesture both friendly and just a touch maternal. "I'm glad it all worked out," she says, and she means it. Not everyone is so lucky in marriage, irrespective of how it starts.

She lets go before following Demelza into the elevator. The teasing isn't at all unwelcome, and she grins. "Ah, but whose scullery maids are they? That's how you can tell," she says with a sage nod. Granted, even that got a bit tricky for the ones that didn't last long and moved between households - or so she'd assume, anyway. "Not that there were many in my neighborhood. I'd've been more likely to know them as So-and-so's Daughter, if I didn't just know them by name."

For a time, knowing Ross had married her because he couldn't marry Elizabeth had hurt Demelza deeply, but she's come to understand Ross much better over the years and so has come to understand herself and their marriage as well. She had loved him from nearly the start, but she'd never expected him to love her in return and so she had been prepared to accept whatever relationship he might offer her. That he'd fallen in love with her over time, that he'd married her first and then fallen for her, it makes Demelza feel as if there's a strength between them that some may not have. He was committed to her before the love came, though she's terribly grateful the love did come.

"As am I," she says with a smile for Greta as she presses the button for her floor and then watches the numbers light up for a moment, still smiling, though she makes a face a moment later. "But Judas God, I'm that grateful not to be known as Tom Carne's daughter. My father were from Illugan and sometimes the miners from Illugan could get a bit wild. All miners could, I suppose, but Illugan and Bodmin had something of a rivalry that only got worse when Ross took me in. Illugan hated that a rich man from Bodmin had taken one of their marrying stock and my father were the worst of 'em. Always in his cups, always fighting. I'll be glad to never carry his name again."

And she won't name her children after him. If anything, if they have others, she'll name them for the people she truly loves. For Verity, first and foremost, for her brothers after that. For Drake and Luke especially, though Sam does have a special place in her heart as well.

The more Demelza speaks, the more Greta can begrudgingly appreciate why people might be more inclined towards just calling everyone by their names and not by relationship-based descriptive titles. Being known by who she was married to had rankled on occasion - her childhood aspirations had tended towards much more fanciful things than 'someone's wife' - but even on her worst days, her title had still been a neutral thing, not something she actively despised.

It hadn't occurred to her that who you were bound to could be such a burden. She feels a bit foolish, and then a bit lucky, and then more than a bit bereft.

"There was never much of a rivalry between us and the neighboring Village," she muses as they step out of the elevator and head for Demelza's door, "though there easily could have been. It's where you went to buy things you knew no one in your Village was offering, but it's also where you went to sell things no one in your Village would be fool enough to buy off you. I think it broke about even, when all was said and done."

"Were there lots of drinking?" she asks as she unlocks her door. There are no sounds of the children from inside, which means Abby has likely taken them to the park, for which Demelza is briefly grateful before she finds herself slightly ashamed. It's only that it's much easier to bake or cook when Julia isn't running around her feet or when Jeremy isn't crying to be fed, and for all she would very much like her new friend to meet her entire family, she knows taken all at once they can be a bit much.

For now it's only Garrick who comes to the door to greet them, his tail wagging furiously at the sight of his favourite person.

"I always found men were a great deal more stupid when they were in their cups and that's where rivalries stemmed from," she says, pushing the dog aside even as she addresses him. "Hello, love, yes, I've come back. Every time I leave, you'd think I'd abandoned him. Greta, this is my dog Garrick. He's been with me since he were only a pup and he's the reason Ross paid me any mind at all, come to think of it. Men in Bodmin were trying to make him fight another dog and I was trying to stop it when Ross came upon the scene."

Greta bobbles her head from side to side thoughtfully. "I wouldn't say lots," she replies, assuming that it's shorthand for 'too much.' "The Inn had a pub on the ground floor, and there might have been some carousing, but nothing too obnoxious." Nothing that spilled out onto the streets, anyway, which was about all she was in a position to notice. Bakers rose early, and on the occasions when they did visit the pub after closing up the shop, they never stayed late enough for things to get embarrassing, let alone raucous.

Smiling a little, she adds, "And the closest Village was still enough of a walk - and through the Woods, no less - that anyone drunk enough to feel like starting something would probably be too drunk to make it there." Most would end up giving up or falling over before they even reached the cemetery. "Even if they made it to the edge of the Wood, they'd probably lose their nerve once they got there." She smiles dryly, adding, "Or make a show of letting their friends talk them out of it."

She half-expects to find the children inside, and it's more of a relief than she wants to admit when they're only greeted by a scruffy looking dog. "Well, hello," she says, lifting her bag out of his reach and offering him her hand to sniff, instead. "You're the second person I've met to have their dog come through with them."

It's a mercy that seems almost excessive. Even now, months after her lonely arrival, it's hard not to feel a twinge of resentment over the fact that some people have even got to keep their pets. But she's used to wrangling such feelings - her effortlessly childbearing peers back in the Village gave her plenty of practice - and she smiles easily as she looks down at him.

"It was kind of you to rescue him. I suppose it's no wonder he's happy to see you." She sets the apples up on the counter, freeing up both hands to give Garrick an enthusiastic scrub behind the ears. "Are you going to help us out in the kitchen?" she asks him. She supposes he will be quick to 'help' with anything that falls to the floor.

Demelza finds herself wondering what's so terrible about the woods that someone might lose their nerve to walk through them. Much of the surrounding area in Cornwall had been covered in only the scraggliest of bushes, but there had been rich woods surrounding them as well and Demelza had loved walking through them. She'd had to be careful during fox hunting season, too many men with dogs and horses and guns for it to be safe, but she'd never once considered whether or not she would need any sort of courage to make the trek.

"Oh, he came after," she says, watching Garrick fondly as she sets things down on the counter. "Twas only Julia and I for some time and then one day I found him in the park. I'd missed him terribly, he..." She pauses, wondering if it sounds silly, then decides she'll push on regardless. "Garrick was the only one I could count on for a very long time."

There's more to be said of it, how he'd bitten her father twice when he'd raised a hand to her, how he would stand between her and Tom Carne, growling deep in his chest on the nights when her father was particularly violent. How the chunk taken out of his left ear had been her father with a knife. That had been the last straw for Demelza and it was the next day she'd run away.

"Why would someone not want to walk in the woods?" she asks instead of saying any of that.

"Oh," Greta says, raising her eyebrows in surprise. That's actually rather encouraging. While she doesn't want to get her hopes up too high, it's nice to be reminded that those she misses might still appear. Better late than never, as they say.

Her expression softens as Demelza explains the dog's importance. It sounds as if she had rather a rough go of it growing up, before she met Ross. If anyone's earned a bit of happiness - especially here, where it can be so hard to find - it's her.

Before Greta can feel too retroactively beastly for ever resenting Demelza's good fortune in Darrow, she asks about the Woods. She blinks, realizing with some surprise just how much she hasn't already told the woman. Granted, Darrow is odd enough that she doesn't expect anything she says to be met with disbelief or scorn - as if anything is unbelievable after you've been brought to another universe. She still pauses, though, and chooses her words with care.

"Well, it wasn't necessarily safe - especially at night. There were wolves, and the path was harder to follow. But I think it was the magic that worried people most." She smiles, a bit sheepishly. Maybe she should have brought up the whole magic thing sooner. "Not that it was enchanted or anything so dramatic as that. It's just... hard to say what all might be hiding in there, that's all." She flaps a hand dismissively; after her own experience in the Woods, she's hardly one to play up its dangers. "But I spent three nights tromping around out there, and I was fine. It's just rumors and things, mostly."

"Magic?" she asks curiously. While Darrow is apparently filled with it and Demelza has certainly seen her fair share of it by now, it never ceases to amaze her that there are others who have come from worlds already magical on their own. She still remembers the evening she met Dean -- and even now, thinking of him causes her a pang, she misses him so terribly -- and how strange it had all been, between the monster he had slain and his wonderfully sweet dog and the injuries they'd sustained.

At the time she'd hidden her curiosity out of necessity, knowing it was more important to help him and his wounds, but here there's no such urgency.

"Was it real?" she asks. "Real magic?"

At the same time she busies herself fetching ingredients so as to not make Greta feel as if she's been put on the spot. Demelza is terribly curious and wants to learn everything she possibly can, but not at the expense of friendships. Not at the expense of this one, anyway.

Edited 2017-02-17 21:12 (UTC)

“Oh, it was real,” Greta assures her, nose wrinkling in momentary distaste. Magic was something she’d generally tried to avoid to the extent that she could, and most of the Villagers she knew were of a similar mind. She and her husband had done the sensible minimum to keep on the right side of it, like leaving out saucers of milk on the back stoop. But she’s pretty sure that just amounted to a treat for the neighborhood cats (which was no bad thing; it made just as much sense to entice a mouser as a hob), and she’d been fine with that. Generally speaking, the less you had to do with anything magic-related, the happier you were.

“I’m not sure the Woods actually harbored as much as people thought it did,” she continues with a pensive little frown. If the Woods had any power, she suspects it was by virtue of the fact that it was so far removed from everyday life. You could find yourself there, or forget yourself entirely, without needing anyone to wave a wand at you. “But there was plenty of it in the Village. We had a Witch living just next door to us.”

Though she doesn't mind talking about it, her tone probably makes it clear that it wasn't a good sort of witch.

"A witch," she breathes, trying to imagine what that must have been like. There were always rumours, of course, stories of women who dabbled in such things, but Demelza had never paid them much mind because she'd thought them ridiculous. People in Cornwall had only ever said it about the women they considered leading the sort of lives they didn't approve of. Women who never married, women who insisted on doing their own work, the ones who wanted to take care of themselves.

"And it were real?" she asks. "I know 'ee said as much, I just... well, sometimes women were said to be witches where I'm from, too, but it was only ever rumour. If I hadn't mess Ross, I'd have probably been considered a witch." At the time he had taken her into his home, she had been too young for that, but Demelza wouldn't have married any of the men in Illugan and she wouldn't have married any of the men in Bodmin either, no matter how lovely some of them had been.

If not for the Curse, living next door to a Witch wouldn't have been so different from living next door to anyone else, Greta thinks. She had kept to herself, which had suited the two of them just fine. It was always a bit nerve-wracking, not knowing what she might be up to, but the Witch had seemed content to ignore them. Until she wasn't.

Greta nods. "It wasn't just rumor. She actually," she huffs out a breath, as if it was silly and embarrassing and not infuriating or tragic, "she Cursed us - or my husband's family, which amounted to the same thing. It happened back when he was only a boy. He didn't know anything about it." Maybe if his father had stuck it out, things would have been different. They might have wheedled her into breaking it sooner. If nothing else, she could have known what she was marrying into (though part of her wonders if she would have married him at all, had she known).

What sort of Curse is probably on the tip of Demelza's tongue, so Greta spares her the awkwardness of needing to ask. "We couldn't have children. My husband's father stole some magic beans out of her garden, so she placed a Curse on the whole family line."

Demelza is unusually quiet, moving about the kitchen for a moment as she silently curses herself for having been so thoughtless in so many ways. Her life in Darrow is a good one, one she's happy to lead, but she knows she's lucky in ways many people are not, but the days where she considers that are few and far between because she doesn't have to. Because she gets to see her children, her husband comes home to her at the end of the day, she even has Garrick here and Ross has Darkie.

All in all, she is extremely fortunate.

"I'm that sorry," she breathes suddenly, turning to look at Greta. "That's a terrible thing for someone to have done to his family and awful for no one in his family to have told him so that he might prepare himself and... well, and you. All for beans!"

Magic beans, Greta has said, but as far as Demelza is concerned, that excuses nothing. Perhaps they shouldn't have stolen from her, but there are better ways to go about dealing with such situations than punishing those who had no part in the act at all.

It was terrible, but Greta is still faintly surprised by the force of Demelza's response. It's gratifying, in a way, to have someone fuss on her behalf, not least of all because Demelza's indignation so closely mirrors Greta's own. The last bit gives her pause, though, and she winces.

"It wasn't just the beans. I guess she was Cursed as well; they had some kind of enchantment on them that backfired when they were stolen." Not that the Witch deserves much pity, and Greta adds, "Though she did steal away my husband's baby sister as some sort of restitution, so the Curse was just... extra."

Greta pauses while that sinks in, as much for her as for her friend. She'd been so focused on breaking the Curse that she hadn't given much thought to its origins, and now that she has, the whole thing strikes her as faintly ridiculous. Oh, it had been devastating at the time, and the Witch's spitefulness was nothing to sniff at, but now that time and distance have worn down some of the sharp edges, she can appreciate that it was overkill. God, it's almost absurd.

She drops her head into her hand with an incredulous little giggle. "What a stupid mess," she says - marvels, almost. It occurs to her that she could just burst into tears while she's at it, it seems appropriate, but she sniffs it back and lowers her hands before the temptation can really take hold. "We did break it," she says, as much to remind herself as anything else. Her brow furrows as she adds, "Never did find his sister, though - god, we hardly even..." and then she trails off, eyes widening as a few puzzle pieces belatedly fall into place. Because she had found a maiden in a Tower, a maiden whose hair the Witch had touched, and why would the Witch have just been pawing at some random, isolated young woman's hair, unless...?

"Oh, my god," Greta breathes, pressing her hands to her reddening cheeks. "I think Rapunzel's my sister-in-law."

The name is familiar to Demelza, though she isn't entirely sure why and she frowns, wondering why she knows it. "Is she someone who lives here?" she asks. "In Darrow?"

Ross would be the first person to tell anyone that Demelza is the sort who knows a good many people. She introduces herself often to strangers, smiles and says hello when people look friendly, and generally goes out of her way to meet everyone she can. In Cornwall, it hadn't always been looked upon favourably, especially by those who considered her beneath them, but it's different in Darrow. People here respond well to her and she's made a good deal of friends, but she still can't know everyone, no matter how badly she may want to.

"Oh, wouldn't that be amazing?" she asks, hardly able to contain her excitement even though she knows she shouldn't get ahead of herself. "If she were to be here and you could meet her after all this time."

Demelza would do anything to see her brothers again. If Drake were to suddenly appear on Darrow's streets, she would be beside herself with joy. They're the only thing in Cornwall she would wish to go back to and while she doesn't expect for any such thing to happen, seeing at least one of her brother's here in Darrow is her fondest wish.

Greta slowly drags her hands down her face. God, she'd nearly pulled the woman out of her Tower. She could have died. And if she'd actually spoken to her, they might have figured it all out sooner - she could have just asked for a length of her hair.

... And what about that hair, anyway? Is it a family thing? Is her son going to have hair out the door and down the block?

Demelza's question belatedly registers, and Greta gives her head a little shake. "No. I mean... sort of. There's a Rapunzel - I met her just the other day - but she's not--not my Rapunzel." She lets her hands drop, then gives Demelza a sheepish look. She really didn't mean to have a familial revelation in the middle of her kitchen. "I guess there's more than one."

And to think: part of her had been grateful when she realized what was happening, because it meant she wouldn't have to actually confront her own questionable behavior towards her Rapunzel. Darrow's version didn't know anything about it. But Darrow's version isn't family, either, and the last thing Greta wants is to confuse or upset the poor girl by going on about who some other version of her turned out to be. Bad enough that she mentioned the whole swamp banishment.

While she's been in Darrow long enough for her to understand that such things are true, Demelza still hasn't been able to work out the how or why of it. For Greta to have her sister-in-law here and for her to not be the right version all at once feels terribly cruel and she wonders if such things might ever happen to her. If Verity were to come to Darrow, but without the slightest knowledge who she is.

Demelza thinks such a thing would break her heart.

"Tis strange how that happens," she says. "Strange and unsettling. I don't think I'd be able to bear it if my family were to be here and yet for them to not be the right versions of themselves. Not my father, but my brothers or my cousin-in-law. I miss her so much."

"I hardly knew her back home. It was mostly by reputation, really," Greta says, not wanting Demelza to think this is too tragic. It's certainly not on par with what happened to Sam, or anyone else who might be dealing with a friend or family member from a different point in time. It does make her a bit more anxious to get home, if only to tell her husband of her suspicions (though, if she's being entirely honest, it's also the thought of having a familial connection to royalty that captures her imagination), but there isn't much it can do to impact her life here. Not with a completely different Rapunzel in the city.

"Still strange, though," she allows, shaking her head. "To know, but not be able to do anything with it." And that's assuming her world's Rapunzel would even welcome a claim from a humble baker. She might just as easily want to leave the past where it belongs. Her husband might too, for that matter.

Greta gives Demelza a sympathetic smile. "Your husband's cousin, then?" she clarifies, to make sure she understands it. "A more tolerable member of the gentry, I take it?"

"Yes, Ross' cousin Verity," Demelza says with a smile. "Had Jeremy been a girl we were going to name him after her. At first she made me so terribly nervous because I thought, like everyone else, she'd just see me as the scullery maid and not worth a moment of Ross' time or his family's name. She came to visit not long after we were married and it was that uncomfortable at first, but that were really all my fault."

She had been terrified and so she'd not made herself open and available to Verity, who had only ever been trying to do right by her new cousin-in-law.

"I was tryin' so hard to be proper, too, so I'd not shame myself or Ross, but I was getting the rules all wrong and then Verity... well, she told me she didn't care at all where I was from, only that she'd not seen Ross so happy in a long time and oh, she was so kind. Too kind sometimes, she let her brother and her father walk all over her, but she's happy now. She has the life she wanted, the one she deserves."

Demelza had seen to that. She'd destroyed the lives of several other men in the process, but she'd had no way of knowing Francis would take such revenge and give over the names of Ross' investors to George Warleggan.

Greta listens with her brow furrowed in sympathy. Much as she might have daydreamed about being a Lady - the sort who might don a beautiful gown and attend a Festival - she hasn't actually done much mingling with the gentry, and what she had experienced wasn't always pleasant. Cinderella was all right, but she's not sure Cinderella even counted. It's not as if she was a Princess when Greta spoke with her in the Woods. Rather, Greta got the impression that she wasn't so different from any of her neighbors, just blessed with a bit more youth and much fancier wardrobe.

Including slippers as pure as gold, of course.

Point is, she doesn't envy Demelza's abrupt induction to the upper class. It all sounds terribly stressful - and not the sort of stress a working class person would be accustomed to.

"She sounds lovely," Greta says, starting to nudge a few things aside and clear some counter space. "And sensible." Which isn't a trait she necessarily expects from the gentry. Glancing over at Demelza, she adds, "It's hard to wish anyone here without feeling selfish, but... I'm glad she's happy, at least, if she can't be here."

"Tis true, for all I wish to see her, I'd not want to take her from her husband after the struggles they went through just to be together," Demelza agrees, clearing more space on the counter by moving her groceries and other items aside. There's flour and sugar and butter and she rummages through the drawers before she produces two knives for cutting and peeling the apples. There are days when she's still stunned by the abundance of fruit, remembering well enough just how many children suffered from scurvy in Illugen, unable to get what they needed from fish and grain. Here there's absolutely no chance of it and she feeds Julia fresh fruit as often as she can.

"He had been married before Verity," she explains. "And he'd had trouble with drinking. One day he and his wife were fighting and he pushed her too hard and she... well, she died. He was charged and served his time in gaol and he never touched a drop of alcohol since that day and I... well, people deserve second chances, do they not? He was so in love with Verity and Ross accused me of being naive, but I believed they would be happy together and so I helped 'em."

She smiles, deciding it's best to gloss over all the consequences of that decision and skip right to the happier bits. "And now they're married and Verity's brother can no longer treat her as if she's his slave."

It's a rather harrowing story, but Greta finds herself nodding along to much of it. The exact circumstances aren't familiar to her, of course, but she does understand what it's like to want to help, to know you could make a difference -- to know it so certainly that you don't ask for permission, even if everyone else would presume you ought to get it.

"It was good of you to help them," she says. "Honestly, it's as if people forget that we can -- be of use in ways they haven't already decided we should be, I mean. When we were trying to break the Curse... well, if my husband had his way, I would've stayed at the cottage. But I wasn't about to just sit around, not when I could do something."

He'd come round eventually, of course, but she's the one who'd forced the matter. If she hadn't been out there getting things done in the first place, she doubts he would have come back to the cottage and begged for her help until it was too late.

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