Aisling had meant to take the day off. She had meant to do a lot of things that day, in fact, but she had especially meant to take the day off so she could do them. She had been looking forward to that trip to the spa in particular. But as luck would have it, something had, in fact, come up and then she’d had to come in anyway.

Hours later had found her worse for wear. Her arse stung from getting knocked on it so many times. Her entire left side had been one huge grass stain. She didn’t even want to think of how her middle had looked before applying a salve. Even if it no longer hurt as much as it had before, there was still a dull, nagging ache.

She had made it, though. It might have taken one precarious shower (there had been soap in bad places, she almost broke her neck, don’t ask), several hard yanks of a brush through her hair, ten minutes of frantic searching among her closet and drawers (and then, in a fit of desperation, under her bed), and a very small, very brief freakout over a lack of clean underwear, but. She had made it to Rover’s in one piece.

If… a wee bit late.

Aisling burst through the doors—and immediately coloured when several glances were shot her way. Returning them all a weak smile, she sidled over to the tray of those folded little things, grabbed her name, located her table, and then – upon seeing that her date was already present and watching her – mustered up whatever was left of her dignity before making her way over.

Both chair and date were reached with palpable relief.

“Sorry–” She took a deep, bracing breath, and winced; ohhhhhkay, that was a twinge. “Sorry I’m late.” Was he standing? Why was he stand—oh! She hurried to kiss him on the cheek.

All too happy to sink into her seat and doing so as gingerly as she could, Aisling took that moment to give the wizard sitting across from her a proper look. She only got to his eyes when she decided her feet hurt too much – and that she was too warm – to go on. “Sylvain, right?” Slightly distracted (normally she would just kick off her shoes, but with the way her luck had gone all day she had a sinking suspicion that they would just hit him in the shin), she shot him a little rueful grin as she tugged off her shoes one by one. “Bal’s Sylvain?”

Which would make him her new neighbor. But in her defense, stupidly rare, violent trees were best given all of one’s attention.

Sylvain did not know many people in Great Britain, much less London, but he knew at least one wizard who thought that this was a good idea - whether that friend expected his cousin to be involved was doubtful. Just the same, Sylvain had stayed at home all day to conserve nerve for this unprecedented social task.

He thought he was perhaps undergoing his first experience of being 'stood up' at the age of thirty-two. The idea fell neither here nor there, though the wizard felt a prickle of relief on the back of his neck when the redhead witch burst through the door. She had obviously taken pains to be here, welcomed his greetings as he stood.

"Bonne soirée, it is nothing." Sylvain murmured and sat down again to watch Aisling Cooper across the table.

Bien sûr: he watched her and she watched him, and then she... began to remove her shoes. Surely not a British custom. He told himself not to ensure if other dates were taking off their shoes, surveying her instead through slightly lowered lids. Beautiful hair. Something pleasing about her lips. She might have been terrifying as a youth.

"Yes," the wizard answered and played anxiously with the sleeves of his sweater. "And you are his Aisling." he smiled, looking down at the table momentarily, awkward, and then back up at her clear eyes. She was in pain. Something of a common symptom in his own field.

He was not so self-deprecating to assume he was the source of such wincing. "You are... hurt?" Sylvain asked, curious, looking her over with interest.

Shoes off, Aisling crossed her ankles. She kept her feet off the ground by leaving it all to a single ruddy toe. She pinkened even more beneath that present flush – both touched and embarrassed by Sylvain’s concern – and, ducking her head, laughed a little and sighed.

Of course he noticed, with those eyes. Of course.

“Just a little,” she admitted, lifting her head. She tucked a stray lock of flame-bright hair – one of many, undone by her mad dash down the street – behind an ear. “I work at a nursery—a tree nursery. Wyrmwood Grove? Usually it’s pretty safe, we mostly deal in normal stock. For landscaping purposes. The worst that could happen–” Aisling paused, then amended, “Second worst, is falling out of a tree. But sometimes we get… excitable types.”

Which was as much of a testament to Wyrmwood’s smooth running as it was an observation of the industry itself, and therefore to be appreciated, given the many risks and pitfalls a business often faced by its second generation. Aisling knew they were doing really well. Like, really well. But she couldn’t help but think of what a change of pace it would likely seem to a beast handler. As much as she loved the nursery—the plants, the gardening, the people who came with it, everything—she was under no illusions about her job.

As wondrous as it was, it was still a climate-controlled environment.

“It isn’t as boring as it sounds like, I swear.” Rubbing a cheek, she offered Sylvain that same rueful, earnest smile again, before letting her hand drop to her lap where it curled into a small, anxious fist. Merlin, they needed a topic change, stat. “You’re a handler, too, right? Do you work with dragons as well, or do you work with other kinds of creatures?”

Despite the turtleneck, gray eyes roamed over his form, bold with curiosity.

"--Wyrmwood Grove? Usually it’s pretty safe, we mostly deal in normal stock. For landscaping purposes..."

Sylvain opened his mouth to speak, shutting alternately as he tried to decide wether the tone of voice that lilted upwards was a genuine question or conversational quirk. The latter, he thought, smiling with amusement at the image of excitable trees. She handled words so quickly and so decisively.

His mind grew questions. Did she speak to her plants? Where was this grove? Who were their clientele, and why are the British so obsessed with controlling their foliage?

He sipped at the glass of wine that had been served at their table as Aisling's shoes were being taken off, trying not to look as overwhelmed as he felt. Her questions came before his could find the tip of his tongue.

"Oui, all creatures. Dragons are your cousin's specialty, mine is with Graphorns but..." Sylvain cleared his throat and eyed his date's throat in an effort not to stare at her pretty freckles. It did not work. The freckles were everywhere.

Not that he could confirm that at present. He blushed at the thought and continued, carelessly fiddling with a paper heart decoration on the table. "But I handle most beasts. We like the dangerous ones - I think I would like your excitable trees?" A sweet jest as he met her brazen gaze.

"Why a grove?" he asked innocently. There was glamour and excitement with creatures, obvious temptations, but Sylvain admitted he was not so persuaded by the charms of verdure.