A Reparation

Title: A Reparation
Time Period: August 31, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Sorcha comes by the clinic to attempt reparations, for a violent slight made in grief.

With the onset of autumn on the horizon, the air is growing drier, and the farmers have been either calling on Leonard or visiting more often, to ready for trading season and butcher's auction. Any ruckus seems to have died down, for now, but the lingering smell of animal is just that much stronger the closer one gets to the backyard of the clinic. The front door, thankfully, less so, though currently it is taken up by a young woman, blue of eye and brown of hair, with an impish nose. A bit on the short side too.

"Tell 'er I'm gonna find 'er if it's the last thing I do. You've 'nuff problems, Da'." Her speech is rather …sparky on its own. After she half-shouts this into the front room of the clinic, Leonard appears beside her in the doorway, exasperated.

"You don't need to look out for me. You've got it all backwards." He leans down to give her a kiss on the cheek, before turning her 'round by the shoulders. She gives a great snort, waving him off as she she turns to leave down the front walk. Her gait is more of a glide. Somehow she does not gain liftoff, speedy as she seems.

Which will carry her past Sorcha.

The seamstress with a jacket laid across her arm and letting the hightower junior pass and even linger a few moments, looking over to the vet in his doorway. Hesitant it seems, to advance, unsure of wether she'd even be allowed to come near the man after what had happened not tooo long ago.

Florence doesn't seem to pick up on anything so awkward, waving fingers as she passes by, and is off again, too quick. Leaving her father to consider the other woman coming up the path. There's no owl at his shoulder, and no wolf at his heels. One can assume that at least, Sage is not currently in the room behind him, else she might be there. He fixes Sorcha with a vaguely suspicious, mildly distasteful look. Probably understandable. Still, he seems to swallow a bit of it, and finally greets her first.

"Missus Ferrier. I trust you've been well?" The smile is small, and forced. Stiff reception, but he exudes the need to be polite on the outside.

"Seems almost silly and pointless to ask that question" But manners dictate it so. She looks tired, crinkles around the corner of her eyes, still dressed in the black that permeates her wardrobe of late and likely will for the foreseeable future. But she seems….


"May I approach, Mister Hightower. I will understand if you'd rather that I did not"

"A necessary question." His eyes are half-lidded, determining whether or not he does want her here. In the end, he opts in and steps back inside- but not before another remark. "Come in, if you'd like to. She isn't here…" She. Sage. Who would probably be more forgiving than her mage is, at the moment. "I don't have anyone else coming in right now." Possibly for longer, but he hesitates to tell her any time frames.

"If you came here smelling like the Albatross, I'd be less willing, mind you." Sobriety has its tells- such as the lack of …boozy scent.

If she smelled of the Albatross, odds are quite likely, she wouldn't even be here. The assurance that It isn't here is a bit of a relief, thankful that she won't need to make some strange overtures to the familiar. So it's with far less nervousness that she eases across the threshold.

But still with a great amount that makes her hands shake as she looks for a tidy and clean place to lay out what seems to be a suit, and a dapper one at that. "I've come, with what amounts to a seamstresses apology for…." She licks her lips, meeting Leonards eyes. "Well, an attempted apology, for my actions against your companion"

It was awkward before, and now it seems to have gotten worse, if just for the time it takes Sorcha to set out the suit upon the desk's counter space. He looks over part of his shoulder at first, hands having busied themselves with unnecessarily sorting papers, yet he still stands. Leonard looks from the suit to Sorcha, and back again, lips thinning on his expression even though his eyes say something else.

"You didn't have to do such a thing…" But it helps. He would have likely been fine with a heartfelt apology, but the gift merged with the simple fact she did not vocally call Sage an 'it' is a difference. Sorcha even used 'companion'. He lets whatever it is drop from his grip to the desktop, and swallows once, meeting her gaze only then. It may have been an accident. Easier to be brusque when you aren't looking someone in the eye.

"It'd be like me cutting off your hand, you know-" Leonard begins, and cuts himself short with a sigh. He lifts fingers to rub at his brow, looking away from her again. Nevermind the mean thing. She's trying. "Sorry-" Sore spot. His green eyes lift back, and from there, Doctor Hightower speaks honestly. "It's lovely, and very generous of you. Sage seemed to forgive you immediately. I was inclined not to, but I can't stay angry forever. Especially not when it looks like you're not chest deep in whisky." Which means it is probably as honest as it is going to get, he means. Apology accepted, one supposes.

"I don't. I do, but I don't, know. And I'll never know. Same as, perhaps you'll never know what drove me to do such a cruel thing, that I did. The grief" He was there that day, beside her. Her fingers fuss with the lapels, it's style similar to those that she has patched and made in the past. She knows his proclivities to dress well.

"Sh-Should she be of the same mind as Darklight. The companion of another mage that I know. If she should be taken with buttons or shiney things, then you may bring her to the store, to pick through what I have. As an apology to her as well" Whether this means she wants to be there at the same time is a different story.

He supposes if he had lost Deidre instead of Dalton, he would have something to go off of. But waiting for Patrick probably made it that much more terrible. He was there Leonard resigns to not knowing being good enough. Both hands meet in front of him, and the vet rubs hard at his knuckles, one forearm still bandaged up. He does look worse for wear, yet he is keen to stay as he usually is. Ritual can be important in times of stress.

"Is that right?" Perhaps the owl portion of her, yes. "I'll let her know." Leonard clears his throat. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry it came to what it did, with her. I'm grateful in knowing she doesn't actually have an enemy. Thank you."

Wrong place, wrong time, terrible circumstances. Sorcha just nods, leaning her hips to one side before she nods again, letting go of the jacket to force a polite smile to her lips. "Never an enemy. I will take my leave, I have a lot of work to do and Mariah's not going to be able to do it all alone. Good day Mister Hightower" She's moving then, for the door as fast as her feet will let her. Awkward.

The full effect will be felt soon, but never immediately. He's forgiven her, and time will be a mutual friend in this feeling of awkwardness. It will pass, as most things do. Can't live in such a small place without that; to boot, they will undoubtedly be seeing one another around town.

"Thank you again. Take care, Sorcha. Good luck with …everything." Whether it be working on her projects, or working on her ability to cope. Leonard may not wish ill on anyone, but not wishing them well can be taken as the same.