A Want-to-Know Basis

[rassafraggin]

The benefits to living in a seedy little place near the docks is that few people ask a terrible amount of questions when your serriptitously bring a 'drunk' woman back to your room. The problems of such an arrangement are... well, everything else. The doss house is a large affair. It somehow survived the last tsunami to hit the docks (unlike the rooming house that Mercier had occupied previously), and the whole quarter is probably a little worse for it. The absentee landlady is less absent today, but only physically. Aside from an angry growl some stevedore for the rent, she drunkenly hangs out the open second story window.

Mercier elected to take a side entrance that may or may not have been selectively forgotten. Its a fun trudge up two flights up stairs to the third floor, and down the hall, before he lays the unconscious woman on the straw, pallet bed. Its a bit of effort to manuver; The room isn't exactly big to begin with, and its hard to close the door standing /next/ to the bed. The little free floor space that there is is covered in crates and boxes, stacked claustrophobicly high, and aside from the rickety chair and table that excueses itself as a desk, there's not much decoration or room to furnish it much better. What it does have is a window offering a commanding view of the street and alley behind, and a quicker exit.

Sidonie exhales smoke in the direction of the window, careful to not drop ashes on Mercier's bed. Indeed, she has smoked before. A worrying thought. "Shipmates, then, of a fashion," she says with a bit of an embarrassed smile, which turns a bit redder at the next statement. "I am dreading it," she admits. "If it were up to me... I don't /really/ want to know, Arthur." She admits this with a pained look. "I like my life right now. I love working for Incarnate, and I am happy on the Beast." She notices that flash in Mercier's eyes, but says none of it, focusing on another tidbit instead. She scoffs, clearly in denial. "Lhasa Chantris is what she said. Doesn't ring a bell. Could be made up, for all I know. And as far as I /do/ know, there is nobody looking for this so-called Lhasa Chantris, Captain Howler, whoever she is."

Exhaling smoke through his nose, the merchant leans forward, towards you, resting his elbows on his knees, taking a brief moment to tap a few ashes into the ceramic ashtray on the desk. "I... understand how enticing it is to forget. To start over, to leave those... worrying little bits of yourself in some dustbin that no one, not even you would find." He provides a sad smile, "Not personally, of course." He covers, though given your shared experience, likley not convincingly, "There are enough sad stories among sailors and steveadores, and Amberites tend to get this little bug in them where life gets /too hard/, so they go give themselves to the Road or Chaos or what have you." He pauses, giving a little shudder at the thought. "Anyhow. That's the price of action. Those that build terrible memories of terrible things are not allowed to walk away. They live with them. You have a crew, friends, people who counted on you before. You'd give Incarnate a benefit beyond them? To know you?"

Sidonie stretches a hand to tap her cigarette on the ashtray. She listens quietly to Mercier, eyes steadily on him. When he tries to cover that tidbit that hits close to home, her hand itches with the urge to pat him on the arm. She takes another long drag from her cigarette instead. "I don't remember Captain Howler, who this lady says lost her ship and her crew forty years ago." Another tap on the ashtray. "A whole crew lost at sea. Can you imagine that? How could I possibly want to remember?" Her eyes look stricken. There are no memories, but there's grief settling in her gut nonetheless. She clears her throat then shakes her head, exhales. "Bloody hell. I don't want to be a coward, Arthur. Even if I never remember and my life really did begin anew three months ago when I woke up in Arden, the things that happened to me still happened, and I suppose I have a duty to find out if there's anything of me left behind. But... damn." Her voice trails off, unsure about stating the obvious: it sucks.

Mercier looks skeptical, "First of all, as a admitted coward, there's not wrong with being one. Most people are. Every little person wandering this dosshouse or working as a server or a chambermaid; Very few of them are couragous. They don't need to be. You don't need be." He offers, matter-of-factly. "So, don't go insulting the man who serves at the coffee house because he wouldn't leap on the barrell of a cannon to save his platoon, or something absurd like that." He waves his hand aggressively, as if swatting a fly. "But, that's the size of things. You don't remember for you. You remember for them, or justice, or some other virtue. If you were a Captain, the type of Captain that rescues slaves.... I don't think you'll have much to worry about, on that end of things. You're life begins today, and tomorrow, and the day after that. Every day we have the opportunity to make a different choice."

"Pah, I wouldn't call anyone a coward. I just said /I/ don't want to be one, when it comes to facing uncertainty," Sidonie scoffs, inhaling the last of the stub of a cigarette and pressing the last of its ashes into the ashtray. "Imagine that. A Captain? What if I was a terrible one. A privateer or a smuggler, even?" She smiles. "This woman seemed to think highly of me as I was forty years ago, but what about the time in between? What if I was /terrible/!" With a long exhale, she sits back up straighter. "Mister Templeton, you strike me as man who has led a few different lives. How did you reinvent yourself?"

It's the wee hours of the morning, barely a hint of light emerging on the horizon. In the charming, seedy little place by the docks, a rooster can be heard clearing its throat and making its first warbled attempt at a cockledoodledoo. The window to Mercier's little room is open, but not much more than that can be seen from the outside. To any peeking inside through the door, Mercier sits on a chair at his desk, Sidonie on the edge of the bed. Both sharing a smoke, and having a Deep Thoughts sort of conversation.

The merchant wobbles his non-cigerette-tending hand with a gesture of uncertainly, "Well, the Minosians tend to be rather descriptive with there letters patent, as they are. That being said, Howler could go a couple ways. You could just have a bully set of pipes?" He offers, "There are worse things to be then a mercenary or an off-the-books merchant. A brigand comes to mind." The question doesn't get twitch of hesitent response. Mercier's practiced the lie so often, it might as well be the truth. "You think you need to reinvent yourself?" He asks, deftly sidestepping the question, "You don't. What you were is always there. You can use a different name or try a different trade, but we don't get to lie to ourselves. Not for long, anyhow. If you don't talk to this woman, you'll regret it. 20 years from now, you'll be twisted in knots, and she'll be gone, and you'll have no one of knowing, one way or the other."

Emerging through the gloom of the sewery fog that swirls languidly in the street outside that strategically handy window, a couple of striking figures arrive before the hostel. The man checks the dangling sign and lingers a moment over the woman leaning indifferently in the second floor window... the landlady, that is! He has yet to spot the more familiar Sid-shape through a window one storey higher, perhaps passing her over entirely due to the cigarette. Turning to look at the lady at his own side, Merrisol shrugs slightly. "Found it a bit quicker than I thought. Not even light out. Want to go in now or give it a bit?"

Sidonie's eyes follow Mercier's wobbling hand as she considers this. "That might be a reason. I suppose I could find a far-away spot and shout away to confirm that." Her eyes then follow back up to Mercier's intently to see how he navigates that question. Or, in this case, avoids it altogether. Wily. The corner of her mouth quirks up. She reaches for another cigarette. "I disagree. I think context is everything. You're implying that we're all somehow not corruptible, that in our heart of hearts we are always the same no matter the circumstances. And looking around me I don't believe that." She squints at Mercier. "So, what if I find out and I end up remembering and it's just... /bad/."

Shrouded a bit against the night 'vapors', Maggie's cloak hides her figure but not the burnished darkness of her hair. Glancing up at the sign first, then trailing up the building to rest on the draping landlady, Maggie shrugs, "They might be..." But her eyes lift to that floor above and the window where a distinctly Mercier-shape is spotted however vaguely. "Well, Mr. Templeton is awake, I think. Lets go on in, beloved. If they do not want company they don't have to answer the door." There is an anxious touch to her tone, for Sidonie's condition was uncertain when they parted company.

Everyone has such untowards thoughts! Mercier tilts his eyes out the window in a sublte, instinctive fashion. He puts his nearly finished cigerette out in the ashtray, crushing it out, leaving it smoldering a bit. His eyes lie as well as the rest of him, but there's a hint of mirth there. The lie was easy, but silly enough if someone's seen him murder another person. "Perhaps I didn't speak well enough then. I'm not saying there's some incorruptable core, some good or evil switch were all born with. Some people are.... just bad. But most people that do bad things, go there through a matter of degrees, or convincing. Few people are villians in their own play. What I mean is, our lives are like a opera, acts one through fifty. They are a whole thing, not parts. The past informs what you are, informs how you act, what you think." He shrugs, "Either you'll remember to be her, in which it won't seem so bad, or they're'll be a seperation, in which case you can consider things with fresh eyes. If you were bad, you have a sudden opportunity to be better. You always do. I wish I had something more comforting to say."

Following Maggie's line of sklob, Merri is presently able to pinpoint the exact window, estimating that room's location in his mind for when they enter the dingy warren. "..Hnh.." he ponders over Maggie's assertion, frowning slightly as that scenario plays out and presents an awkward possibility. "Suppose not." Lifting one hand, he brings a half-full canvas bag into view. "And we'll just leave breakfast outside the door. Like room service." He casts a mild scowl up to that window before passing out of view below, heading into the main entrance with Maggie.

Maggie lifts a hand to pat Merrisol's shoulder as he turns to lead the way. Her smile is hidden from his view, though it fades a bit as she ducks into the dark entrance behind him. "They are adults, Kerf. And he is honorable." So says she. And so it must be, right? Right. The darkening of her smile is not evident in her tone which is kept light for her husband's sake. Still, just before she is lost beneath the arch, she glances up toward that window but whether it is to reassure the landlady or try to guage Templeton's position in the room or even to try and spot where Sidonie might be is impossible to tell. Lowering her arm, she tucks her hand closer to her belt and the blade she wears while in Amber. It is a dockside boarding house type place, after all.

The thought of admitting defeat makes Sidonie a bit grumpy. "I suppose you're right," she says with a bit of a scowl. Cigarette in hand, she reaches for the lighter, eyes casting over for it, leaning forward. "What's the worst that could happen, right?" she says, making her best attempt at a smile, and it almost makes it all the way to her eyes. Piracy! That's one!

Mercier gives a smile that has its sadness hidden behind practice, returning the partial grin of Sid's. He tilts his head, waving her hand away, moving to collect the lighter himself, and light the cigerette in a gentlemanly fashion, "Free ship, patent of nobility, maybe a desert island of your own?" He offers, in a good nature. He doesn't say the worst that could happen, because it was always a consideration, in the back of the spy's head. There was no telling how extreme any situation might be, and it was always polite to pretend the consideration didn't exist. That the worst thing that could happen would be that one of them would need to die.

Merri scans the shadows while he follows the copious impromptu wall art towards the stairwell. "I've already taken scattershot across the nose once this week, in the name of Dame Honour. I'm happy to butt out if ... that thing you were saying," he mutters. He's left his obvious weapons someplace else today. Round they go, landing by landing of creaky flights.

"/Chantris/. They've got that big manor, and not to mention the Library..." Sidonie says with a wince. The tip of the cigarette is lit, and she exhales toward the window. "I wonder how I'd go about finding my family? Just show up at the front door?" What if she has parents, siblings? She surely must! The thought makes her smile a bit helplessly, oblivious to Mercier's dark thoughts.

Maggie glances at her husband and a touch of regret hints around her eyes, "Ah, well. I am sorry about that, Kerf. But no... We are here. Let's go see how Doc is fairing. Mr. Templeton might need assistance if she is still out. One of us could call Amy via trump. Or Celeste." She goes with him around and up, corkscrew fashion. Silently counting the landings, she nods when they arrive on the third floor. Drawing in a breath, she holds it, then releases it, "Right then. I'll ask you to lead the way and knock, love. I neglected to count the windows from the stairwell."

Mercier watches the woman for a few moments, in silence. It was proof that he wasn't a monster, at least, that his first and foremost reaction to the worst case scenario is that he would /really/ rather prefer to see the lively doctor... well... lively. He inhales a bit, after a moment, "Chantris is a big clan, to my understanding. And... damn, I've wanted to get into that library for... my, must be years now." He motions forward, with a smile, "See. There's an adventure, in all this. Good or bad, a good mind always prefers a fine myster-" He stops mid word, tilting his head at the new creeks about the building. The walls were thin, and even low tones might be heard through them. It wasn't loud sounds that stopped him, but careful footfalls... then again.... he shakes it off, "Mystery, sorry."

Sidonie catches Mercier watching her, and, well, blushes a bit at that. "Wynter's name is Chantris. Though from what I understand it's an adopted name? I suppose I should ask her." Her head then tilts when Mercier pauses, a prompt to focus on the sounds around them, particularly the hallway.

Merri frowns again. "...Just fainted, from information overload, right? Shorted a circuit up there." He knuckles his cranium, then more quietly makes his way down the hall of doors. So packed together the rooms beyond must be no more than walk-in closets! "Used to be bad headaches for you, Only.. but with some data recovery at the end. Maybe that's what's happening here.." His words are barely above a murmur in the ambience of shuffling, snoring sleepers, softly growling mutts. Ticking off the doors by the dull glint of their knobs, he settles before a likely one, glancing at the jamb for filtered light. Then he reaches out his empty hand to tap the wood with his fingertips.

Maggie nods, "Yeah. That is how it went most of the time. Super not fun, but... Yeah." She follows quietly after him, conscious of those snoozing around them. It is a little on the eerie side, really. The shabby hallway with old or inexpertly laid boards that they walk on stretching like a fairly dark tunnel through ambient noises suggestive of sleep either troubled or sound. Coming to a stop next to Merrisol, she closes her eyes, then opens them again to aid in adjustment. Slipping her hand to the crook of his arm, she waits to the tap to be answered or rebuked.

Mercier's voice really does quit now, at that tapping. Raising a finger to his lips towards the doctor, he raises to his feet, careful not to take more steps then necessary. ITs not terribly hard in that small little room, and he positions himself to the side of the door, as much as he can. He pushes the cheap wood out, creating a small gap near the hinge to peek out from. The merchant exhales quietly, giving a bit of a shrug to Sidonie, "You'll want to lift your legs up, there, so I can open the door all the way." He notes, before removing the latch, and tugging the door open, "Welcome to my little palace, do enter quickly." He notes, stepping up, himself, onto one of the various crates and cargo that little the already terribly limited floorspace. He ducks his head. The room /probably/ isn't big enough for all four of them, comfortably, at least. But they'll fit, assuming Sidonie does put her legs on the bed. The room itself is cramped, adorned with nothing but a rickity chair and table-that-passes for a desk; About foot of empty space separates that and the small straw pallet bed. The sheets look... rough.

Sidonie obliges by remaining quiet and scootching back on the bed so that her legs are out of the way and tucked under her. The visitors have not been announced, and she is very curious, if also a bit wary, as she tilts her head to the side to peek through the door. She looks well enough. Still a bit pale, and her hair is disheveled, but otherwise intact, and awake.

Merri tilts his head to angle a look through the widening door crack, meeting Mercier's gaze with silent query. Sidonie is next in his line of sight and so all seems copacetic, so he straightens back up and sidelongs a smile to Maggie. Raising the feed bag, he opens his mouth to speak to the occupants, but the merchant's terse invitation shuts him up for now. He gestures Maggie in first, natch, then maneuvers his way in, twisting where appropriate. "If this establishment had a fire code, you'd be breaking it," he whispers amiably in greeting. And the maximum load per room, depending on what's packed in those crates. He squeezes clear of the door so Mercier can swing it shut, then eases into that space. "Figured you might wake up hungover.... or at least, hungry, Doc." He hands the bag over to whatever counts as table space.

Maggie slips in quitely before her husband, squeezing onto a crate to give Merrisol room to enter. Looking from Mercier to Sidonie, she smiles at the pair of them though concern still hovers in her gaze. Keeping her voice down, she murmurs, "You okay, Doc? I remember how memories hit me when they started to return and it was never fun." She nods to Merrisol then, "He thought that you might want something to snack on, so we..." Pausing, she clears her throat as her eyes find the ashtray, "I didn't know you smoked."

"I haven't done the research, but if Amber has proper building codes, they don't care to enforce them here. Or perhaps the building is grandfathered in, due to some plank from an ancient galley used in its construction." The merchant shrugs, "The rats have lived here for so long, I beleive they've formed a rudimentry government, complete with fire brigade, however. I'm not overly concerned." Its a fine thing the window's open, as the room might tend to heat up with so many people in close proximity... "Here, uh..." He clambors up on top of two crates stacked on top of each other, freeing up the lone chair, like a good host. At the mention of the cigerette, he shrugs a bit, for the amensiac medico, "I think I might be a bad influence."

Sidonie's wide eyes follow Merri as he sets the bag of food down. "Thank you, Captain," she says sincerely. She then looks the cigarette in her hand, then at Maggie. "It looks like I do. Or did, once upon a time." A bit embarrassed now, she reaches over to press the last dregs of the cigarette into the ashtray, then scootches more to the side to offer them room to sit. "I am well, I promise. No headache, no pain, except for maybe hurt pride."

After freeing his hands, Merri glances back at the others, looking from faces to cigarettes, and then to the window ashtray and the stubbed ends within. He is Real Po-Leece. "Still the same supplier, Templeton?" he remarks offhand over the quality of secondhand smoke. Turning as Mercier clambers the Tetris stack, the Rebman elbows a three-high pillar, grabs the edge to steady. He turns more gingerly the other way, gaze darting for space solutions. Trapped! Maggie grabs the other end of Mercier's bed beside Sidonie, though, so Merri sidles to the chair and carefully settles in. "So... where are we at? Have you... got things figured out, Doc?" He looks to her now.

Maggie would lean over to kiss Merrisol's cheek, but even with the cramped quarters, or, perhaps because of them, she might set off a trade-goods-slide. Opening the sack after some of the cigarette smoke has discipated, she off handedly remarks, "You know, Templeton, the offer of being on retainer for the Wave Dancer as cargo distribution agent is still open. You could afford a better place with an arrangement like that." She glances up at him while drawing out covered plates of fruits, breads, cheeses and setting them carefully here or there. Turning to look at Sidonie again, her expression softens to listen to the answer to Merrisol's question.

Mercier raises his eyebrows, "Oh, yes. My pride would be ever so wounded too, had I become overwhelmed by meeting lovely, adoring women tracking me down through all manner of reality to inform me that I was somehow two different kinds of nobility." He offers, dryly, with a slighy quirk of his eyebrows, then a ponderous look upwards, "It /would/ conflict with my personal identity as commoner, I suppose. I suppose I should say it can't hurt to look at the bright side of things." He gives a motion of his head towards the open cigerette case on the table/desk, in offereing, but nods, "More or less. I believe the import company has changed once or twice, but the bog-quality factory rolling whatever they happen to find on trampled on the ground after harvest time hasn't." A glance to Maggie, "It is a tempting offer, and not the only one I've received, but would reduce my ability to... pursue my own angles, as it were." He motions to the various crates, "And should I run afoul of any customs authority, I would hate to involve you directly. Justice can be rather merciless in societies like this." He shrugs, "Besides, I /do/, at the moment, have a chest full of precious stones squirrled somewhere about."

Sidonie plucks a slice of apple and nibbles at it carefully, not feeling very hungry yet. All the goings on have made a mess of her thick, wavy hair, which now sticks out in multiple cowlicks on her head. Other than the unusual disarray, she looks like the Sidonie they have known so far, no changes there. "I still don't remember anything," she says with a frown. "Though I suppose I could show up at the Chantris townhouse and ask them if they know me, or know someone named Lhasa Chantris from forty years ago?" She looks at them with eyes huge behind her spectacles. "She could be lying. But it'd be easy enough to find out. And that Compass and Charter? Why give it to me?" She gives Mercier a sharp look. "No, Arthur. I was feeling embarrassed aboug fainting in public and having to be carried off like a damsel from a storybook, not my possible family ties." Not to mention Shidoni's devotion, which from a stranger, are not exactly welcome or expected. Her shoulders shift in obvious discomfort at this. THen she tries to shrug the feeling off. "If this Captain Iceheart is correct."

After all they have weathered through the recent bout of shadow traveling, surely they have witnessed one another in somewhat less than their best light. Why, there was that one terrible place Merri's swept locks spent the whole time hanging in his eyes! Dork Shadow, ugh. "Something.. or perhaps the whole of everything.. struck you, it seems." he mutters, crossing his arms as though in attempt to contain himself in the space allotted. His share of breakfast sits balanced on one knee for now. "Compasses are rarely seen, even aboard Minosian ships where the Captain is in possession of the charts. Captains," he repeats significantly. And Sid had taken one look at that one on offer in the cafe, and... well. They all know how that ended. "Any rate.. we have a couple of House Chantris connections, Doc. The North Fleet Admiral comes to mind.. though she is technically a Solaris, an off-shoot of Chantris. We could see about arranging a discrete meeting between you two, if you would like."

Maggie ponders for a moment or two, listening to all of them in turn. Each is given a quiet nod, though Mercier's is framed in a smile of understanding that might or might not represent the reality he hides. Though it is likely that she knows or has guessed long since. Her attention centers on Sidonie ultimately. She watches the doctor while Merrisol speaks and his nods are offered more obliquely. When she speaks it is quiet and gentle, the sort of voice that holds experience and sympathy, "Unless this Iceheart person is perpetrating an elaborate hoax or prank, or is just one of those people who like to mess with others, she has no reason to lie. Then there is this, though. From what I understand, a Compass with Charts like that are not easy to get, even for full-blooded Minosian Captains." She glances at Merrisol, nodding, "I would also recommend speaking to the North Fleet Admiral. She is a good person and can at the very least, tell you whom to speak to at the House. Maybe she would write a letter on your behalf." Looking back, she adds, "Unless you choose not to pursue it."

Mercier gives an apologetic nod to Sidonie at her sharp reproach, "My apologies, Doctor, I should have known better. But there's nothing to be ashamed of. We all... have our points." He notes, distently, before giving a glance about to the conversation, "Not to be that character in the play, but could someone explain the importance of this... compass and charts? Surely with a printing press, a rutter isn't too difficult to aquire?" He asks. He nods a bit, "My first thought was some brand of fraud. Enough of the story coming to Amber lacks secrecy. It wouldn't be hard to spin a fantastic story, adding enough years in between. I'd certainly recommend verify the story with a known actor, before approaching this Iceheart again. But, as they say, its up to you, Doctor."

Sidonie watches Merrisol. When he repeats 'Captains', she flinches, just slightly, at the weight of the word and what it means. Despite Mercier's warning, she continues. "I'll find Iceheart. And hopefully not faint again." Her gaze warms at the sight of her friends' concern. "I suppose not... not when she wants to givev me such a valuable device." Then she shakes her head when they speak about the North Fleet Admiral. "Lord Ashby is now Duke, I know him," she says in a hushed voice not dissimilar to Maggie's. "He might be able to get me the contacts I need, even maybe access to some books. Unless... Unless the Admiral would know about Captain Howler?" Her eyes go to Mercier's, thinking about his encouraging (chastizing, maybe) words from before. And the corner of her mouth quirks up in a wry smile.

Merri relaxes a bit as the tone of the discussion seems to gain a positive vibe. The explanation of one of Minos' more jealously guarded secrets, he entrusts to Maggie with a querying look of his own over how much can be told. "Lord Ashby d'Mandrake.. the new Chantris Duke?" he echoes then, quietly bemused. "Last I knew, it was a Karm lord courting the Duchess." Shrugging to himself, he picks up his plate again and munches down some of the melon slices. "Could be Ailith would have intel on sea captains in the family.. though, with the Compass in play, Howler is very likely a moniker. Perhaps Captain Midnight would have record, as the Minosian ambassador."

Maggie's gaze flickers from Sidonie to Mercier to Merrisol, then back again. Her attention returns to Mercier, though she watches Sidonie as she searches for a way to explain what can be told. Finally, she licks her lips a little and shrugs, "They allow Captains to take their ships from one known place to another with little fuss. Sometimes the paths take are not those used by map makers and can represent shortcuts. These are very jealously guarded as they can pass base camps used by the Captain and his or her crew in times of duress. Captain Midnight would be able to fill in gaps there as well."

Mercier gives a look of understanding, "So traveling magic, like a pattern-walker's shadow-movement, for lack of a better term." He reaches up to rub his chin from his perch, before shrugging, "It sounds like this is going to be a matter addressed by all manner of nobility, which means its going to quite complex, quite quickly." He raises an eyebrow, "Ashby is the Duke of Chantris? Dear me, I honestly wonder why historians and healdry arists don't faint from the mental strain here." He shrugs, "Work from the inner core, out. If you must see Iceheart, see her. But should this all be true, you'll want control over the story. No telling what convoluted grudges the aristocracy has planned on holding."

Sidonie nods to Merrisol. "They'd been engaged for a long while, not sure what made them close the deal so suddenly." She then adds wonderingly, "She called me Captain." With a Capital 'C', for sure. "When I get the Compass... I mean, /if/ I get it back. I know it's overkill to say it but... Please keep that to yourselves? I mean, it could be a family heirloom, and I could have no idea how to use it? That is also a possibility. Either way, it might hold another clue." The young woman straightens her posture and pulls up her glasses to rub at her eyes. "Yes. There's no need for this to be public. I trust the Duke to keep my secret, so nobody needs to know who I actually am." She looks at them all carefully. "Not until I am ready for them to. Besides, how infamous could I have been? What all could these aristocratic folks want with me anyway?"

Maggie nods to Mercier, "Yes, that is the essence of it." She nibbles her lower lip slightly, listening before, "Look, Sidonie... Not everyone was who they are now. In my case, in particular. For a variety or reasons, I was a real piece of work back when I was younger. The event that gave me amnesia gave me a chance to change who I am. Now, I choose to be this me rather than slide back into being that me. I know that it does not really make a lot of sense, but... Don't let who you were have power over who you are. If you did things then that you now regret, let your friends help you, yes, but choose. Okay?" Is there more to it? Yes. But she keeps her focus on Sidonie now, "It is up to you, ultimately. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Merrisol listens to all this, vaguely perplexed about a few details, though as Maggie relates a bit of her own situation, he settles back quietly to look from her to the others. He nods staunchly to Sidonie: The right to be in control over one's personal information and indeed one's fate, is something he understands implicitly. "I'll say nothing of it, Doc. If you do have need for assistance I can provide, you only need ask," he says simply. After a just a few minutes of sitting, however, he folds his take-out plate up and deposits it into the empty bag for disposal. "I need to stretch my legs a bit, I'll be back," he excuses himself to find a way out past the door into the hall.

Sidonie opens the door to Mercier's little abode and, rather than let Maggie inside, steps to the side and out. She is grinning, a bit goofily, and she is blushing like mad. To Maggie, she nods, and stammers a little bit. "Hello! I-I'm headed back to the Golden Goose, then out to search for Iceheart. I will keep you abreast of how it goes." And with that, she walks off briskly, pulling up her shawl over her head against what remains of the morning chill.