sunnydalealum | (no subject)

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She's turned the sign on the door to the side that says SORRY WE'RE CLOSED. It's technically after business hours, but that's just as well; it means they won't be interrupted. This is not the first customer to prefer his privacy, and won't be the last.

Alcina sits behind the counter, going through the day's accounts, and waits for the knock.

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"One Oneiros bottle," she says, with a certain understated pride. "It's not quite as fragile as it looks, but you don't want to drop it.

"Let's dig out that spell, and then I can find my list of practicioners...." She doesn't drop her left hand until after she's closed the door to the cabinet, but then she's sweeping past him and heading for the bookshelves.

And he follows her like a faithful puppy, cradling the teeny little carved bottle like a kid carrying treasure.

He is.

"Right. Spell, then spell casters. Fabulous."

It takes a little longer to locate the spell, but Alcina finally comes up with it in a stack of meticulously wrapped scrolls.

"Now I can copy this for you," she says, carefully rewinding the silk wrappings, "and have it delivered, or you can purchase the original. It shouldn't make a practical difference, but the original will cost you significantly more."

Lorne shrugs, head canted slightly to the side as he watches the Missus doing what she does best. Service-minded, to the point, not to mention her knack for making her customer feel at ease-- Not to mention she just offered not to rip him off! If she wasn't already an entrepreneur with a thriving business, Lorne wouldn't at all mind reserving a spot for her on his staff.

But that's neither here nor there. "I wouldn't want to deprive someone else the pleasure of doing this particular kind of dreamy business with you." He's got the money to spare, but in all honesty, he wouldn't spend it on original scrolls. Scotch whiskey of a good vintage, though. Completely different thing.

"I collect other things, sweetie. A copy will suit me just fine and dandy." He'll hand her the address for a post box not two blocks away - just a minute while he fetches a card for her from his vest pocket.

Alcina's very good at what she does -- too good to need to cheat her customers. Especially customers as well-heeled as the mysterious Mister Green.

She accepts the card with a smile. "What sort of things?" she asks, turning to lead the way toward the counter.

He's a veritable enigma - a Pylean so far removed from his Viking-slash-ZZ Top wannabe kith and kin he could charm the socks off of anyone with a heart (and a funny bone).

"Music. Scotch whiskey. Perfume bottles." He waggles his eyebrows. "Only, not really. But set me down in the middle of the Meatpacking District and honey, I'm like a kid in a candy store."

Idle chatter, again, but not out of any kind of heebies this time. Maybe he's like this all the time. Shock, horror.

Completing the transaction goes smoothly. She gives him a short list of names and contact numbers culled from her go-to book, and carefully wraps the tiny bottle in a bubble-wrap before boxing it up for him.

"Now, do you want to pay for these now, and I'll bill you for the spell when we deliver it? Or do you want to start an account here, and you can pay for the spell in advance, at a discount?"

The itemized list of charges adds up to rather a high figure.

It only takes him a moment to decide; it isn't a difficult decision to make, not at all in lieu of the things he's already gone through tonight. Paying the piper is the easy bit.

"Start me up under the name Green, would you? I hope using an alias won't be a problem."

"Not at all," she says, with a smile.

Though he may be one of her only customers to ask before giving an alias.

He's a special snowflake. Everyone knows it. And as for the alias, it's so obviously a fake, there's no use pretending it isn't, is there?

"Grand." He'll stand by the counter and again watch Alcina. "You really are a darling."

"Just part of the service," she says, but her smile as she rings up the sale is very appreciative.

A last few formalities -- cash or credit, and so on -- and finally she's handing him a plastic bag with his box in it, his receipt, and a courteous thank-you-and-have-a-good-night.

"Tootles!" Putting his fedora back on, coat still hanging over his arm, Lorne goes out into the night again, the bag clutched in one big green hand like a lifeline. Somehow, braving the darkness doesn't feel as ominously threatening anymore.

Just another day's work at Alcina's Things.

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