2022-06-21 - Girls' Night Out

Some things simply can’t be resisted. Such as a Lady’s Night! advertisement at one of the local bars, promising two-for-one well drinks and half-price bar snacks.

Jules has had a day. Most of the time, she loves playing tour guide for outdoorsy tourists. And then there’s the days when she wonders why she bothers; someone’s been snide and condescending, and it takes everything she has in her to keep smiling.

Cue texts for her friends with a location, a dive joint along the boardwalk, along with the social media ad. Done with work and I want a damn drink, who’s with me?

The group text pings with:

> >Sounds like a damn good idea to me, everybody sent their asshole relative in for coffee today and if one more person complains about the ratio of ice to frappe mix, I'm going to Shine their drink down the front of their couture sundress.

As such, Ariadne arrives in good time outside of the dive joint. She's in a pair of slim black jeans and black ballet flats to counter the brighter floral wrap top, an affair in oceanic hues with cream inked flower patterning across it; a tropical sort of affair. Her hair, clipped up, cascades in a rooster tail's fan of deep-auburn and celestially-dyed hues. Courier purse across her body, she pauses by the door and pulls out her phone to make sure she didn't miss any further communications.

Is this your dinner?

Everyone will have to imagine Della's mock-suspicious tone.

A moment or so later: Coming. I'll even finish putting away the groceries first. They get a picture of the (reusable) bags from an angle that makes them look positively mountainous.

Also: Save me some ice. If anyone has to pay for their texts individually, they haven't told Della. She shows up not long thereafter, dark hair intricately braided -- not with a Bess-style ribbon, it's still too soon -- her makeup more dramatic and playful than if she'd only just left work. Her earrings sparkle garnet red, red as the blouse that shows the long line of her throat, her airy skirt is linen, and apparently her feet have recovered enough to wear sandals again (but different sandals; those needed repairs). There's a scratch down one forearm, with lace doodled around it in a skin-friendly pen as decoration.

All of which goes to say that of course she walks so, so casually down the sidewalk -- just a passing tourist! -- to try and surprise Ariadne from behind with a sneaky shoulder-tap.

AWESOME it’s asshole day!

That’s text number one. Text number two: no this is just my opportunity to lure you out to a dive bar and get you drunk Della!

Jules, who has staked out a table on the patio overlooking the water, is still dressed like she does for work: athletic gear. Dressed down, not dressed up.

Maybe Della will manage to sneak up on Ariadne, maybe not. The passing man who wolf-whistles probably doesn’t help, though.

It really is asshole day.

Ariadne thumbs to the text app of her phone. Ah, Della still wants ice and Jules wants to get Della drunk. Good times, good times.

It means she's entirely unaware of Della behind and suddenly tip-tapping her shoulder. Cue "EEEEP!" and rotational clearing of ground from the redheaded barista. Only her surroundings means she doesn't do anything more than flail in place rather than whipping around and accidentally clocking Della out of pure reaction. Smilodons and ghost-golems make a person nervy for a while, it seems.

"DELLA?! OOH!" If Jules wasn't aware of Ariadne being present, she probably is now -- Della by proxy of exasperation. "Don't do that!" the redhead laugh-chides.

The wolf whistle? -- gets entirely ignored by the retail worker. No more blistering retort she can think of than treating such a behavior as not even worth a blink.

Della's smile is brilliant, even as she ducks, the more so for the laughter. "I can't believe it actually worked," she admits, though the cheer becomes somewhat forced thanks to lingering wolf-whistle dude. She turns her shoulder to him as though by coincidence; she doesn't roll her eyes, but that's only because her gaze is sliding surreptitiously after him as he finally goes by, just in case that's a face she'll later do well to recognize. "Thank you for indulging me. Here, let me hold the door," and she does, grateful when the scan of the room reveals no-Jules-here must-be-out-there.

Along the way, "Dare I ask what is your ideal ratio? Did anything break?"

The man moves along down the boardwalk. The point is hardly ever to get a response, after all, is it?

Jules, meanwhile, suffers the wait without a drink, menu in hand and sunglasses on, even though her spot has partial shade from a canopy. It's busy out here on the deck, with not an empty table in sight and only one harassed waitstaff trying to serve an increasingly demanding lot of tourists and locals.

"Indulge you," snorts the barista as she proceeds Della into the dive bar proper. Indeed, a scan turns up no Jules immediately -- though that's likely the silhouette of the young woman out on the patio, Ariadne realizes. A curling gesture of fingers ends in a point at the sunglasses-sporting individual. Glancing over at Della, the redhead with the celestial dyes in her hair chimes a laugh. "It turns out to be something of personal opinion, that ratio of ice to frappe, though standard is four ounces of frappe mix to one and a half cups of ice plus water or milk, half a cup of this. Makes a grande frappe drink."

She leads the way out onto the deck and is in the process of throwing her hands into the air. "But HEAVEN FORBID you use too much ice because ugh, ice chunks, oh my god, I will mess up my lipstick using a straw, ugh." The reasoning was given in a markedly aggrandized 'valley girl' tone. "But hey, there's Jules. Juuuuuuuules," Ariadne singsongs and twiddly-waves. "Ooh, shade, I like how you think. Anything good on the menu?" The deck chair grunts as she pulls it out and then settles at the table with a sigh of contentment.

"Omigod!" Della echoes with extra squeal, and look, Jules, poor Jules, those two are going over to sit by you. Della's still laughing as she snags her own spot, arranging the chair so the lowering sun doesn't get in her own eyes. "Yes, spill. Figuratively." She adds for her housemate's sake, "Open question of the day: whether Ariadne here likes to do things the standard way." She doesn't clarify as to what, though she does add an under-her-breath, "Mutter mutter sea turtles mutter."

"Aaaaaari," Jules carols back. "I got lucky. Hey, Della!" Her housemate is not to be forgotten. Apparently she can bear the squeals. "Uhhhh so it looks like nothing fancy, bottom shelf stuff, but there's frozen margaritas and something with sour mix and something called Blue Horizon, plus your gin-and-tonics and Jack-and-cokes. You can try to get them to custom make something for you, but I think your odds are low." Getting service is dubious, in and of itself. "We're probably gonna have to go order at the bar as it is."

"Sea turtles," echoes Ariadne under her own breath, her brows quirked in amused puzzlement. What about sea turtles now? She crossed her legs beneath the table and leans back in her chair with a grin for Jules while she tries to figure out what's being referenced.

"Blue Horizons aren't terrible if your jam is tropical stuff. Rum and pineapple, amongst other ingredients. I'm not a pineapple person, but I can order it without and be happy, I'm sure. We wanna go order at the bar though here?" A thumb over her shoulder towards the interior. "Might be as slow as sea turtles in there, but we can wander in and see?"

"I wonder if we could get the pineapple on the side, so Jules and I could try both ways. Is that too frou-frou? And then order the sour mix one and a margarita and compare and contrast." Della slides a teasing look at Ariadne; "For science." Beat. "For starters."

More soberly, "Aren't straws supposed to be bad for sea turtles? At least, the ones that they made before they started making them so brittle they break while you're using them?" Not that Della's bitter. Well, maybe that last part. Just wait till she's had the sour mix.

She aims to nudge Jules' shoe with her toes. "Have you already had one, or did you wait for us? I want stories." A little pause. "Not to slow us down on ordering, but we'd better save the table."

For her part, Jules just shrugs as she meets Ariadne’s gaze. In other words: who knows what Della’s on about. “I want the frozen thing,” she declares, having been here long enough to peruse the menu and make decisions. “Though I am also totally down with conducting experiments for science.”

As for sea turtles (aha, an explanation!): “No sea turtles here, but yeah, any plastic waste is gonna be bad for all marine life. We can get drinks without if they don’t have the compostable ones. Maybe no frozen margaritas, though.” A small moue of woe.

“I was waiting,” Jules says as she gets up from her chair. “Here, I can leave this.” Her tote bag, which she plonks on the center of the table once she’s removed her wallet and keys. There’s nothing else of interest or worth inside.

Jules leads the way, right past the stressed waitress delivering beer to a group of rowdy young men. “Hey, once you get off work, let us buy you a drink,” one of them tells the young woman, who puts on her best dealing-with-customers smile and false laugh. “Oh, my shift is until closing,” she’s saying as Jules goes by, glancing her way as she steps through the open glass doors between deck and the bar’s interior.

It’s the wrong interior. Dive bars don’t have intricate mosaics on the walls and floors or an open courtyard in the center of a room where a fountain burbles, surrounded by greenery.

"Sampling drinks for science sounds like a good plan to me." Della's tease gets a gleaming grin from the marine biologist. Indeed, for science, the proper use to straws also included in this to spare unsuspecting wildlife. Given Jules can save the table for them with the tote bag, the redhead rises without hesitation. Time to get the drink on. Hopefully the rowdy table remains occupied with themselves and doesn't send scouts over to check on who's the most available of the trio after they've sat down again.

Jules walks through the door to the interior of the bar and Ariadne's busy giving the waitress one of those sympathetic glances which speaks volumes if one's ever worked food retail. Solidarity, my sister, the barista imparts before the scene changes to something decidedly...not dive bar.

"Uh." Don't get her wrong, the mosaics are glorious and the greenery appears to be both well-kept and voluptuously grown, but this...isn't... "Seriously? Fuck me," the barista mutters with a mild gape at both Jules and Della. "A Door." Thanks, Captain Obvious! She immediately glances down at her own person to see if things have appropriately shifted to match whatever time period -- place? -- reality they've stepped into.

"Uh," from Ariadne.

"Um," from Della. She's turning to try and grab the Door before it closes, to give them a way to back out. There were reputed to be fine mosaics before Vesuvius blew, too.

"The fuck?"

That's Jules, who is gaping, awestruck.

The interior decor goes beyond mosaics, with intricately carved plasterwork beginning where the tiles end. The soaring ceilings are no less stunning, no less embellished. As for the Door -- there is nothing to close. It's just an archway, one of many open rooms centered on the courtyard.

It's pleasantly quiet in here. The fountain burbles; birds chirp from within exquisite bronze cages. And there's also a sigh from somehow hidden on the other side of the fountain.

Turns out the Veil has decided to keep the redhead in her garb from Gray Harbor: the black skinny jeans and tie-blouse in its tropical floral hues remains.

Della darts to see about keeping the Door open and Ariadne is stuck in place in awe. Given there's no Door to close, she simply gapes at the fantastic architecture on display. So very many nooks and crannies and the attention to detail is absolutely mind-blowing. It appears as if someone learned how to knit solid stone into something far more enduring than a table doily.

It doesn't mean Ariadne misses the sigh. A quick glance at the other two. Somehow, their collective what-the-fuckery hasn't been noticed. Lifting up a hand, the barista in her ballet flats begins to walk around the fountain. She precedes herself with a quiet "Hello?"

Della's hand closes on emptiness. Her eyes are wide. She lets go of even the attempt at return in favor of turning, staring, fascinated. Up. Down. Ceiling, floor, arches, what the arches frame.

The birds. (The cages.)

It's Ariadne's lifted hand that gains her attention; after a glance at Jules, Della leans forward, tracking without moving... at least, not until the redhead might get out of sight, at which point she moves just as quietly as she can in those sandals. (Those sandals that don't coordinate quite as well as the other, Door-damaged pair. Sacrifices were made.)

Behind an orange tree with buds but no blooms, an older woman sits on the side of the fountain. Her sigh may be one of resignation, but her expression is one of impotent anger as she lifts her chin to look up at Ariadne when addressed. Dark, arching brows, pale skin, and a thin, prominent nose define her features. Her dark hair shows beneath her elaborate headdress, consisting of a kind of multicolored cap backed by a piece of complementary colored cloth that gathers around her shoulders. Her attire is far too ornate to be anything less than that of a noblewoman.

Her imperious gaze speaks volumes as she looks at these three younger women and their attire. “I didn’t know the Castilians let their women run around so underdressed. Unless you’re new to the harem and have yet to learn how to dress yourselves properly.”

Behind Della, Jules sputters, taking her eyes off their surroundings long enough to focus on the personage speaking to them. “Harem?” The connotations she has for this word are less than generous.

A quick glance over her shoulder proves both Della and Jules to be there still, even if the Door is no more -- temporarily no more, Ariadne reminds herself as she takes the last few steps circumnavigating the fountain.

Oh, a woman, with a beautiful hat and cloth-back to this fashion.

Who comments in a language which is thankfully understood. Ariadne blinks as she hears Jules' initial response. "Um. Not...exactly," she decides to respond. "We're new to...all of this." Gesturing out to both sides of herself, the barista indicates the entire palace. "I'm a little overwhelmed, it's all so beautiful, I've forgotten how to pronounce the place." Ingratiating, the redhead's smile as she tries to charm an answer from the older stranger.

Della? Della nods in a way that could be misinterpreted as demure; she smiles, not so different from Ariadne's, and blinks her eyes wide; she doesn't walk a-ny closer.

Maybe she's a little slow?

The way that the woman says, "Alright," might as well be her muttering figures in modern-day language. "At least you speak proper Arabic, though why anyone would let you run around like that--" She rises with a susurrus of her skirts. "My son, what is he thinking, bringing new women into his harem when we must leave. I've already had to give up my house." She doesn't seem to expect a response, talking for the sake of talking, of sharing her woes, which apparently now include the three of them.

"Come with me. I'll find you something decent to wear before any of the men get any ideas, though how anyone could be thinking of that at a time like this--"

She marches towards one of the arched doorways, clearly expecting to be followed. The glance she casts behind her isn't for confirmation, but rather part of her abrupt introduction, one that sounds almost like a warning: "You call me Lady Aisha."

Ariadne's hands end up before her own chest, twisting slowly upon themselves. Speaking...proper Arabic? Is she? Really? It sounds like English to her own ears. A fleeting mental giggle about Allspeak crosses her mind -- sweet, she's definitely a comic book character now. Little wins, fuck you, Dreams. She doesn't like the idea of being collected into this...harem by the way her smile shifts to more of a grimace, but her sigh is accepting of current circumstances.

For now, until more details become apparent.

A glance over at her shoulder at Jules and Una, along with a little almost secretive gesturing of fingers. Please don't leave her to deal with Lady Aisha alone! The Lady has clearly got standing in this place! "Thank you, my lady," the barista replies nonetheless to the woman. "Your kindness is greatly appreciated." It is, this isn't just a pretense of fawning. She takes tentative but openly following steps after Lady Aisha.

A look this way, a look that way that meets Ariadne's glance... and Della doesn't even shrug before she follows, all silent and obedient-like. She does subtly veer this way and that to brush her fingertips over this and that when she can: the leaves, the water... and, with intent, the stone. The worked stone, feeling the quality -- smooth, rough, whatever it gives her -- with fascination for craftmanship, design and scale... but also the stone where Lady Aisha had sat. Just in case.

This place—this palace—is old, though not ancient. Two hundred years old, give or take, and built with all the care and artistry of a people proudly flourishing. Layer upon layer, detail after detail, stone layers and master calligraphers and carvers and architects.

The stone, tile, and plasterwork give up their secrets readily, like they themselves are proud to boast of their origins. The foliage and the water speak to care, deliberate nourishing for yet more beauty.

And yet the stone where Lady Aisha perched tells of a deep grief. It strikes at the soul of the rock, and through it, to this place itself. A place soon to be abandoned, soon to admit new courtesans who speak another language and worship another God. The pain goes beyond just these mere two centuries in which this palatial jewel has stood. Eight hundred years of civilization, now at the precipice of ruin.

Alhambra.

“Alhambra,” Lady Aisha states in answer to Ariadne’s earlier question, echoing the resonant voices in the stone and tile. “Don’t thank me. You’re here just in time to leave. My son is handing over the keys as we speak.” That anger again, sparking sharp, electricity in the air. “To those Castilian dogs.”

Jules, silent as she follows along, closes her eyes in a sudden wince. She knows dispossession when she hears it.

Ariadne too winces. She didn't get the intimate answers shared by carved rock beloved by generations, but Lady Aisha's tone is inescapably clear: anger at loss. Without fail, though subtly, she attempts to check in with Jules via a glance.

But -- Alhambra -- yes, now she remembers as she looks up and around at the beautiful architecture. This place is lauded for its finest craftsmanship long into the modern times, long after it passes through many hands. Castilian... This takes more effort of memory and Ariadne decides she has only the gauziest idea of a time period, but it's enough to make her heart skip more than one beat. 1300 to 1500, her architecture nerd-friend back at university had said, encouraging the redhead to do more research of her own.

It seems appropriate as she travels in the wake of the dignified matron: "My comforts for your loss, my lady," comes the offering in a respectfully quiet pitch. "There's nothing that can be done?"

Thank goodness for Ariadne; Della's silent as Jules but far less focused, or at least less focused on the here and now; her skirt whispers stories about her ankles, her breathing shallow but slow, her eyes shining but with the beginnings of tears. It's a wonder that she catches up with Jules at all, much less reaches for her elbow. It's a wonder that that electricity doesn't zap between them at the touch.

It’s not the same, of course. This is the final moment of defeat in a long saga of warring superpowers and the slow diminishment of the Arab states in Iberia, crippled by civil war, not small bands of people overwhelmed by superior technology and sheer numbers, by genocide. But loss is loss, and defeat is defeat.

Jules looks at Della as if startling out of a dream when the other woman takes her by the elbow. “You okay?” she murmurs, glimpsing those shining eyes.

“The treaty was signed two months ago,” Lady Aisha tells Ariadne with a shake of her head. “No. We leave today.” She leads the way into a section of the palace where there are wooden doors, as ornately carved as everything else. The palace is already nearly emptied out, a ghost of its former self, though occasionally they pass armed men who bow to the lady and avert their eyes (though they probably sneak peeks at the scantily dressed women of times to come).

Through one of these doors, they wind up in a room that looks as if it’s been abandoned in a hurry. Chests have been left open, richly varied fabrics and dresses tossed in heaps and piles on the couches that line the walls.

Lady Aisha sighs in irritation. “Stupid girls,” she mutters to herself, then gestures for the women she’s escorting to help themselves. “Cover up. I had hoped they would be here still so I could leave you with them, but it looks like I’m stuck with you.” Her bitterness isn’t directly related to these women she finds herself in charge of. They’re just a ready target, and it is beneath her station, judging by her words.

At the fore of the small and misplaced band of Gray Harborites, Ariadne barely catches the murmur from Jules. She has time to glance back over her shoulder again with brows pinched before Lady Aisha snags her attention again. Given Jules has Della in her care, the redhead sighs and returns her focus to the mother of the apparent ruler-disposed.

As they pass through one of the carved doors, she can't help but reach out and caress the wood. It's warm, well-worn, touched by humanity time and time again. She doesn't have Della's amazing abilities but the simple appreciation is not lost on her features. Her walking comes to a slow stop at the sight of the chests left open and the finery tossed in a hurry onto the floor.

Licking dry lips in a low case of nerves, there's a glance back at Jules and Della again. Her lips scrunch now. "I guess we should...cover up," she agrees haltingly even as she appears to be side-eyeing one of the chests. Her mental speech floats towards her friends and if it bypasses mental defenses: When in Rome, right? For safety in blending in, not standing out so much, until we know more. -- as at least half of the saying goes.

The headshake Della gives Jules is ambivalent, but at least she's registering that much -- that, and Ariadne's own touch to the door, that almost, almost makes her smile. She does, yes, sneak peeks at the armed men -- details, details, if not as intricate as the walls -- but not with her usual subtle intensity.

And then... then it's dress-up time. Still leaning on Jules, the touch so much more than the barely-there weight of her hand, she looks at the lady a little too long: not just at her clothes, to try and copy the layout, but her, to see what she can see.

And the fabrics... she may not intend to pick up more from them, but look: so beautiful, so varied, and her nascent control is even less adept at turning off.

And these are the cast-offs. These are what was left behind. (Like the women themselves?)

She leafs through them like books untidy on a table, books supple and opening to her hand. Eventually she might get dressed, particularly given Ariadne's prompt, over her other clothes if possible -- she really likes this blouse, though she'd let the skirt go -- and with her phone and purse hidden away, but first, the looking. The silks. The iridescent colors, the textures, the intricacy of the weaves... and those are just what can be physically sensed.

Jules jerks. She’s still not used to these mental touches, and it physically startles her. She looks Ariadne’s way and gives her a bit of a nod, unable to communicate in kind.

The fabrics are indeed perfumed. Sandalwood and musk, orange blossom and rose. The frantic ways in which they’ve been cast aside rises out of them in waves of anxiety and fear. These are the clothes of women who lived in luxury, women whose fears revolved around their place in the court and their rivalries, women who have suddenly had their lives completely upended.

Jules fingers the silks and satins, lifting one of the dresses up to see it in full. This one is emerald green, embroidered with gold thread. But.

“We’re going into the mountains,” Aisha advises them, dismissing the airy garments in favor of heavier wools. “Here. These will be good. I don’t know where you three come from, but if you’re used to being pampered, forget it now. You’re part of the court, and they’ve given us an estate, but I expect it will be harder conditions than what the harem-women have come to expect. If you start weeping, I’ll leave you here.”

She wouldn’t really abandon court women to the conquering Castilians. Probably.

Hazel eyes scrutinize her companions; it seems her message was received. Thus, with a half-false sense of demur, Ariadne listens to Lady Aisha's advisements. It makes logical sense: heavier fabrics for cooler temperatures. Her eyes travel over the dress lifted by Jules and then she needs to turn to hide her expression in looking through the woolen garments. Weep? Please, the barista thinks to herself, she works public retail, let's talk about harder conditions.

"I wasn't pampered," the redhead shares as she lifts a dusty-blue djellaba with little embroidery upon it. "And I like the mountains." The admission comes with a glance over at Lady Aisha with chin half-tucked. "This goes over our clothing, right?" Since she's not going to part with her jeans or her blouse if at all possible, thank you very much. The perfume notes themselves are nice regardless, though her nose tickles a bit at the intensity of the musk aspect.

Sometimes realization takes a moment, and so it is with the garments, sharp as though the books were snapping on her fingers. Della recoils, still kneeling, but a look up at Aisha means she has to risk it again: not the perfume, or not just the perfume, but any direct touching at all. She avoids it, using the hem of her skirt as a mitten wherever possible.

It's not always possible. There's one gown that's particularly striking, peacock blue into purple and violet, but she stuffs it down and away in the hope that neither of the others will take it either: as though, for all they probably can't sense what she does, it might strike them anyway. What this particular gown tells her... is not worth it.

But there are others, even beyond the wool; others that she can tell herself, can tell them almost, that she's going to rescue. They are anxious, they make her anxious, they speed her heart and dilate her eyes, but those at least she can see as separate from herself. Mostly. And it has to be done. So she does: two or three of the lighter garments knotted about her hips where they can't touch her skin, unless the lady objects, and then the rich russet wool that does, beautifully woven from head to heels, beautifully clasped at the throat and intricately embroidered at all the hems. It touches her, but (this time) she breathes, (this time) she manages, and when she pulls up the hood it's the sweeter for the darkness.

Fine. They'll go. Unless there's something else she needs. (Other than, tensing, not to sneeze.)

Jules puts down the green gown, drifting over to where Lady Aisha indicates the pile of warmer woolen things. The one she picks out is a plain dark gray, though in truth it's anything but plain. The quality of the weave and the intricacy of the embroidery at the throat, sleeves, and down the figure-accentuating lines that run vertically from collar to bottom hem mark it as something of worth.

Aisha nods her approval, noting how Della equips herself with multiple garments. "Take more than one," she advises. "Who knows if you'll get any other changes of clothing." Her mouth, drawn so tight and so grim, permits the bare hint of an endorsement for Ariadne's words. Not a smile. It's not a moment for smiles. "Good. Yes, over whatever it is that you have on now." Still so dismissive, that. Honestly, where are these women from?

As the three ready themselves, Aisha idly reaches into an open jewelry box and lifts out a fine silver brooch worked in whorls and arabesques. She inspects it for a moment, then drops it back into the wooden box. "Do you know how to ride?"

Lady Aisha suggests multiple changes of clothing. It seems pragmatic, especially in light of the revelation of a mountainous region. As such, the redhead doesn't put on the djellaba just yet: instead, she plucks three gowns from one of the piles of tossed clothing (a lighter green than the one Jules held, another blue of a lighter, almost grey hue, and the last rust-red, all embroidered beautifully and subtly alike). These are either tied about her neck by long-sleeves or draped over her shoulders like a stole. Another two head-wraps (or what she assumes to be) are grabbed in a dark-brown and black, both delicately fringed, and only then does Ariadne slip the pastel-blue woolen garment over everything.

Wherever she's going, with this layering? She'll be toasty.

"...I...mostly know how to ride? I learned when I was younger," she volunteers to Lady Aisha with a glance over at Jules and Della. "Someone can sit behind me if they need to."

Della hesitates, hiking her outer garment slightly, as though considering adding yet another -- but there's jewelry, jewelry that's being left behind. The brooch calls her with its mesmerizing whorls, even that little glimpse of it she'd caught; she steps over there to try it, and see whatever other options might say her name.

She still doesn't speak; she does lift her hand where Aisha can see it, signaling, 'A little,' and then a, 'No need,' for sitting behind Ariadne. Which leads to the question: shoes? Boots? She'll equip herself with those too, if she needs to after choosing from the jewelry, and if the footwear doesn't smell of issues... but she's down to her last pair of sandals, and loath to give them up. Perhaps another garment can be knotted into an impromptu carry-sack, with some of the same head-wraps, and... is there anything else?

Jules, meanwhile, picks out a lighter weight red dress and neatly folds it into a compact little bundle. She ties it up in what looks like a shawl, black and fringed like Ariadne’s, creating a makeshift bag of sorts that she can sling over her shoulder if necessary. There’s nowhere to put the wallet she’s brought through the Door with her, except tucked inside that sack—though she first takes out her ID and debit card and shoves them in her sports bra along with her car keys. The phone is already tucked into a tight thigh pocket on her stretchy yoga-athletic pants (no wonder Lady Aisha thinks they turned up half-naked, especially with Jules here in such form-fitting sportswear). The woolen dress she’s chosen easily slides over her frame, then, concealing her summer clothes.

“I’ll ride with you,” Jules tells Ariadne, and via her, Lady Aisha. The latter just nods. She doesn’t seem concerned with what they choose to take, just so long as they have a change of clothes. Sturdy shoes or boots are harder to come by; most of the women here seemed to have gone about in slippers, and they’ve already taken most of the more durable options. Jules picks up a pair of embroidered yellow slippers to slide into her shawl-sack, but otherwise sticks with her heavy-duty sandals. Colder, maybe, but they’ve got good traction.

Aisha watches impassively through it all. This room of feminine belongings has already been counted as lost; what does she care if a couple women augment their few possessions with a ring or bracelet? Things of value to barter with may come in handy, down the line. Jules isn’t above slipping on a bangle or two.

“If you’re ready, follow me,” Aisha says at last, turning to go. She leads them through the palatial maze, into a courtyard where courtiers are ready and waiting with saddled horses with stamp and snort, uneasy in this atmosphere of anxiety. This is where the people are: the household that remains, waiting for their ruler to emerge with his retinue to formally lead them into their exile.

Muhammad XII (who the Castilians call Boabdil in a bastardization of one of his other names, Abu Abdillah) is a thin man with a long face and a trim, dark beard dressed in his finest regalia. He mounts the black warhorse held for him with nary a look at his court. Of course they’ll follow him as he leads them through Alhambra’s gates to meet the usurping king and queen. Thanks to their proximity to Aisha, the sultan’s mother, the three women of his ‘harem’ will have an unimpeded view of the last Andalusian ruler’s surrender.

Both Jules and Della make Ariadne realize the use of the shawls. She has pockets, yes, but not big enough for more garments. A nod for Jules taking up her offering and the barista does grab a last fringed length of fabric even as it seems the Lady Aisha is nearing the end of her patience with these newfound harem members. Only another woolen djalleba, this one black but for its golden threading upon it, and a few bracelets, one intricately braided by patterning. After knotting the shawl, Ariadne slides the makeshift handle up and long her arm until it settles the bulk of the faux-bag against her ribs, tucked beneath her armpit.

All that's left is to follow Lady Aisha.

This time, Ariadne sticks closer to her fellow Gray Harborites. What sense of sorrow Della felt earlier is suffocating enough at this point to be felt by the barista as well now. It brings her brows to quirk and lips to pinch even as she tries to take in the beauty of the palace itself in their travels. By herself, she'd surely get lost. Emerging out into the courtyard, she blinks at the brighter light and open air. Even this section of the sprawling royal home contains its glamour. With another glance over at Jules and after the ruler's mounting of his horse, she walks for one of the saddled bays, a creature with sooty points and a main coat almost red in its intensity. Hopefully, the courtiers are there to hold the horses from side-stepping and avoidance. Ariadne has a hand on the saddle and foot in the stirrup before the bay can protest much.

Well, hopefully, not too much.

A second djellaba; slippers; that pin, so different from the ones she and Ariadne had found in England not that long ago, and other jewelry -- it all adds up: not so much in time, by now, nor even in space with how everything squishes down (though she is getting to be somewhat lumpy under the djellaba), but in the weight of their presence. Before Della draws her hood the rest of the way forward, she seeks to meet Lady Aisha's eyes, to lower her own and gesture respect and thanks as best she can. And then... and then she keeps herself hidden beneath the woolen garb, the better to look as nondescript as one can in the presence of the sultan's mother (never mind the sultan).

No photos.

Touching the walls as she goes by is, at least, an anodyne; it brings her simultaneously more back to herself and more attuned to the glory of craftmanship. Once, just once, she steals a moment to press her bared forearm into the stone, hard enough to leave its imprint for a little while in her skin. (It will bruise, later, if there is a later. That's what she gets for paying a mentalist's attention.) She listens; watches; observes. She also seeks to touch each of her friends before they mount up, a hug if that's possible; one never knows. The wikipedia entry on Lady Aisha won't mention them.

Her horse turns out to be the one next to Ariadne's selection and a little behind, one that indeed looks to take its cues from its more fiery -- in looks as well as demeanor -- neighbor. Still buoyed in that odd liminal space, Della talks to it like it's a kitten, before and after she follows the long-ago summer camp instructions and hoists herself awkwardly into the saddle. It's no Athena, no Xena, but given her lack of riding skill that's just as well; if it's not particularly helpful, at least it doesn't seem to mind. From that height she looks for Jules: is she okay? Time to follow; to bear witness.

Jules, normally so quick with physical affection, doesn’t seem to want an embrace in this instance. A squeeze of the hand and quick smile suffice. Otherwise, she’s quiet, watching from behind Ariadne’s shoulder once she’s settled as best she knows how.

The groomsmen with the horses do their best to keep the animals still while the women mount up. One steps forward to help give Jules a boost, who hardly knows how to get on, especially when dealing with skirts. Either no one fully trusts the ladies to control the animals, or it’s simply courtesy—either way, a groomsman keeps hold of the reins and bridle of each horse to keep them from dancing. From their own mounts, they lead the horses out of the courtyard when the party gets moving.

It’s a large procession, as these things go. Out of the courtyard, then out of the fortress proper and beginning the descent through the city nestled beneath. Townspeople line up outside to watch, largely silent as they watch their ruler depart. Occasionally, they call out to him with words designed to offer succor: Allahu ma’ak, God be with you. There’s little blame to be heard. The people know what he’s done: by surrendering, he’s kept them from a certain massacre. The sultan rides straight-backed and unsmiling throughout, grave-faced as they pass through the city to meet Isabella and Ferdinand.

The co-monarchs who have wrested the last Andalusian kingdom away from Muslim rulers are just outside with their own courtly retinues, waiting for the formal handover. The prearranged terms are read out, first in Castilian Spanish and then in Arabic. The sultan undoubtedly knows Spanish, for all that he sits there utterly impassive as a translator conveys Isabella and Ferdinand’s remarks. Goodwill; the manor in the Alpujarras mountains that the deposed sultan is refusing in favor of financial expenditures to take his court into exile in Morocco; promises to care for Granada’s people as agreed to in the treaty with respect for Moorish property and religious tolerance.

They should all know how well that goes. Coming up next in the march of history: the Spanish Inquisition comes to Granada. Barely two months after the handover of power, the Catholic Monarchs sign the decree of expulsion for the Jews, and that’s just the beginning.

All goes according to plan until it’s time for Muhammad XII to hand over the heavy, formal key to the city and kiss the monarchs’ rings. “This is the key to paradise,” he proclaims as he dismounts and steps forward to hand over the key. When he passes his mother’s horse, however, Aisha leans down with a quiet hiss. “Do not kiss those infidels’ rings,” she snaps at him, loud enough to be overheard by the women who accompany her. “You are Sultan. You are not their chattel.”

It’s a mark of just how much power this woman wields that the sultan attends to her words, looking up to give her a spare nod. He does not kiss anyone’s ring like he’s supposed to. He’s inherited that pride from Aisha, and she reminds him of it.

And then, what is left but the quiet climb into the Alpujarras? The tension releases once the exile begins. The deed is done. Murmurs amplify through the mounted court; horses snort and bridles jingle. They are, in fact, headed for the residence that Muhammad XII has refused, at least for a time as they arrange the voyage across the Mediterranean to friendlier shores. At the head of the column, he pauses on a rocky risge to look back at his city: Granada, Al-Hamra’, The Red.

A long, heavy sigh. Are those tears that glisten on his cheeks? Is it myth that they are witnessing, or history?

Near them, Aisha, furious, bursts out in anger: “Cry like a woman for a kingdom you couldn’t defend like a man!”

Ariadne was certain to give a hug to Della, but it was a quick one rather than one which lingered -- even if the barista is suddenly fighting the half-foreign emotion of wanting to cling.

If Jules has any sort of arm around her fellow not-truly-courtesan's waist, it's surely held for the sake of both safety (human seatbelt, ahoy!) and security (because the feeling is only growing into something low-grade nauseous in Ariadne's stomach). Out the procession goes and she finds herself unable to muster any sass involving who's driving. If the groom wants to take the reins? Done. Sure. Fine. Whatever. Less for her to worry about, more ability to try and figure out how in the hell to react to everything.

The terms get read. Ariadne finds herself pinching her lips and somehow wanting more air. She knows enough history. It makes her sick to hear the terms. They'll be broken when the new monarchs attempt to do the same of the people of this region. Carefully, she swallows past a lump in her throat when she hears Lady Aisha bolster her son's courage in her waspish manner. Pride must stand in the face of such uncertainty. Everything blurs after the column starts to move. The key is gone and with it, the city.

Aisha snaps again. It's enough to put a dent in the barista's composure. Her eyes well up and over silently down her cheeks. This is hell. It will be hell. She weeps for the hell to come because nothing will stop it now. Jules and Della might catch the little hiccup of breath as Ariadne tries very, very hard to shove those braided self and non-self emotions away.

Or they trust the women to control the animals... the wrong way. (Or not; surely they'd be more watchful in that case. And what reason would the women have to protest?)

Della sits her horse, one hand slid under its mane before her for warmth and connection, her other on the well-worn leather of the reins and the saddle that have seen so many riders, so many horses over time. She lets herself look this way and that, not as though on a joyful procession where she might toss flowers, but bearing witness to these people, to their responses. These people who, on the whole, will not be able to leave; who have no groomsman to guide them safely out.

Religious tolerance. It sounds good from here; it's history that she doesn't know, but will have cause to look up where she never had before. (To look up, and then close her eyes in sorrow and regret, remembering.) She listens to the original languages; she listens to the translations, and how accurate they do or don't seem to be. She witnesses the sultan and his mother, her pride, her presence.

She settles into the ride, sinks deep into the seat and leans forward to compensate, lets time pass and the sun move above them.

And then... burn. She doesn't laugh, it's not something to laugh at. She does check for the sultan's reaction, worried: what will he do with his mother here, away from everyone who isn't beholden to them? She looks for Jules, for Ariadne... at what she can see of Ariadne's deeper reaction, the unaccustomed reaction, that suggests that there's even more going on than Della can now know.

And Aisha. Lady Aisha. She'd take her photograph if she could. She has, instead, to let it in, to let it move through her and remember.

Why would women in a royal household want to ride off on their own, away from the court's protection? No one even considers that a possibility.

Seated behind Ariadne, Jules wraps her arms around the other woman and leans into her, propping her chin on Ariadne's shoulder. Tears are met with an answering sigh, then a kiss on the shoulder solely intended for comfort. They'll get through it. They all will, one way or another.

The sultan has managed this trying day with such composure. Is it any wonder that he breaks? "And fight until every man, woman, and child is dead?" he snaps back at her, turning to face his mother with wet eyes blazing. "That's what you would have had me do. Enough." It's not open to conversation. A brisk hand gesture cuts any response off, and he digs his thighs into his horse to put distance between himself and Lady Aisha.

"My son," the older woman says bitterly to his departing back, addressing the three women witness to her pain. "I put that boy on the throne. Some sultan he's made."

Arms cover Jules' enwrapping arms in turn. The younger woman's presence against her back is enough to both soothe and strain the barista's fractured composure. She sniffles very, very quietly again and then reaches up with a bundling of woolen sleeve to daub at her face. Modern cosmetics means nothing's going anywhere, but she's not one to be a 'pretty crier', as the saying goes. Swollen eyelids aren't exactly sexy, eyeliner accounted for or not.

Lady Aisha speaks. It makes Ariadne's heart hurt all the more. "What else can he do?" she asks quietly, maybe loudly enough to be heard over the travels of the column following the man on the black warhorse.

What else can he do. It's a question that has Della leaning forward to hear, if it can be heard, the hood shadowing her pressed-together lips.

Dust rises.

“Kept fighting. The people would have fought—the old men, the women, all of us.” Aisha’s ire is pitiless, no-holds-barred. “To the death, if it came to that. Better death than the Castilians. Pah.” She aims a bolt of spit to the side of her horse in a show of her absolute disdain. “The people would be better served by death, if it means their sons and their sons’ sons still have the Emirate.”

This fierce woman, mother of the sultan, has seen her share of political conflict. But this is the first time she has ever been truly defeated without recourse. Exile by one of her husbands didn’t stop her; the captivity of her son didn’t, either. She has always found a way through, in the end (husband deposed; son released via negotiations). It isn’t just rhetoric. Lady Aisha seems to truly believe that death is preferable to this ignominious exile.

One final, vicious wish: “If only he hadn’t listened to all those traitors.”

Jules, listening, inhales sharply. Oh, but it resonates.

Ariadne doesn't quail, but Jules behind her might feel her poise, stiff as it is, soften slightly in the face of such bloody pragmatism. Never has it been more obvious to Ariadne in her life that she comes from a gentle family, one who expects out-think an issue, not deal with it by violence -- or if with violence, then as the very last resort.

The gasp behind her makes her turn her face enough to show profile and one eye slid as far as it can go to check on Jules. Her hugging-hold of the younger woman's arms around herself tightens to offer a steadiness she herself doesn't totally feel. It's so much easier to focus on caring for someone else than to succumb to the roiling of emotions. She still has to pass a sleeve under her eye again; it's odd, how the tears keep coming even if there's barely any huffing sniffles to accompany them.

She has no words for Lady Aisha's logic. Nothing clever.

Flung in Della's direction, however, like a life line mentally: It'll be okay. We'll make it through this. Maybe it'll stand in for her want to reach out and squeeze the other woman's hand in solidarity.

Yes.

It's not a conscious reply; it's assurance, whispered on barely-parted lips. Ariadne may hear it, if she's open to it; the others, a faint fuzz of static.

Della's mouth is dry; she hasn't spoken. But now --

"And now, Lady Aisha?"

It may be too soon, but if all goes well -- or very poorly -- they won't have later.

“I’m fine.” Jules pitches her voice low, meaning for it to carry to Ariadne’s ears and no further. If she had a mental megaphone (or earbud) it would extend, but such as it is, talking with Della too will have to wait. “I get it. That’s all. Wanting to fight to the bitter end. There’s no good option.”

Beyond them, Lady Aisha lifts her hands in a gesture of futility. Her reins are gathered in one palm; no groomsman dares to lead her horse. “My son has written to the sultan in al-Maghreb.” Literally, The West, meaning Morocco; their Veil Babelfish keeps the nuances of the term, layering one over another. “We will go to Fez.”

Eventually. Today, it’s enough to traverse the mountainous territory to the south towards Laujar and the residence set aside for the sultan’s use. How long it takes in real terms is besides the point. In this reality, they will simply ride until they ride no more, days and hours brushed aside in favor of narrative.

The residence is no Alhambra, but it’s still luxurious in its own way. The people who live in these mountains are curious to see their ruler—he’s still theirs, even if he’s powerless—and have to be told to step back, multiple times, and keep clear of the horses. The place has been readied for this household, and still there’s a mild sense of panic, with people scurrying this way and that as if their preparations could somehow make this arrival any better. Everyone’s tired, hungry, and ill-tempered. No one particularly cares where a few women of the household end up—including Aisha, who has her own monumental problems and most likely figures that some eunuch will escort the women to their new quarters.

So it’s up to them: do they stick with her? Ask someone where they should go? Or strike out on their own?

Della's whisper is caught on the mental wind, as it were. It makes Ariadne, face turned profile, drop her eyes to split focus for a second before nodding. The nod is for both women -- Della that she heard the single word, Jules that she heard the sotto-voce explanation. Looking back forward again, the redhead sniffs for what seems like a final time for the moment and sighs hard. Gulp: throat cleared, composure regained despite its tattering.

The ride is long enough. It passes with the strange fluidity of adrenaline-treacle. Crowds don't help. A small part of Ariadne is nervous about being so high on the horse -- nervous about the horse stepping on someone -- nervous about taking the blame though she doesn't have the reins. Thank god they make it to Laujar in the end and within the walls of the semi-palatial residence. Looking around the courtyard, the barista can tell they're of lesser interest.

Of lesser attention.

This time, weariness takes the clarity and strength from her mental words tossed out at both women: Maybe should -- rest -- leave after?

Nothing like being stuck on a horse for long hours anyways. Inner thighs: ouch.

Inner thighs, hips, back -- Della hadn't been riding in so, so long, and it takes her a little while to manage to stand fully upright, and conscious effort to make her groan quiet. She's relieved of the horse (bye, unnamed horse, no Star for you) but a brief pat-down assures her of her other belongings.

(Al-Maghreb still resonates in her head, and all that Lady Aisha had spoken of, all that she saw. Layers and layers; would that Della could take the babelfish back with her to understand.)

Lady Aisha is taking off. Lady Aisha is abandoning them.

Della accepts Ariadne's words at face value, may not even register that they aren't out loud; she makes her way to the other two, her own voice croaky-quiet when she gets there. "It's so full." Perhaps not just literally. "Follow her while we can? Or walk through anything remotely like a door and hope."

"Oh my god yes, rest," Jules murmurs back to Ariadne. If she's ever been on a horse before (doubtful), it certainly hasn't been for this long, and everything hurts. Someone's there to help her off, and she staggers, knees giving way, as soon as her feet hit the ground. It leaves the young man who's there to help supporting her full weight and holding her up--a situation that seems to make him embarrassed, given the sudden awkwardness of his stance and how he looks away, flushing.

"Here, help your friend," he tells the other two. He doesn't care who--he just doesn't want to get in trouble for fraternizing with the ladies. It also means he's off in a hurry, leading the horses away for a good rub-down, which is his job.

"I feel like I need a fucking cane," mutters Jules in the meantime. "Please tell me there's a bath around here."

Not the smoothest dismount from Ariadne either, but her knees hold up better than poor Jules' case. Must be all those hours of biking. Abandoned by the assistant, it falls upon the redhead to make her way those mincing, rusty steps over and see about her hand finding Jules' elbow.

Della is offered a hand too. One horse away had been too far away, with too many uncertainties. Hazel eyes find Lady Aisha up ahead. "She'll go through a door. If it's a Door, then it is, and thank god. We'll have more shots afterwards anyways if we head inside. Lots of doorways." Turning her face, she rubs her cheek on the shoulder of her woolen garment. The mostly-dried tear streaks had gathered dust and smear now across her skin visibly. "There's got to be a bath somewhere, yes," she adds, sounding absolutely weary for one. "A bath and a nap, my god..."

So much in so little time. It's impossible to avoid thinking about stooping under the metaphorical weight of it all on one's shoulders.

There goes the Aisha-following.

It's easier to insist on hurrying when there are obvious bad guys slavering at their heels; when they seem momentarily... not safe, exactly, but safe-ish, when one's hurting and one's friend is hurting, then not so much. Della clasps Ariadne's hand, then endeavors to help with the Jules-supporting, at the very least.

"Inside, then." She adds, as though she's been thinking about it, "If we are 'harem girls,' it'll be easier to find bath-and-nap in what quarters they give us; we can ask someone where to go. On the other hand, it'll be harder later to leave. On the other hand," Della doesn't quite smile. "It's not as though doors don't sneak up where they weren't before." With a look to each of them in turn, her dark eyes tired but level, "Let's just make sure to go places together. Not to be all 'highschool girls' 'everyone moves in packs,' but this isn't a time to be separated."

Before they go, before they go into a place they might not so soon get out of, she'll look out and away: at what she can see of that long road they'd climbed -- and the vastneas of the sky.

Jules is fit herself, and yet—

Kayaking daily is nothing like riding a horse for hours upon hours.

Onwards, inwards. From this outer courtyard, it’s easy to identify which way leads to the kitchens based on the clatter of dishware and women’s voices—no baths in there. This residence is easier to get around, though still large enough that it can retain a household. It doesn’t have the spaciousness to provide solitude, though, and each room or courtyard seems to have at least one or two persons trying to settle in or take care of other affairs. Very few of them have much idea where they’re supposed to be, either. A few wandering women hardly draw attention.

As they make their way through the first inner courtyard —a hub of sorts — female voices carry down the passage to their left. Straight on, it’s quieter, greener.

"I'd rather not lose sight of either of you." No disagreement whatsoever from Ariadne, she with enough stability of knees to continue to be a semi-crutch as needed for the temporarily saddle-crippled. Too much excitement has left her in an odd haze of numbness, but not enough to keep the beauty of the semi-palatial surroundings from being lost to her. The barista muses that she'd love a cup of coffee about now and then reminds herself of how adrenaline plus coffee isn't the best combination.

But voices.

She pauses, fretting her bottom lip in a quick near-pinch of teeth. "I want to look around, don't get me wrong, but I hear a lot of women that way and the pretty of everything can wait for a bath. I have dust in my armpits and I don't know how I feel about it." A dry, dry (literally) observation on her part with less of a filter than normal as she turns towards the collection of feminine voices.

Who needs filters? "Better dust than mud," Della says somberly, dryly in her turn. While there are no promises that there will be a bath where those women are -- they could be doing all sorts of things -- chances are good, and she's game. So, she hoists herself up (figuratively, though minus any petard) and keeps on limping. Left it is, with just a wistful peek down the road not taken along the way.

There's no point, should they reach the women, for Della to try to seem as though she's unmoved, that she does this every day.

The women’s quarters are a flurry of activity. By the looks of it, these are the women that these three have been grouped with. They range in age and complexion—diversity is an asset when it comes to providing for a sultan’s satisfaction.

“Who are you?” asks a brunette near the door, turning away from the tall, pale woman she’s been speaking to, who looks like she might well come from the British Isles.

“I saw them with Lalla Aisha,” says another, this one dark-skinned and sporting intricately plaited braids. Lalla — it’s an honorific that goes beyond Lady, the kind of North African title that one uses with royalty.

“Are you her ladies?” inquires a third of classically Iberian beauty. “She said she wanted to be left alone, so you’d better stay here tonight, with us. Best to stay out of her way, if you ask me.”

"I mean, you're not wrong," Ariadne murmurs back to Della as they walk down the hallway towards the chattering. She adjusts her supportive hold around Jules' ribs and goes at no faster speed than necessary.

It's unenviably one of the classical moments of feeling as if one's walking into the wrong place at the right time and blending in only enough to be accepted at base. Even the barista's charming smile is a wan attempt. "We're intending to stay with you all tonight, yes, the Lady needs time." Probably more than even guessed at, displaced as she and her entire family is from their ancestral home. "Is there a place we might wash off the dust? His Highness's horse was high-stepping and kicking up a lot of it." Blowing her nose seems a necessary at one point too; the scent of dust is overpowering in her sinuses.

The women -- and what they're wearing, and how they're wearing it, and how an exhausted Della might be able to replicate it.

Wait. The women who don't look dusty and rumpled, not anymore, not like them.

"We appreciate your hospitality," Della says quietly, clearly, "To wash, and more than wash. It was a long ride with our Lady, and," she pauses just a little, deliberately, "a horrific sight, seeing the keys of the Alhambra handed over to," the Castilian dogs? "the Castilians." Which is to say, they saw it all. They know what happened.

But they have to pee first.

The first woman sighs; another winces. “We left a week ago,” one murmurs. “I’m glad we didn’t have to see it. How humiliating.”

“How did he look?” It’s the African woman who wants to know. He can only refer to one person.

“Enough,” scolds the woman of Spanish origin. “Let them take a bath. They’re tired, can’t you see?” She’s eying Jules sympathetically, in particular. “Come with me. The hammam is this way; I’ll show you.” And as she leads them through the room to the adjoining baths, she murmurs, “I had a hard time with that ride, too.”

Ariadne can only nod in agreement with Della's concise revelation of what they'd had the depressing privilege to observe. Keys? Gone. She tries to get a more comfortable grip around poor Jules' waist even as the Spanish woman chastises and saves them from the combined curiosity of the harem. This woman gets a grateful look from the redhead and a murmured, "Thank you."

As they depart from the main room, the barista still manages to look over her shoulder and reply to the African woman, "He looked resigned." How else to describe it?

She doesn't know the word 'hammam', but if it involves bathing, it'll be wonderful, Ariadne thinks. She makes one foot move in front of the other at this point. Her ballet flats were not meant for walks even this far, horseback or not. To the Spanish woman, she replies quite soberly, "It's a great loss." Of house, home, livelihood, so much.

Della starts to answer the African -- North African? -- woman, but Ariadne takes care of it; her apologetic look, her tired lift of one hand, both suggest that there's more, at least there could be more, but later. Later. (If they're there later.)

Her nod is a goodbye to the room, her quiet thanks to the Spanish woman heartfelt, and she seconds the depth of that loss as well. As she accompanies her friends, she keeps an eye out for Jules, even for Ariadne, to assist should either need it; if they don't, though... let's hope they don't. Let's hope she doesn't. Let's hope they all make it there.

By now, with the Dreams, Della has had to invest in inexpensive nightgowns she doesn't mind (too much) losing; given the Doors, she may well have to do the same with sneakers. Her sandals may well be a loss, will need repair at the very least, but the slippers would have been worse. And that's just the outside. That's not even counting her poor feet.

The walk is interminable, perhaps the more so for the prospect of relief ahead.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” insists Jules, who is determined to walk by herself at this point as long as it doesn’t involve stairs. “It’s just been a day.”

The hammam—the baths—are tiled in a cool blue and white. There’s two large pools filled with water, both cool, and raised bench-seating along the edges, also tiled. A couple low stools are scattered here and there, along with baskets of towels. Various accoutrements are stored on shelves: scrapers, natural sponge loofahs, mineral salts and rugs, pitchers, and various ceramic containers with who-knows-what inside. No privacy—but then, this is a space solely reserved for the use of the household’s women.

“Do you want hot water too?” asks the woman who leads them, solicitous. She stops at the shelving and takes a handful of dried rose petals, then scatters them on the surface of the pools. “I can tell someone to bring it. Or do you want a massage or someone to scrape off the dirt?”

The hammam is basically a full-service spa.

Snaking her arm free of Jules' ribs, her redheaded friend nods. "Fuck yes, it has," she agrees in a soft volume. Another glance to Della to make sure nobody's hobbling too much after the time spent in the saddle.

The hallway opens up into the spa-area proper and Ariadne stops walking for a second. Her mouth parts; she hadn't been expecting this level of luxury, not after being displaced from the ancestral seat of power, swept up as they all are with the family. "Uh. I...should be fine removing my own dirt, thank you, but hot water sounds amazing right now." Her eyes find Jules and Della again and silently ask if this is appropriate or not; there's still a Door to find at some point or another.

After a little nod to Ariadne, "Yes. Yes, please. All these things." Never mind that she's never had dirt scraped off her; the other woman seems to think they might like it. "Especially the massage, once clean." Della, grateful -- the more so after a few more quiet words, at which point she's quick to slip past a discreet side door and take care of business.

Luckily for everyone and their talk of going places together, she's also quick to come out, even if she does look a little dazed.

The question of appropriateness doesn’t even cross Jules’ mind. She’s eying those pools like they’re a godsend, already peeling off her heavy outerwear in anticipation.

“Good,” says the woman who has lead them here, offering a smile before she leaves them. “I will send someone.”

Della’s already found the toilet. It’s Jules’ turn next, exclaiming as she returns, “Things they don’t include in the movies.” Off goes her top. There’s a sports bra on underneath, at which point she hesitates. “So—how do we want to do this? I’m guessing we just…jump in? Like skinny dipping?”

"Thank you," Ariadne calls quietly to the retreating figure of the woman. Now she too is eyeing the pools. They look...exceedingly inviting and she's yanking the woolen garment up and over her head with no aplomb by the time Jules returns. The woman's observation makes Ariadne laugh despite herself: "Yeah, nobody includes the personal businesses in the films. I'm going to guess it's skinny dipping."

She finds a bench to begin laying the borrowed -- borrowed? -- stolen? -- clothing on until she's down to her modern blouse and skinny jeans again. "Because the clothing itself gets washed separately...right? You wouldn't want to use the same soaps on the clothing as on the skin and vice versa? Though if folks are more comfortable with leaving bras and underwear on, I'm easy-going. Let me know what you decide?" she asks of her companions before she too steps into the side door to deal with personal business, as it were. She's not gone long, returning and wondering at the decision.

"I am getting rid of everything," Della announces. "That mud, Ariadne? I have it."

That said, and while she follows the other two in stripping down, afterwards wrapping herself in a towel (poor now-dirty towel) -- Della's particularly careful about piling her clothing just so, and tying the jewelry up in a kerchief, as though the promise of bathing has given her a temporary burst of energy -- she questions, "Is there a dirty pool versus a clean pool, do you think? Or something else, like showering before getting into a swimming pool? I can just hear my big sister," one of them, "complaining about pollution." She shares a wry smile. "If that's in the films, I watched the wrong ones."

"Also," and her tone turns wistful, "whatever they take to wash, we won't be able to take back through the Doors, will we." Because there will be a Door. There will. She tucks most of her things -- two wrapped-up piles, sorted by dirtiness -- where they won't be as visible to run off with, but sets something she can bear to put on in easier reach.

The water, the rose petal-scented water, waits for them.

"Well, I don't really want to soak in dirty underwear." Jules' tone turns wryly humorous. "Or put it back on afterwards, for that matter. I'm warning you now, I'm going commando." Della's own declaration decides her. "When in Rome--" To repeat a phrase from earlier. "Or Spain, or wherever we are. I have literally no idea, Della, so I'm just getting in."

She follows her housemate's lead and sorts her own clothes into piles: the unworn bundle (sports bra gets tucked in that, because she does not want to lose it), dirty, and dirtier. After securing what looks like a towel -- not fluffy like modern towels, but a long, thin piece of woven cotton -- Jules strips right down and enters one of the pools. "Oh my God, this is amazing."

A teen enters the baths in time to hear Jules, lugging two buckets of steaming water, and she can't help but giggle. "When you're ready, I have hot water for you," she says politely, trying to control whatever she finds so blatantly amusing.

The woman who lead them follows her back, too. A glance at the Gray Harbor trio has her ascertaining just how little they know, and she doesn't try to hide her smile. "This is Mariam," she announces, "and she'll bring you whatever you need. My name is Yasmine. Here." She goes to the shelving again, this time to retrieve a couple ceramic pots and bring them to the edge of the pool. Inside, there's a blackish sludge. Soap? "Use this. Rub it all over once you've finished soaking. Then Mariam will scrape it off, along with all the dead skin., and she can give you a massage. If you have questions, tell her to go get me." Rising, Yasmine makes her way towards the exit.

Sadly, the hot water does not go in the baths. It's there to rinse them off with afterwards.

Piles of intensifying dirtiness seem appropriate. Ariadne nods, lips pursed thoughtfully, and then starts sorting. She shucks her blouse and jeans without another thought, now-bare feet gratefully appreciating the cooler tiling of the bathing area's flooring (even if she might leave one or two literal dust footprints behind from collected travel-grit in her ballet flats).

She doesn't seem bothered by the idea of commando from the looks of things. "When in Rome. It's like the locker rooms in college, no biggie," are her musings on the state of things. "Gotta rinse off one way or another." Eternally pragmatic, this one. Her own undergarments get tucked away into her unworn pile (thus less likely to be accidentally absconded with) and after finding her own interestingly-thin towel, she joins Jules in one of the pools.

Notably, the barista does not cannonball in, tempting as it was there for a split second of defiance in the face of stress.

She disappears underwater and comes up with soaking wet hair plastered all over her face. "Amazing is an understatement," she says while scraping the dripping locks back and then sighing heavily, sunk up to her chin. "I feel like I should make desert rain frog sounds out of sheer joy. Ever heard one of those little weirdos? It's hilarious. Tiniest, angriest creature on the planet." The arrival of Mariam and Yasmine have her falling silent again and looking between them and the pot of...interesting...goop.

Floating as nonchalantly as possible in the direction of at least Jules, Ariadne asks sotto-voce while eyeing the pot o' goop, "What is that stuff?"

Amazing, she says. Della eyes the water so wistfully, starts to dip a toe -- and now she's laughing, because tiny angry desert frogs, "So joyful and angry?" but.

Then.

"Thank you, Yasmine. And Miriam? Mariam." Thank you so, so, so much. Della eyes the pool that much more, folds the towel, and in she goes. It's only once she actually gets to enjoy the water that she follows up -- after a moment of hesitation where she changes what she says and how she says it -- "Mariam? What is that, that we'll put on our skin? Clay?" Clearly they are ignorant, and teenaged Mariam, wise in the ways.

“No, but I know what I’m googling when we get home,” Jules declares. She lowers down fully to dunk her head under the water, staying fully submerged for several seconds.

Miriam is trying hard to keep a straight face and failing just as hard. One might get the impression of slight incredulity and slight superiority—oh, these poor know-nothing rubes.

Teenagers are the same everywhere.

“Black soap,” she answers. “From Morocco. Sitt Yasmine have you the good stuff. There’s regular soap too, if you’d prefer.” The greenish-caramel-black goop has an oily, slightly sticky texture; it smells of olives. So does the whitish-yellow loaf that Mariam fetches; it looks far more recognizable and carries an overtone of lemon.

Floating over to the edge of the tiling where Mariam explains the contents of the container, Ariadne actually does lean in and sniff it. It indeed smells of olives and she lifts her brows with a soft 'huh' of discovery. Mariam goes to fetch the regular soap and the marine biologist can't help but reach to pinch a little bit of the black soap. It has a fascinating texture as she rubs it between thumbpad and fingerpad, entire face a revelation in experimentation. "Huh," a little more loudly this time and with a glance towards Della and Jules.

"Olives," she reports quietly and with a little upwards tug of her lips to one side.

Mariam returns with the other soap and Ariadne considers it. "If you don't mind leaving both so we can choose?" she half-asks, half-suggests of the cleansing options. "Is one of them better for hair than the other?"

"Olives." All right, Della has to swoosh over and try out the two too. With a glance from Ariadne back to Jules, a wry brow-lift, "Pizza?"

Followed by, "Wonderful idea." Keeping both, and the hair-question as well -- her smile to the redhead would be brilliant if she weren't so exhausted, and then Della extends it to Mariam as well. "Of course I'd like to try the good stuff, with such a recommendation."

She runs a hand through her shorter-on-one-side hair in a show of self-consciousness before taking a quick dunk: this woman is not only new to the ways of cleansing with olives, she's asymmetrical. Murmured, "I wonder if she's noticed your dye job."

"Olives?" Cue befuddlement. Jules floats over to dip her own finger into the container and see what the black soap feels like. "Only olives I eat are definitely the ones on pizza."

Mariam restrains yet another giggle. "Olives and olive oil," she clarifies. "The white one, for hair. Or ghassoul. I think there might be some here, if it didn't all get used up." She makes a face as she walks off to check. "Not much trade anymore. It's probably all ending now anyway. The cook told me we're all going to Fez." A pause as she pokes through pots. "I don't see it -- you'll have to use the soap." She perches on one of the low seats, saying, "You soak and get clean, and come to me when you want me to scrub you down." Until then, she's going to sing a little tone under her breath that rings dissonantly modal to Western ears.

"Ghassoul," Ariadne quietly echoes to herself; she tries the word on her tongue and likely accents it all to hell. Alas, none of the good stuff. This doesn't make her any less curious about the white soap and its use in her hair; sweaty roots aren't her favorite thing in the world.

Della gets a quick little grin, tired as well. "If she has noticed the dye job, she hasn't mentioned it, nobody else has either. Maybe it's something where if we don't bring it up, the Dream decides the others don't get to see it," she replies sotto-voce.

More loudly, she adds as she reaches for the white soap with its lemony highlights, "Tempting as it is, we probably shouldn't eat the olive soap." It's an attempt at droll humor and Ariadne isn't expecting anyone to laugh; her humor gets patently ridiculous when she's worn down. "I'll be the guinea pig and try this stuff on my hair first. Should be fine, it isn't burning my hands or anything." As in, containing too much lye. She works up a froth on her palms after dunking her head again and after setting the white soap aside, then starts working her fingers through her roots, face in a little moue of concentration.

White one for hair. Lemony one for hair. Della, relieved. Though, 'Fez' has her arching her brows at the other two in the pool, adding an illustrative pat of her own head.

Ghassoul, ghassoul, ghassoul. Not a ghoul.

"Love that, that Dream mechanic. I'd be tempted to bring it up, but." They're all exhausted, and good things are happening, and why mess with any of the Dream now?

Still quietly, "Not burning your hands, also a good sign!" While Ariadne's dealing with her hair, Della ducks chin-deep to attack the rest of her, all that sand and sweat and everything, before she goes for the dark goop. She takes her time with that, rubbing it into her skin, now and again glancing towards Mariam -- that sound -- and just... around. The tiles, the ceiling, the way it uses space. "I wish I knew more about the history now," she murmurs. "Not just for when we get back. Jules, do you think you could draw this?"

The soap is heavy on the olive oil—good for skin and hair! No burning sensation! It’s also the good stuff, just in a different form.

“I could try,” Jules muses as she happily wallows in the cool water. “See how much I can remember and maybe do some Google image searches. I’ll definitely try. And who knows—maybe she just thinks you’ve got some kind of exotic dye going on. They dye their hair here, right?” After her turn with the hair-soap-shampoo, Jules pulls herself onto the rim of the pool, ankles in the water. From there, she works on massaging the black soap into her skin. It leaves a scented, slick residue. “I don’t know if I’m doing this right,” Jules murmurs, “but hell if I’m not enjoying it.”

When they’re ready, Miriam’s there to rub them down one by one with some kind of rough natural sponge. It’s not exactly gentle; she strips off dead skin with force, and without any ideas about modesty. It does leave the skin with a healthy glow.

Jules lets out a quiet yelp of surprise when the scrubbing hits a sensitive area; Miriam firmly holds her still, not hiding her amused smile. “You need sugar,” she tells Jules frankly, to which Jules just looks confused. “Sugar,” she says again, now patting Jules’ leg. “To take off the hair. You don’t want to let the Sultan see you like that.”

Jules flushes, looking over her shoulder at the other two. “Oh, Jesus. Tell me she doesn’t mean what I think she means.”

"I think you should try," Ariadne encourages of Jules and her sketching. She's washed out her hair and now perches on the edge of the pool to enact the same process as the other woman. "And it's possible. Maybe I used eggplants or...something." As tired as she is, she can't help but laugh. "Yes, I know, eggplant isn't going to dye this color. My brain says...something about roots and the purple dyes. I dunno. It's all crispy," she mutters with a circling gesture towards her head with its mop of clean, soaked hair. Her brain, she must mean, crispified.

Still, the black goop feels good going on and especially after it's sat on the skin. The barista lingers on the pool's edge and idly drags her feet through the water, her weight leaned back on straightened arms. Her mind looks like it's thousands of miles and centuries away...and it is. When is this Dream going to decide to let them go home? It's a fret which knots her stomach. Unknotting will take time and she knows it.

There's an empathetic wince when Jules yelps, however, Ariadne being startled out of her musings by it. Miriam further explains and the barista's brows try to hide in her hairline.

"Yeeeeeeeeeah, pretty sure that's exactly what she means," she replies after a second. "Respectfully, I prefer to leave things how they are and the Sultan can deal with it." Mariam is thus informed and by the leery stiffening of body, the redhead's not above simply slipping back into the pool and out of reach.

"Do try," Della seconds. "I was looking to take a class on it, but still haven't signed up because," she waves to the room at large, and beyond: to Dreams. And, exhausted or no, she can grin for Jules and her_enjoying_, and then for Ariadne and her, "Mmm, crispy eggplant," she teases. "And here we are without any ketchup."

She's been slow to get up, slow to get out -- the pool, the weightlessness, was just so nice, and after all, there's only one of Mariam -- so she's only started to lounge, all goopified, when there's that yelp and she looks too. And then looks up, laughing, at the ceiling. "Oh no. Oh no." And then there's more laughing, this with a higher note to it because Sultan? Sultan dealing with it? "Tell you what, I'll give the first part a go," though she's never been a proponent in casual girl-talk around the house, "but expect screaming."

“It’s the second part that concerns me,” Jules reports dryly, recovering her poise. “Surely the Sultan is, uh, too busy for that.”

Mariam finds this all hilarious, of course. “You mean, you haven’t been doing this since you were twelve? Where did they find you?” In any case, sugaring will have to wait until all three ladies have had their scrub-down, any remaining soap sluiced away with hot water.

“I’ll have someone bring you tea while I make the sugar,” Mariam brightly tells them all. There’s only one of her to tend to their pampering, anyway, so tea and sweets it is while they wait, whether it’s for sugaring or massages or both.

In one of those moments when it’s just them, Jules wonders, “Do you think it’s wrong to take the full spa service if I’m not planning on, you know, servicing the Sultan? Is that cheating?”

That she's made Della laugh has given Ariadne a steady case of the titters. At one point, she's got a palm over her mouth, black olive oil residue be damned, and her shoulders shake. Poor Miriam -- where did they find this barista?

Still, the giggling redhead won't say no to tea and sweets. Mariam departs and she gives her fellow Gray Harborites dubious smiles both. "I'm game for the sweets. The tea too. It'll steady blood sugar because good lord, adrenaline saps the hell out of blood sugar." She does want to rub her hand on her face, but nope: no face scraping, please and thank you. "And maybe we can somehow be...too foreign to be attractive to the Sultan. Seriously. We'll have a belching contest with the tea. I bet the acoustics in here are amazeballs for it," she adds totally seriously with a glance up and around to check.

But later, "Definitely tea and sweets. I wonder what kinds there'll be? I'm sure we had something on the road, but it just sort of..." she handwaves its glossing over, going away, with a questioning glance for the other two: was it like that for them as well? "Also, Servicing the Sultan sounds exactly like the sort of book my -- one of my friends back home reads. 'Surprise Baby for the Sultan's Virgin Bride' and all that. I do not recall her saying anything about 'Belching for the Sultan' but I am here for -- well, hopefully we won't be. Also not popping into the bar just like this, mind." Anyway. "It would make sense to practice the belching before Mariam gets back."

"And... no, I don't think it's wrong, Jules." She's no longer deadpan, just serious, occasionally checking on the doorway lest they be overheard. Her voice has dropped further. "Though I don't know how much of that is, 'Because I wanna'? I also can't imagine that everyone here plans to service the sultan and entered into the arrangement of their own free will and with equalized power dynamics.... This seems more 'way of life' than 'it's going to be tonight.' What do you think?" Both of you.

"Also, we didn't ask to be here." Here.

"Oh Jesus," Jules says again, this time for the romance novels, screwing her face up into a grimace. "And yeah, no going through any doors -- or archways -- until we've got some clothes on." Which she does not, though she has wrapped one of those thin towels around her for the time being.

Her frown remains as Della mentions the power dynamics likely in play; it's no longer so comical. "Yeah," she agrees quietly. "You both saw how there's women from all over -- I have to think that they were brought here. Sold here. I don't know how this thing works, and they don't exactly seem upset, but I'm guessing freedom of choice isn't really a thing. One more thing to look up when we get back. I assume we're getting back." A little alarm begins to register, as relaxed as she's been with the soaking and the pampering. "You don't think we'll be stuck here, do you? I haven't heard of anyone who hasn't come back..." But there's always a first time.

Della's quip about book titles has Ariadne almost lost to titters again. It's outrageous, the idea, and yet, in terms of romance novels? Far too plausible.

Someone might be getting a prank book for their birthday, should Ariadne ever figure out the day.

"...oh my god, that's a good point, making sure clothing is on." Ariadne appears slightly embarrassed to somehow have sidestepped that particular point of logic. Must be the sheer volume of novel distraction in their surroundings. You struck out on that one, Dream, neener-neener.

She can't help but follow Della's glance towards the door, her own brows knitting. "I bet we can bank on favoritism, maybe a little, in terms of who's busy doing what with whom this evening. Or that the Sultan is busy moping. Or we're too worn out from travels to be of any use. I don't know how it works either and I'm sure as hell assuming we're getting back. I refuse to be stuck here for any longer than necessary." Ariadne doesn't seem necessarily alarmed, but certainly against being resigned to remain in this Dream.

Doors, archways... if Della had side-eyed getting into the pool, getting out, she doesn't say -- but no, those light towels don't count.

"Favoritism. I like that. That's much better than novelty. Though moping's even better, and I certainly plan to be... well, home, but if not, then worn out. Even with the massage. The lovely, lovely massage that I cannot wait for," though clearly must. Della peers down at her toes, wiggles them, sighs and stretches back. No, those light towels aren't enough. "I don't know anyone who hasn't come back through Doors, but then we wouldn't, would we? How about we stay stuck here through the tea and sweets and massages and getting real clothes on and then go home?" That last is decidedly wistful. "And until then, just enjoy it."

“Let’s just hope that moping doesn’t mean he requires distraction,” Jules says darkly. “But yeah, I’m sure he’s got his favorites, and surely they’re better when you’re in a mood than some new girl. In any case, I am all in favor of massages and all the rest and then walking through every doorway we can find.”

Another young woman appears around this time, occupying a lower social caste if her clothing is anything to go by: a plain black dress with a kerchief wound about her head to keep her hair out of the way. She brings a wide platter into the baths, replete with a steaming silver teapot, three small painted glasses, and the promised sweets. Dates and soft cheese, too. Sustenance.

"I'm going to note that if we have a belching contest and then run through every doorway we can find, as fast as we can, we're going to look absolutely insane and or unsalvageable and the Sultan's going to want to stick to his favorites lest he catch the crazy." Ariadne, still seated and slathered in the olive oil scrub, does indeed note this with a puckish little smirk. "I'm good for accepting the massage and eating some sweets and then getting the hell back home. The Veil can appreciate the taste of my spitefulness and go -- "

She pauses this thought as the tray of deliciousness arrives, perhaps not wanting to burn delicate ears.

It can't be helped: "Oooh." An appreciative little coo. Ariadne then reaches for a thin towel to see about scrubbing off palms of the black soap residue.

Distraction: Della makes a sign to avert it -- and adds a smirk of her own for unsalvageable -- but tea. Tea! She's going to need refills, and that's even before the savories and sweets.

But.

"Thank you," still-gooified Della says to the new girl first of all, leaning to try and catch her eye: is she the kind who talks? She adds an easy, we're-in-no-rush-here smile.

“It’s nothing,” this woman murmurs as she pours the tea. She says little else and hurries back the way she came once her task is done.

As Jules picks up her glass, keeping her fingers right on the rim to protect them from burning, she wryly agrees, “Insane, check. Or Ari—can you make him think we’re insane? Or boring? I don’t know how much you can do, besides how I’ve seen you and Mikaere talking.” There would be scare quotes if not for the tea glass. “Or Della, for that matter. You people with your mind mojo.”

Now with palms free of black soap residue (mostly, enough to not translate into any bite of food she takes by fingers), Ariadne watches the reticent interaction between the woman and Della. Her eyes track the woman's departure even as she too carefully takes up a glass of tea. Her brows meet.

"Probably someone used to being yelled at," she says, sounding aggrieved for the observation. A short sigh. Her eyes flick to Jules and her question. Her little smile doesn't precisely reach them now. "That's...a bit of a...Dark Side kind of thing, but...pretty sure I could do it, at least temporarily. I'm not a master of manipulation or anything, but if I can break a panic attack, I can probably convince the Sultan we're batshit-crazy. Or maybe give him a panic attack instead. Either or."

"'Mind mojo.'" Della, somewhat bemused as she follows suit with Ariadne's cleaning, Jules' cautious taking; at least her own glass doesn't seem to have poked at her (nor has the bench, or the towel, or potentially most horrifyingly, the goop). "Talking to each other sounds so handy. Me, I'm trying to... not think about," she taps her fingers in the air as though playing the piano, only then with a tilt of her hand it becomes a guitar's strum, "the touch-y things right now."

Her gaze drifts off to where the woman had come and gone, the woman she hadn't forestalled. Perhaps, though, it's not about the woman at all. "Did I catch that? You can stop panic attacks, but also make people think things?" There are more questions. There are definitely more questions, but with her brows drawn in like that, these will stay for starters.

“I mean, ideally no Dark Side stuff required,” says Jules before she tries a tentative sip of her tea. It’s hot. “How are you doing with the touchy stuff?” she asks Della then. “Have you been picking stuff up here? What’s that like?”

"Yeah...hopefully no Dark Side stuff, but that gets...dicey morality-wise. It's not like I haven't had a bottle of wine to myself and thought about it," Ariadne reveals before she sips at the tea. "Mmm, not bad." From the coffee guru, this is a statement indeed.

She still seems hesitant about meeting Della's eyes. "I stopped one of Ravn's panic attacks one time. Mind Xanax, he called it. It didn't stay forever, that feeling of calm, which is how it should be, but it let him get a better grip on what was going on. This was after the door with the river," she adds, glancing briefly at Jules. "He told me later on how it's possible to make somebody panic. I don't like the idea, but if it's in self-defense? I won't flinch."

That revelation yields a quirky little smile, a lift of Della's glass in toast.

The rest... "Did you. That's clever. the more so since, like you said, it was just to tide him over. ...The way you say it, it doesn't seem like he minded," she says carefully, "but then there's the part about just one time." Which is not quite a question.

But back to Jules: "Not really touchy stuff here. Back at Alhambra, yes. It about bowled me over," is one way of putting it.

“The moral part seems particularly complicated with the mental stuff,” Jules acknowledges. She dips her chin in a nod not much later. “I asked for a little bit of that too,” the Mind Xanax, “to take the edge off stressing over every single stupid thing I said that week when I couldn’t keep my thoughts to myself.” Jules divulges this while reaching for a date. As soon as one thing touches her lips—the tea—she’s suddenly famished.

She lays the pit aside and tries the cheese next. “What was that like?” Jules asks Della quietly.

"No...he didn't mind. But you're not wrong, about 'just one time'. It'll be in our back pocket if I need to do it. A trump card," Ariadne decides of an inflicted panic attack. She sips her tea again and tries to ignore how her stomach has clenched up into a knot. The tea really is delightful. Watching Jules eat a date encourages her to try the cheese as well. It's a comfort food around her own house, the block of sharp cheddar.

She nibbles and looks at Della with open curiosity, echoing Jules' question silently.

"Did it help?" Della asks of Jules. And to Ariadne, "I like that, our back pocket. His as well as yours."

Afterward, trading her glass for a date, running her clean thumb over its wrinkles, "...Old. Layered. Intense. In those respects, nothing you couldn't guess. Overarching. And there was pain, for its people leaving, or perhaps it was simply Lady Aisha's, I couldn't tell. But it's like when the music's up so loud the bass just pounds right through you, you aren't distinct anymore."

Della adds, aiming for humor, "This is why we can hope movies never come with smell-o-vision."

“Hm.” Jules can’t fully grasp it, this thing that Della’s describing, and her brow knits as she tries to parse it.

The cheese is tangy and soft, freshly made. There’s a little pot of honey alongside it. No utensils, but licking one’s fingers is completely allowed.

“It helped,” she confirms. “I mean, it didn’t last forever, only that day—but I think it made it a better day, overall. Like, it stopped me from going into a total panic tailspin when I accidentally let it slip that I knew Mikaere’s divorced. Thanks to you.” She makes a face at Della, but it’s all in fun; the smile appears just thereafter.

Ariadne shoots a half-grin at Della and nods. Back pocket is a shared pocket in the case of inflicted panic attacks. Simply point the barista and boom: Sultan flailing.

Like Jules, this particular lens is unknown to her. She listens and thinks about how it might be to experience such a view -- all of the layers of humanity's emotions building up and up until something singular forms, like instruments in a musical piece to the right ear. She tries another piece of cheese and ends up popping the whole piece into her mouth, manners be damned. Time to swipe up some honey. She tests it on her fingertip and then sighs in relief; it's honey, nothing funny about it.

"Huh, I didn't know he was divorced." Granted, Ariadne now knows too, but she doesn't seem to intend to put this knowledge to any use, simply to know it. "But you're right, yeah, it's a temporary thing, but it lets the mind calm down so you can prepare for it to wear off in turn."

"Divorced, so scandalous," says Della with a roll of her eyes, still a little prickly. Perhaps a little honey with that cheese will help; unusually, she gives the combination a go before nibbling on each individually. "Don't tell, Ariadne, or polite society will boot him out."

While she's at it, without particular emphasis, "I'm divorced. Officially, even."

Back to the panic solutions, onward to matter-of-factness: "Permission in advance to do that on me if it's a genuine emergency and I'm freaking out; otherwise, I wouldn't want to be influenced without agreeing." -- "This is tasty." And leads to more tea.

Testily defensive, Jules protests, “It wasn’t like that. Obviously it’s not a big deal that I know, it just hadn’t come up before. You try saying everything that comes to mind without end and not get embarrassed.”

Her stomach’s still growling. The cheese and honey will be gone in no time.

Miriam comes back around this time with the hot sugar wax. “Leila!” she yells out as soon as she sees them. “Bring more food!”

Beauty treatments, massages, food—they can stay as long as they like, though at some point it will be time to put clothes (either their old smelly ones or the soft kaftans that appear) and search for an exit.

Perhaps amusingly paused, Ariadne lets the next bite of cheese linger at her lips half-bitten as she looks between Della and Jules. Slowly, she bites into it and chews again, her forthcoming thought interrupted by Mariam. A blink-blink for the raised voice.

"I'm reminded of a training grounds sergeant," the redhead murmurs. She adds, benignly, "My dad was divorced before he met my mom. I dunno if it's super scandalous...but I guess I've never been in that situation or had to deal with it." Her words are still pitched for privacy and gentled. "I did miss out on asking you more questions though," she says, grinning up a quick, impish dimple for Jules. "I won't say no to more food." Another glance between the roommates.

The hot sugar wax is given an eyeing like a dog due for a nail trim: it ain't happening if she has her druthers!

Maybe Ariadne does manage to get clothing on, one way or another, in order to goose away from the scrub. Either way, she has a hell of a story to tell.

And legs she decides she'll shave herself, thank you very much!

"It would be very embarrassing." Della has no argument there; indeed, she leaves it there.

Instead, after a smile brightened up just for Mariam -- then eased for Ariadne's efforts, she saw what she did there -- "Have you had to deal much with sergeants, then? More food does sound wonderful." More people again. Her phone's with her purse, she could have taken pictures with them gone... maybe she could still, but she doesn't so much as make a move that way.

Instead, more smiles all around, and then the food. Pretty much all of the beauty treatments (and with the promised screaming when it escapes her, sorry Mariam). Definitely the massage, for which she's immensely appreciative and not at all shy with her low-voiced prompts. Eventually, the soft kaftan and slippers... with three bags requested for the time-travelers' purposes. (In her case, housing a tight-rolled selection of items, even if she'll have to leave a few behind.)

“Woe is you,” Jules dryly returns, making a face at Ariadne. That face soon eases into one of pure contentment, though, between the tea, the sweets (“I want to know what’s in this—think we can take a few home for Una to disassemble and recreate?”), and the massage.

When it’s time to go, ostensibly to collapse after a very long day, their wayward Door quietly shimmers into being in a dark alcove. Beyond, the interior of the bar they left, as if muted. However long they’ve spent in Andalusia, it’s only been a few hours at most back in Gray Harbor. But they’ve probably lost their table.

Their hosts may wonder where they went, but with all the commotion of those headed into exile or choosing to stick it out in the Andalusian mountains, three disappearing women is hardly out of the ordinary in these extraordinary days. Whatever power pulled them here has deemed their duty complete: bearing witness to the fall of Granada centuries ago.