(no subject)

It's almost autumn, and it almost feels like it. It isn't quite, of course, there's still some warmth lingering in the air, the trees all still green, but the heavy heat of the summer has given way to something less oppressive, and Edith is glad for it. The fact that she finds it easier to dress for weather that's even a little bit cooler only plays a little part in that, though it's true that, even after two summers here, she can't quite adjust to how small some of the clothes here are, women walking around with far more skin bared than would ever have been considered decent back home. She's adjusted some, wearing shorter skirts and shorter sleeves and fewer layers, but she doubts she'll ever really be entirely comfortable with that particular aspect of living in the future.

Others, though, are beyond welcome. It's worth it, she thinks, to have a little more freedom, to be taken more seriously, and it isn't as if she had anything left for her back home anyway. Just an old, rotting house and the ghosts inside it, a place she can't imagine herself wanting to revisit. Here, she's built a life for herself; she has friends, she has Merry, she has an agent who thinks her work has promise. The latter two almost certainly would have been opportunities she'd never have back home.

She has Merry in mind as she makes her way around the flea market in the park, absently wondering if she should find something to bring back for her. Mostly, she's been looking at smaller trinkets and such, but she stops in front of a booth selling artwork, tucking a strand of her hair, hanging loose down her back, behind her ear. "These are beautiful," she says to the person behind the booth. "Did you do them?"