Outfit

Matilda dropped the last box atop the stack and nearly fell back from releasing the weight of it. She grabbed the edges and grinned, pulling herself upright. She had learned long ago that balancing precariously, upon new orders and stored inventory alike, was part of the job. If others had wands, Tilly had a clumsy repertoire of tottering moves that worked just fine for her.

She flitted away from the boxes and back to the wall near the door, where they had haphazardly been delivered. She straightened a framed photo of Phil, Reducto's owner, hugging a wizard from a folk-rock jazz infusion band whose metallic aqua-and-pink trumpet had dozens of extra buttons, bells, and mouthpieces. The colors were faded, a hazy tone between sepia and modern photography, but the subjects were alive and waving.

Tilly bit her lip, smiling back knowingly-- if he had been a portrait, he might even had given her advice for juggling those boxes as if they were oranges, but she had long since taken to heart his quirky wisdom.

She opened the back door, peering into the alley with a poke of her long-maned head, and then closed it again, setting the lock in place. There would be no more deliveries today, though it was only morning, and Tilly was the only one in the shop yet. She had taken this shift to relieve the youth who had worked overtime while Tilly was adjusting to life with Colin-- and Colin was adjusting to life. Now the young wizard was enrolled in acting school, and Tilly felt it was not particularly a bohemian's heart's desire to rise before the sun. Besides, he had a morning lecture with the famed acting coach who had left Hogwarts after an explosion during a production of "The Fountain of Fair Fortune."

Colin was home with his baby sitter and Bruce the dog, and Tilly was here, prepared to open the store. She swept away from the stock room and into the main floor, crowded and full of records spilling (organized!) from every which direction-- up the walls, and over the edges of sale bins, and from carefully elevated, alphabetized rows. Some, like the more animated of Wizarding books, were testy about being sold to the wrong customer, and even testier about the prospect of being laid upon a record player, a casualty in the name of rock 'n roll. They would not go down without a fight, and Tilly had special instructions for tricking those ones onto a turntable's platter.

She set the morning's music, a new E.P. from a faithful favorite whom she had loved since the age of fifteen, when she had first started working in London, exploring Diagon Alley, and attending crowded, grungy, courtyard concerts on long, sweet summer evenings. It was upbeat, with soft female vocals and great drums.

She changed the sign on the door the old fashion way, flipping it on its string which hung like a necklace from the glass. She propped the door open a little-- the air was nice, warm but not insufferably hot. Autumn would be around soon, and that always brought in new customers, even if the students were tucked away back in the Scottish mountains.

Humming to herself, she went back to the register to prepare it, and sipped from a cup of coffee she'd poured from a thermos back home.

It was earlier in the morn than he would have liked when Roger Lemon staggered into Reducto Records, sporting a black eye and a quiet, rueful express. He let the door shut behind him, slouching and digging his hands into his pockets as a pair of blue eyes lethargically swept the store.

"Mornin' Tilly," he mumbled incoherently. The squib squinted at the older of the two, trying to see out of his unharmed eye best as he could. He was taller than her but gave the impression that he was looking up at the woman, not down. "You doing alright t'day?"

Some'un should be. Oh, soddin' hell, his head was throbbing. Like taking a hammer to the other end of his nerves. Roger wandered over to the main counter that his friend was behind, and leaned against it lazily. The music playing in the background was mercifully inoffensive. "Nice song," he told her: "But ye got anythin' for a black eye?"

As far as mornings went, this wasn't the norm, prolly because he was asleep most mornings. But he'd come back too late from the pubs down in East London, and couldn't justify going to sleep before his afternoon shift tending bar at a muggle hotel in Central. Sleep would have t'wait. Coin came first. Still, he had a few hours to spare before work-- and where else better to be than at Quinn's place? One've the better welcomes he got around here.

This was a first. 

Jacoba was very good at leaving.  Even after months at Adon's, a place she'd allowed herself the false luxury of feeling settled and ... well ... at home, it had taken all but twenty minutes to toss her life in her bag and walk out.  She was good at it.  Practiced.  There was no need for fanfare and she rarely accumulated much in the way of stuff.  Something about the sheer action of walking out on her own volition, on her own schedule and with absolutely no obligations behind her was settling.  The past was the past and that was it. 

But, this had to be the first time Jacoba could ever remember going back.  She'd left Reducto at the end of May, in her old and familiar way.  Without warning, one night, she'd packed her things and left a quick, three-line note of thanks on Tilly's desk.  There'd been no indication where she was headed or why she was leaving.  Just, farewell.  She had neither expected nor intended to return. 

She wouldn't have, if things hadn't so drastically changed.  Given recent developments, Jacoba had for the first time felt herself confronted with the feeling that there wasn't anywhere else she could go.  Except back. 

Despite recent self discoveries, Jacoba still wasn't in a position to let herself through the stone wall that divided the foot of Diagon Alley from the Leaky Cauldron.  Just as before, she had to wait and lurk in the courtyard, with her backpack sitting heavily on her back, for a middle aged witch to pass through ahead of her.  Jacoba slipped through right behind her and started down the now-familiar path towards that little record shop.  She could only hope that Tilly wouldn't hold Jacoba's sudden departure against her.  Hopefully, she'd understand. 

There was no shortage of curious glances in her direction.  There were probably many amongst the local merchants that recognized her - either from the posters that had been scattered over the alley or Jacoba's months of working there.  They all probably still saw her as That Muggle.  Jacoba hadn't told anyone of her recent discoveries; there was no way any of them could know the difference. 

The shop's door stood open and, for the briefest moment, Jacoba hesitated outside.  With a shake of her head, Jacoba rolled her eyes at herself and stepped inside.  She paused a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dark then walked up towards the pair at the counter.  "I've got half a bottle of gin left over from the train," Jacoba said, offering a sympathetic grimace as she approached the pair.  "Or, aspirin for the head ache.  I'm afraid that's all I've got." 

Tilly looked up, mid-pour, and caught the familiar visage of Roger Lemon, plus a newly affixed black eye. She had, over the years, become somewhat used to his shocking accessories: bruises, sprained limbs, dried blood, but it did not stop her from raising her brows in slight surprise, her already-parted lips-- which had been on the verge of a smile-- parting further. “Better than you, I think.”

She closed her mouth and did smile. It was a kind, affectionate draw of her lips. Gripping the cup, she leaned toward him as he leaned into the counter, and appraised his eye. Her gaze flitted over it carefully, and she decided he did not need to go to a clinic-- though she knew him well enough by now to know that he would likely grumble at or ignore such advice. She floated around the counter, cup clasped in her palms. She held out the coffee by way of answer. “Drink up,” she invited.

Freeing her hands, she turned to pour herself a cup. “What happened?” She asked, not judgmentally, but genuinely curious. Of course, she worried after him-- but they were old friends, too, and Roger had a way with stories. She took a sip of coffee. Somehow, it made the day feel like it was up and running... after the initial, literal up and running (and there was bound to be running, or at least jogging through bustling crowds and a precarious tottering of boxes in Tilly’s near future. Oh, clocks! At least she would get a laugh out of it.). “If you need to catch a few hours of sleep, the storeroom’s free.”

“The song’s great, isn’t it? I’ve missed this band.”

She had no time to muse further over it, to suggest that Roger trade in an evening brawl for a quaint cafe/wine bar show by said band when they visited Diagon next week. The chime above the door rang faintly, and the next customer was not a customer. It was a morning for too-familiar faces and much-needed caffeine.

Tilly looked around Roger and her mouth seemed to repeat the open surprise it had displayed a moment ago. Jacoba-in-the-flesh immediately brought to mind their last (non)encounter, the quick handwriting on the bit of paper, which was still sitting in the drawer under the cash register. She offered a meaningful squeeze to Roger’s wrist as she brushed past him and moved toward Jacoba-- which was unnecessary, as the other young woman had nearly already approached by the time Tilly’s feet decided they knew how to move again. She before Jacoba, staring for a long moment, searching her face. “You’re alright.”

Things had quieted in the Alley after the initial attack of Reducto, the propaganda against them, and the circulation of aurors into the little shop. But that did not mean the nasty crowd from that Knockturn bar had forgotten the muggle invasion of Diagon Alley, or the squib who had overstepped herself in extended a welcoming hand.

Jacoba was a survivor, someone who seemed to be most comfortable uprooting and disappearing now and again, but she did not have a wand, and Tilly, for all her understanding, had not expected her to depart only leaving a simple note in her wake. She had been confused, worried, admittedly a little disappointed, and hurt. Now that she saw Jacoba was alright (or at least appeared to be), relief washed over her, and a little bit of anger. But she would not make rash judgements; she would wait for her to speak. Tilly was not afraid to speak her mind, had never been. Her family knew this well, as did her friends. But she wasn’t going to burst into a row in the middle of the shop. Roger was still here, anyway, and sporting a fabulously bruised eye.

She looked from Jacoba to Roger. The three of them were like a negative-attention-drawing cauldron, huddled like this.

“Coffee,” she said suddenly, moving around the counter again, rummaging and retrieving another spare cup. She looked at Jacoba, waving it, waiting for the go-ahead to pour. She was lucky to have so many witches and wizards in her life. Dennis had charmed her thermos long ago, so that the coffee refilled itself. As she topped off her own, she said, staring at the stream hot the liquid, “You could have said something, you know. Things come up, but you could have popped in-- in person-- to let me know you were leaving. I didn’t know whether someone had forced the note, or forged it.” It looked like neither. She set down the thermos and looked up at Jacoba. “Or if you just decided to leave.”

Coffee, thank the bloody stars. Roger settled on thanking Tilly instead, 'course.

There was a tension between the two women that he could only vaguely sense in his sleep-deprived, hungover haze... whatever it was went right over his head like water off a duck's back. Didn't matter to him how often he saw his friends, s'long as they remembered him whenever he did catch a sight of 'em. Jacoba appearing at Reducto was casually welcomed in his view and he did little in greeting but smile at the offer of gin.

"Nah. I cannae afford the bottle t'day, got a job down at the Churchill," the squib smiled tiredly. Not even muggles took their drink from a boozed up bartender. "But I'll take ye offer up on the aspirin." His eyes shifted to the other: "And maybe that storeroom later if y'don't mind, Tilly..." he added with a little grimace before falling silent and drinking up the coffee she had proffered, ignoring the taste.

Subsisting on coffee was fine but that didn't mean he had t'like it. Didn't matter who was serving it up; if water could burn, that'd be its bitter flavour. Roger couldn't tell if Tilly was trying to dispel whatever mood had come in with Jacoba; he knew better than to try saying anything. Squibs or not... women were women. He set down his mug and pressed a hand to his black eye, applying a little pressure but quickly lessening it to feel the relief of pain.

There was no shortage of explanations and reasons for the muggle's disappearance several months ago.  Plenty of things that Jacoba might have said to potentially justify suddenly vanishing without word or gesture.  But, Jacoba didn't quite feel comfortable trying to reason away Tilly's ire or frustration - the squib was wholly justified in whatever reaction she was encountering.  And, whatever Tilly's response might be, dealing with it was going to be a walk in the park compared to her brother's.  But, that was a hurtle she'd save for another day. 

So, Jacoba remained quiet as Tilly stared at her.  "Ja.  I'm alright," she confirmed, with a nod.  "Better than some, it seems."  She glanced in Roger's direction and offered a sympathetic grimace.  That eye looked incredibly painful.  And, he was supposed to be working later?  "I'd love some coffee, though.  It has been a long train ride."  There hadn't been a lot of planning involved once Jacoba had decided to return.  Like when she'd left Munich for Amsterdam, Amsterdam for London, Adon's flat or even when she'd left her parents house eight years ago, little more than two hours had passed between deciding to leave and walking out the door.  But, the anticipation of returning some place she'd skipped out on had set her mind churning.  She hadn't gotten a whole lot of sleep on the train. 

"I'm sure you would."  Jacoba said to Roger, moving towards the counter after Tilly returned to the blessed, holy, bottomless coffee thermos.  She let her large backpack fall to the floor and rummaged in the top pocket for the bottle of acetaminophen and shook three out into her hand.  "Have you iced it, yet?" she asked.  "Do you want some help?  I'm a bit of an old pro at such things.  Some say I have the magic touch."  Jacoba grimaced, briefly, at the irony before shaking her head. 

Then Tilly requested an explanation.  This was, in some ways, the trial run.  Jacoba took a long breath and shrugged.  "I am sorry.  Things had gotten ... heavy.  And, I needed to clear my mind."  Which, of course, didn't explain why Jacoba hadn't said anything.  "To be honest, I wasn't entirely sure I had time to wait and see you in person.  I was certain the Ministry was on the verge of swooping in and phwip."  Jacoba raised a finger and pantomimed someone doing something to her head.  To the average muggle, it would have looked like getting shot in the head, though the sound effects didn't match.  Jacoba had no idea what it looked like to have one's memories modified but she'd always imagined the effect was similar. 

"I kind of panicked.  I kind of figured the sooner I was out of the UK, the better.  I don't know.  But, I am sorry."  She glanced at Roger, half hoping he'd confirm it seemed a valid reason for disappearing without warning.  It was the truth - at least 75% of the truth. 

Tilly managed to smile at the bit of news that Roger had a job for the day. She knew the struggle, and was lucky to have her job. For every wizard who would hire a squib-- even for a job that required little to no magic-- there were a half dozen who wouldn't dream of it. Muggle jobs were a little easier, until you quickly figured out that you couldn't talk about half of what others brought up without having to lie. Remembering not to break the Statute of Secrecy in everyday conversation when you didn’t even have a wand in the first place... It took practice, and it was often an entire life spent perfecting the precarious balance between two worlds, in neither of which a squib quite perfectly fit. “Not at at all. I’m glad to hear you’ve got a job.” Even if it was temporary, an opportunity was a start. Jacoba’s immediate offer to help with his eye was not lost on Tilly, either. The girl was clever and thrifty, a fast friend if, apparently, sometimes flighty. The resourceful sort whom Tilly admired and was thankful for, even when she was upset. “You’ll have quite the story to tell while you’re pouring drinks.” She couldn’t help joking a bit, trying to soften the inevitable weight of routine brawls, late nights, and hungover sleep.

The squib was quiet, patient as the other woman spoke. Tilly wasn’t the sort to not let someone else have their voice (the fact that she worked in a music shop was a coincidence). It was important to her to always hear her friends, even when she was angry. She considered the explanation as she poured and passed around coffee, and then watched the exchange between the other two.

“I understand needing to clear your mind... I just wish I knew what was going on. But if the Ministry was after you...” Tilly’s face darkened a little. She was not the Ministry’s biggest fan after the past year. She took a sip of coffee, contemplating things. “So where did you go?” She asked at last, having not missed the long train ride bit. Jacoba looked tired, but otherwise remarkably healthy in the she’s-in-one-whole-piece-and-offering-someone-else-minor-edical-assistance way, for which Tilly was thankful. There was no limit to the craziness of people like the ones who had attacked the store, plastered the anti-muggle propaganda, and tried to get rid of a baby. She folded her arms over her self, shivering imperceptibly at the thought. Tucking a bit of hair behind her ear, she added, “You’re back in London now, then...” Only Jacoba knew whether she was visiting or staying, and Tilly supposed it was best to let her tell or not tell as much as she wanted.

The chimes at the door jingled, and a customer came in. Tilly gave the woman a smile; she was neither sleepy nor hunger over, nor seemingly anxious to get to a nine-to-five (which would make her rather late), and was dressed in such bright colors (a floral shirt with nearly imperceptible words printed upon it, and a neon cloak) that it were as if someone had added an extra dose caffeine to Matilda’s coffee cup. She hardly blinked at the trouble-magnet trio by the register, but did return the smile. “Let me know if I can help you find anything,” Tilly called out to her. For some reason, things felt a little less tense.

She set down her cup, still smiling a little, despite-- or in part because of-- the sudden whirlwind of drama and colorful personalities. “If you two tell me there are no aurors or hit wizards on their way over to sort out bar fights and memory cleaning, my neighbor made muffins.” She’d already had breakfast with Colin, but the old lady down the hall was enamored with him and always bringing over food (Tilly could never complain about that-- it was delicious on top of sweet-- but there was usually so much extra that it often ended up in the storeroom at Reducto for any takers on shift.)

Muggle drugs was... well, it was Roger's thing, as far as selling the illegal shit went. He dabbled in the stuff but pharmacies and hospitals were not places he fancied strolling into on a daily basis. Wasn't raised that way. Jacoba spilled three pills that he picked up with deft fingers and held in the palm of his hand, squinting down at them with sleepy eyes.

Might as well be magic, he thought, the way they work. Pop 'em in and he'd be feeling his auld self again. "Thank ye. Iced it before coming over, don't ye worry..." he murmured before tossing his head back quickly to gulp down the painkillers with the coffee.

Both left a bitter taste in his mouth and he scowled, gingerly running his tongue across his teeth. "Aye," the squib answered Tilly's comment, wry tone. "Better me havering than them," he snorted. Tipsy hotel guests blathering about how hard they had it; effin' pricks.

Roger's peering gaze shifted between the other two as they exchanged words, not really evasive but noncommittal at best. He looked back at Jacoba when she glanced at him and nodded almost imperceptibly. "Good to have ye back anyway," he raised his mug to his lips as Tilly started to ask about where the other woman had been-- that was when the store was graced with the presence of a customer, breaking the tension that Roger was imagining there to be. If there wasn't conflict somewhere, he usually assumed there would be.

Prolly why he got into so many damn fights. "Muffins?" he stood straight at the word, forgetting for a moment the pain of his black eye and the aching bruises on his shins. As if on cue, his stomach made a rumbling sound and Roger blushed ruefully. "Nah, no aurors comin' after me t'day. Nothing that bad, Tilly."

"So, what is the story you're telling?" Jacoba asked, glancing curiously at Roger.  Perhaps he'd already relayed it once for Tilly's sake, before Jacoba had joined the pair.  She didn't know Roger that well and mostly as an extension of Tilly but one didn't have to know Roger long to know he was prone to fights.  Fueled by various motivations and ending with differing degrees of success.  Each had an interesting story behind them.  It would be interesting to hear what the story was behind this one. 

Jacoba cradled the coffee between her hands and pursed her lips, nodding her head.  There really wasn't much more she could say; Tilly was right and justified in her frustration.  Being here, now and looking back, Jacoba could see she should have said something.  But, back then ... Jacoba wasn't used to it mattering.  And, she didn't know how much time she had.  Or, if the Ministry had ways of tracking her down.  She really hadn't expected to be returning - to even be allowed to return.  After all, who would have thought ...

"Where did I go?" Jacoba repeated.  She shrugged though was grateful that, for once, she could actually answer that question.  She'd stayed clean and (relatively) sober.  At least she hadn't fully fallen back into old habits that, on more than one occasion, left her waking up in towns she couldn't identify until she managed to lay hands on a local newspaper.  "I wandered at first.  Prague for a week.  Spent a couple weeks in Romania then ended up back in Berlin.  I managed to get a job working a bar at a night club but, then, ... something happened and I needed to come back." 

“You’re back in London now, then...”

To be perfectly honest, Jacoba hadn't thought that far ahead.  But, she supposed that's why she was there; she'd come back because she wasn't sure where else she should or could go.  "Thank you," she offered Roger with a grin.  Every conversation needed a stay man ... someone who helped anchor it to the obvious and simplistic.  "I'd like to stay," Jacoba voiced, tentatively.  "I'd been planning on checking in at the Backpacker's Hostel and, well, figuring out a plan from there.  I suppose, it somewhat depends on how many bridges have been burnt beyond repair?"  Which, if they had, Jacoba certainly couldn't blame anyone but herself. 

"Ms. Bancroft?" Jacoba asked at the mention of neighbors baking.  This certainly wasn't the first time baked goods had made their way to the shop.  They rarely went unappreciated.  "I don't think the Ministry knows I'm back," Jacoba admitted.  Though, word could have very well drifted from the Leaky Cauldron.  That would be a stream she'd have to forge sometime. 

Tilly was no stranger to backpacking, though she hadn't done it for a while (unless one counted tours, in which case, she was a backpacking champion). Jacoba was not fussy and seemed the sort who could make a bed just about anywhere. She was like Roger, or Dennis, or Tilly herself in that aspect. In fact, most of the squib's closest friends seemed to be that sort, restless if they had to stay glued permanently to one place. Not that they weren't also frequently creatures of habit, or that they didn't have homes. But the people were the ones who made places home. Still, she hoped it was nice for the younger woman to be back. Even if there was a whirlwind of emotions charging through the air like so many notes, there was always room for nostalgia. Tilly listened calmly, growing a little perplexed, a little concerned when Jacoba mentioned something happening. It was vague, and could be anything. "Are you alright now? Is your brother alright?"

As for burned bridges and hostels: "This bridge isn't burned, you know." Tilly swept a bit of her mane from her shoulder and reached out to touch the other girl's. "You've got a place to stay if you need... maybe slightly more comfortable than a hostel, but it's up to you."

"I'd drink to that, too, Roger." Glad to hear that they wouldn't be visited by aurors before they could indulge in too-late-for-breakfast/too-early-for-lunch (was it ever either?) muffins (courtesy of neighbors who regularly bothered with ovens), Tilly popped into the back room, whose door was already ajar (it helped that it was rarely ever shut). The plate was massive and still warm, thanks to magic... and, Tilly knew, the baking equivalent of green thumbs. Some things even a wand couldn't accomplish. "Ms. Bancroft," she confirmed, bringing them back out to the counter.

She uncovered the stash of baked goods, which came in a half dozen varieties, nudged them in a universal sign of help yourselves, and reached for a fat, lukewarm carrot-pumpkin muffin with a perfect overabundance of magic-tasting cream cheese swirled into the batter (it was like a cupcake-muffin hybrid, really, Tilly's favorite sort of muffin, to be sure, along with the aforementioned Bancroft woman's zucchini-and-something-obviously-addictive-and-vaguely-narcotic-like kind.) She paused, the muffin halfway to her mouth, and raised eyebrows. "I don't know whether to tell you to let them know you're back or keep a low profile," she admitted, more of the tension ebbing away as she conspired with her fellow outliers of wizarding society. "Cheers?" She offered, apologetically, taking a bite. She chased it with more coffee before adding, "You know, it would help if the lot of us doubled as Metamorphs."

---

If anything needs to be edited, please let me know. I am just getting back into AO mode after being 'away' for a bit. <3

Food!

Tilly had barely revealed the tray of muffins before Roger snapped up one of the baked goods, hardly giving mind to wot kind it was as he took a large, ungraceful munch. A sweet flavour filled his mouth... corn and... something sorta flowery. Wha'ever. S'long as it tasted good. No way in 'ell was he gonna take a shift on an empty stomach.

The boy raised his mug to his friend's cheers'n her metamorph joke, chewing loudly while trying to say something-- obviously failing to. "Mm..mff-no," he finally managed between mouthfuls of another muffin, having devoured the first in three bites. "Just don't do nufin', Jacoba. Ye can feign ignorance if ye act like there ain't anything wrong wif bein' back, yea?"

Roger peered over at the other squib with what passed for a serious expression: "I mean, s'far as I can see, there really ain't nuthin' wrong with it." Why the fuckin' hell would the Ministry bother her anyhow? Merlin's blooming socks, they oughta just leave the lot of 'em alone.

The aroma of Ms Bancroft's muffins beat Tilly back to the counter and Jacoba's mouth had already begun to water by the time the platter was placed on the counter top.  Her own personal favorite was amongst them.  Perhaps Ms Bancroft was a secret diviner and had known Jacoba was returning or she'd never stopped backing them.  Either way, Jacoba snatched up the ginger and spice muffin with a satisfied grin and finally let her heavy backpack fall to the floor tucked out of the way behind the counter.  By the time she'd pushed herself up to sit on the sidebar, there was no doubting it: it was good to be back. 

"I'd be more than grateful to take on a few shifts and start renting my little nook in the attic, again.  God knows it's the biggest space I've ever had to myself.  It's cozy."  It was a perfect spot for her - she'd managed to scrounge up enough extra furniture from Tilly, Dennis and the gang to outfit it quite nicely though her favorite spot was still the curvature of the sill in the round, attic window under the eaves.  It was a perfect space to sit and read or just watch the bustle of Diagon Alley below. 

Jacoba shook her head, dismissing Tilly's concern.  "Everything's fine.  Technically.  I assume, at least.  To be honest, I haven't spoken to my brother since, well, before I left.  He's the bridge I'm most concerned about."  After all, Jacoba had done this disappearing act to him twice now.  Once, she'd felt compelled to leave by her father; the second time by the Ministry.  Both times, she'd left her brother without a word.  But, she didn't share Roger's enthusiastic toast to Tilly's metamorph comment.  Instead, she offered an awkward half-grin and shrugged her shoulders. 

"Actually," she offered hesitantly, taking a small bite of the muffin, then glancing towards Roger.  "I wasn't planning on doing anything.  I'm sure word will reach them.  And, I'm not sure there's anything they could do about it, anyway.  I don't think they can make me leave.  Something did happen - I'm fine-" she added quickly, for Tilly's benefit.  "I don't think - I think I have more of a right to be here than they are assuming."