Flying over the town from above hadn’t given Orfeus much indication of where Rivasoa might be, no tall grave Elder figure standing noticeably by the Hub. Impossible to make out any further detail from up in the air, just the general shape of buildings and roads. She landed outside of town, beside the road leading to the closest quartertrain-connected town, Saltcote. Then she headed for the wayhouse, ignoring the stares of the people who saw her. If she couldn’t find the person she was looking for there, at least she could find hospitality and a meal without too much meat in it.

Rivasoa stood outside the wayhouse, with its door welcomingly open and a sign above proclaiming it the Periwinkle. She was dressed in flowing garments of bright green and yellow, her face grave.

Orfeus bowed to her. “Rivasoa,” she said, straightening. She wasn’t sure what the tone of this meeting would be. When it came down to it, she wasn’t sure she’d get out of here without several Eldergrove guards leaping out and shouting ‘surprise’, which was why Snakebite was strapped to her hip.

“Orfeus,” Rivasoa said perfectly civilly. Her eyes scanned up Orfeus and down. “You have joined the Wild?”

Orfeus wasn’t in her armour, just in rough-spun brown cotton and her hand-dyed jeans, a green cloak over it all. But she was in her mask. She didn’t like being without it, somehow. “I’m infiltrating,” she said. It wasn’t especially a lie, though it wasn’t all the truth either.

“Shall we go in?” Rivasoa said.

Orfeus shrugged, and gestured. After you.

Orfeus followed her into a charming little wayhouse. The air smelled less of salt in here, but the house still declared its township in plenty of other ways. Rows of shells were lined up carefully by the heater. Knotted driftwood rested on shelves next to a couple precious yellow-paged paper books. Orfeus breathed in the air appreciatively. Someone in the kitchen area was making a salad or something similiar; she could smell the vinaigrette.

A moment after they entered, someone rushed through from the kitchen, a short, curvy person with long curly hair and a periwinkle-blue apron. Rivasoa grinned at the sight of them.

She turned to Orfeus, smile sparkling bright, and said, “This is Marisa; she is the keeper of this wayhouse.”

Marisa nodded distractedly, and rushed out from behind the counter, wiping her hands off on her apron. “My love,” she said, and practically hopped up onto Rivasoa.

Rivasoa, tall, grave, stately Rivasoa, wrapped her arms around the other woman to catch her as she jumped, and then spun around with her laughing. “Yes, yes,” she said. “It’s been less than an hour, you know, dearest.”