Open For Business

Title: Open for Business
Time Period: July 22, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Wounds begin to heal and Dornie's tradesmen get back to work.

Pins and Needles is open.

Open, and Mariah isn't there to be the one to open it.

Open and there's no bottles scattered everywhere or birds hopping about or bolts of fabric unrolled or serving as a makeshift nest to sleep in. No, the sign is turned, the door open, bells replaced above the door and someone leaving with a handful of wrapped packages. Behind the counter and working at the shops old foot peddle sewing singer machine is the proprietress of the business.

Sorcha, sewing, in clean clothes, hair tamed and washed. No sign of alcohol anywhere. Just a pot of strong tea, mulitple patterns cut out and ready to be assembled and a dour head seamstress, feeding fabric through the machine.

Mariah approaches the shop with a certain amount of trepidation. Mornings are often unpleasant these last few weeks. But today, everything looks… fine. Confusingly fine. She pauses outside to let the customer pass, giving them a befuddled greeting.

She looks over the front before stepping inside. She wasn't sure what to expect, but the shop already up and running wasn't one of them. "Morning," she says aloud to the seamstress, not commenting on the shift, but her tone speaks of her surprise. Pleasant surprise, but still.

She's suddenly the one that seems less together. Which is just weird.

"I brought breakfast," she say, coming to set her basket down on a table far from patterns and fabric. "Mrs. McKay insisted, so it's even good today." Which is a silly, self-depreciating thing to say, since her food is also perfectly lovely.

Either Niall decided to follow the scent of food, or he's just happened to also pass by the Pins and Needles shop and discovered things to be in order. And thus, odd, in some respect given the recent weeks' events. But no, the rumors are true as the sounds of a sewing machine and seamstress at work emanating from within.

The smith himself has also started to take on some light work again here and there, it's said, instead of being at the possibility of death's door from the dragon attack. Unlike, unfortunately, someone's husband. Trying to brush that aside in his mustering of courage to once again resume some semblance of normalcy against the loss, Niall makes his way as well into the threshold of the sewing shop. He doesn't make it past that door, though, and instead lingers halfway. Good that the birds aren't loose.

"Fine mornin' to you two," he greets with vocal olive branch extended. "Did my eyes spot Mariah touting a basket full of nose-teasers coming in?"

The birds aren't loose, because the birds are no longer there. The cage removed - damage beyond repair - and the yellow songbirds either flying free around the town - likely within 100 yards science says - or settled somewhere in the case of the one bird, by Leonard. "I'm not hungry, but thank you Mariah. I have alot of work to catch up on." At some point, in the sobering light of the morning, she came to the realization that grieving meant starving. For her mother, for the shop.

There's a pause when Niall makes his presence known, knuckles going white for just a moment before she forces herself to relax. "Good morning"

The answer brings Mariah over to where Sorcha sits, so she can lean down and press a kiss against Sorcha's cheek. A mix of gratefulness and relief, that, without having to voice either. But then, her last profession taught her a lot about… body language.

She straightens up when she notices Niall, smiling his direction. "Top o' the mornin'," she says in a teasing, but not too inaccurate, Irish accent. At least she doesn't carry it on past the hello. "Your eyes did see. And you're in luck, there's enough to share," she says with a gentle smile. There's something bittersweet hanging over her, but she's pushed it aside for work. Mostly.

Mariah can smell it - likely only because how many of the womans patrons smelled of it, and the last few weeks it had been a fairly permanent scent around the woman. Alcohol. Not freshly consumed, but it's there. "you can bring some up to mother after Niall has had his fill." She can't quite bring herself to look at the blacksmith, but at least she stops using the machine so that conversation can be heard.

"How are you feeling?" Since, you know, you got crunched by a dragon.

"I'm always in luck, being Irish and all," replies the smith with a natural, but exaggerated lilt for that one line. "So… we're back at the grindstone? Not to put on more about noses and all," he notes to both ladies. Niall finally steps in out from the outdoors and that sobering sunlight. But it's Sorcha's comment that brings him not too much further in, and a thinning of his mouthline, fighting the edges from turning down. "I'll not bring m'self to take bread from an elder before," he notes first in regards to the breakfast food. "But I am well enough to work and take on a few sitting projects." Covering discomfort with shop talk. Always a mainstay.

"Don't worry, Niall, I've got it all portioned out," Mariah reassures, waving back at the basket. She's had this practice, see. "I'll get hers up there as soon as she wakes up." Which isn't yet, apparently.

What she pulls out is a little box that makes the smell in the store that much more potent. One of these is for her, because she pulls out a second to open up as well. Some sort of breakfasty sandwich. "Have you been enjoying the fair?" She somehow manages to make that sound like a totally innocent question, but the twinkle in her eye gives her away.

The fair. Sorcha's nose twitches at the mention. Magic. Too much magic down there this year. "It's good. That you're able tog et back to work and Mariah's right. Mother isn't up yet and there's more than enough" Since she's not that hungry and just wants her tea. Off of the stool and over to pour herself a cup, she finally gives in and looks the blacksmith over to see just how he's healing.

Though Niall has more color to him with getting outside and all, he still is missing the usual fine layer of dust or smear of ash about him that denotes his trade. He still stands with a stiffness wrought from slow healing injury, and one might even muse that it will never completely disappear now; it will be a scar with a story, no doubt.

"Only if you insist," he concedes, finding himself lured in with the prospect of a shared meal. In that look from Sorcha, he finds his own gaze turned to her with piqued interest in her condition as well, questions unasked, assumptions made. Mariah's innocent query shoves some more color into the man's face, even if he answers evenly, "It's rather lovely. All sorts of… attractions. To behold." A short glance flicks the way of the ex-prostitute. Oh, she knows that glance. That little tell of a glance.

"Oh, yes. A land of infinite diversions, that," Mariah smiles in return. And he, in turn, knows that smile. The box is pushed over toward his direction, smile shifting to a smirk.

"Are you well enough for a weather vane, Niall? Mister McKay asked me to inquire. Something for the house. Their old one has been broken since that last storm." The couple she and Cas rent from, they send her on all sorts of little quests like this one. "You might say they're using it in vain," she tacts on, a bit of wordplay that doesn't reach her usual jovial tone.

"I can't wait for them to go" But very little surprise there that these words come from Sorcha's mouth. "Have any of them come into the shop since they've been here?" Her cup lifted, a generous mouthful of the warm tea consumed.

The silent clearing of the throat. Ahem. Taking the offered box, Niall cradles out a breakfasty type sandwich before passing back. His reaction to Mariah's smirk tempers with Sorcha's statement of her opinion, enthusiasm otherwise marred. "They have their jobs to do, much like the rest of us," notes Niall. He crumbles off a piece of the crust, popping it into a side of his mouth and nodding to Mariah in the wake of her pun. "With the weather being as undecided as it likes, though, it'd be good to have. Anything in particular they want on it? In trade, maybe I could request a small project from the pair of you?" He looks to both, exploringly. "Something nice, as a gift. A thank you gift?"

"A few of them. Patchwork. Nothing too big." Which is good, since no one know when a traveler will get the urge to travel on, and leave behind anything too lengthy.

Mariah looks over at Niall, lifting her eyebrows a moment as she takes that box back. "I'm not sure. Whatever they're usually made out of?" His request in trade gets a smile out of her again, though. "Sounds fair enough to me. What sort of gift?"

"Bring some of the ready made stuff and mother has some knitted stuff down there, see if they'll trade for useful things. Any metal we can have Niall use to make needles" Because sometimes, the ones they have just break and are too weak to be re-made. "Or any fabric that we don't have and you think might be useful" Can't hurt. These people do travel everywhere and have all manner of things. She looks between Niall and Mariah though, as they discuss weather vanes and gifts.

The dreaded question of what sort of gift is something he might have hemmed and hawed over in his mind, to no avail. Niall hitches up his shoulders helplessly, chewing on the sandwich and answering after some moment to swallow. "Something free, light. Easy to move around in. Colorful? Kind of like her…" The blacksmith tapers off and snaps back to an awareness of his subject and that he's in the company of women, even if they an ex-prostitute and a sailor's widow be. And it's too early in the morning for that sort of talk, even.

Standing abruptly - and unwisely, bringing a wince of pain - Niall scoops up the remainder of his sandwich and dabs off the crumbs. "I'll come back later with some plans. For the vane. I have some scrap in the shop too, and bring it along to see if that'll work. You reminded me too, I've got some needles done already. Had some time while the fires cooled." And maybe, as production of guilt while he was laid up in bed. "I'll be by later. Thanks for breakfast." It seems he refuses any rejection of this self-scheduled project as well, as he bobs his head in a gesture of farewell and hurries off to avoid the knowing looks and other uncomfortable comments that should come of his little slip.