don't turn back [cordy]

7 january 2004

Edith reread the last paragraph one more time, finally letting go of the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding the whole time she had been looking at the article. “It’s good,” she said, looking up and meeting Cordy’s gaze across the coffee table. “Really good.” She nodded; she was reluctant to let go of the write-up so soon so she glanced back down at it and reread the first sentence. “Don’t change a thing.” She nodded one more time and set the paper down, sliding it back towards the other woman. “Seriously.” Edith tapped the article with her index finger twice to make her point. “Push back on any edits they ask for.”

She stretched her arms out behind her and leaned back, exhaling again. It’d been a long time coming, this article; Edith had given Cordelia all her notes, pointed her towards some Ministry personnel she thought she could talk to, but Cordy had done much of the rest. There was a good chance this would lead to some actual sort of investigation at the Ministry, which Edith had felt sort of torn on until a few weeks ago; she’d been vying for that consultancy job with the Muggle Liaisons and then turned it down when she found out it came with conditions about her writing. The whole thing was a mess; her head was a mess but at least she felt better about the article inciting something unpleasant for the Department at large.

They still had an hour to kill before trivia--the first one since they had a little holiday break and Edith had found a Mickey Mouse shirt at a secondhand shop after Christmas and was proudly sporting it now--and surely they had both thought they would need the extra time to talk about what else needed to happen before it was final final. it certainly wasn’t an unpleasant surprise to find they had been wrong.

Edith glanced around the cramped lounge again from her spot on the rug, her eyes landing on the neat row--if two things counted as a row of something--of liquor bottles. “Celebratory pre-trivia drink?” she asked, looking back to Cordy but tilting her head back toward the bottles. Really, Edith wanted one because that would make the next hour easier, give her something to focus on that wasn’t the sheer mental weight of trying to be social, but that wasn’t something she could admit to until after a drink (or three).

@Cordelia Leighton 

Cordelia had left a red pen on the low table, next to the piles of paper that made up the manuscript - one a magical duplicate with Edith's name scrawled on top, the other the original,  the edges still curled from where she had ripped them out of the typewriter bed when she was finishing. Made sure to point its presence out to Edith, even, when she had shown the other woman into the lounge (really just a sitting area off the kitchen), where a small loveseat and a faded faux-Persian rug took up, along with the low table, almost all the space.

Edith hadn't picked it up once.

Cordy had kept shifting around while Edith read: first sitting at her writing desk, looking over the top of it at the wall or staring down at her book outlines scattered about. Then to the balcony for a smoke, eyes drifting back into the living room as Edith paged through. Now she had settled on leaning against the couch, looking not quite at the back of Edith's head but pretty much exclusively at the back of Edith's head.

Edith set down the manuscript, the pen still ignored.

Edith said it was good. Cordelia sucked in a breathe, waiting for the inevitable but such compliments usually came with. She wasn't expecting don't change a thing, not from Edith Holthouse. Not from the woman who had given her this scoop in the first place. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Really?" she asked, swinging herself over the back of the loveseat to drop onto the rug next to Edith. Michael had said it was good, too, but Michael wasn't a writer and, frankly, she didn't think he would tell her if it was rubbish to her face if it was, content-wise. He had caught a couple of run-on sentences and a missing comma some drafts ago, but not the great big logical hole in the narrative she had spent a week trying to fill in afterwards. "Shit. Thank you," she hastened to add, "just - I was expecting edits."

She stared at the copy in front of Edith on the table, eyes wide like she had never seen the manuscript before. If Edith liked it -- well. Craig hasn't been pleased she took work time for this, but two drafts ago he promised a meeting with the big news desk, and if Edith thought it was good and if Craig thought it was worth it -- she let out a low whistle. "It's happening, isn't it." There was no telling really what was next for this story - maybe it wouldn't land, maybe it wouldn't cause any changes at the Ministry, maybe she would get in shit for bringing it to News. But. Maybe. Maybe something would change.

It made her giddy just thinking about it.

Her hands tugged at the sleeves of her Disneyland shirt, tucked into high checked trousers. "Right, yes. Yes!" she repeated, enthusiasm slipping quickly into her voice. She reached for her wand, lazily summoning both bottles - one vodka, one brandy - and two highball glasses from the other side of the counter that divided the lounge from the kitchen. They settled on the table, and Cordelia poured out a drink of each, offering both glasses to Edith so the woman could pick. "Sorry there's no gin," she said. Cordelia picked up the leftover glass, raising it to clink with Edith's glass before drinking. She was already buzzed without the alcohol - the liquid only made her feel a little warmer, a little fuzzier, a little more pleased with herself.

Really? “Really.” Edith smiled smally, shrugged off Cordelia’s thanks. “Yeah, well, you don’t want it to sound like I wrote it.” Any edits she could suggest would just make it sound like Edith, and that was sort of beside the point of giving the article to Cordelia. It had to come from her, and everything else about it was perfectly done. Write drunk, edit sober-- that was Edith’s method and she was stone cold sober, so she was pretty confident that she knew exactly what she had read.

Cordelia was staring at the article, so Edith stared at it, too, offering a small grin as the other woman whistled. “Yeah.” There was that familiar pang of regret again, gnawing away at her; this should have been Edith’s article, still could be if it came down to it, she supposed, but this was for the best. Not Edith’s best, but the article’s. (Maybe a little bit for Edith because she wasn’t getting quite the volume of mail writing for The Quibbler as she did when she wrote for The Prophet, but she wasn’t going to mention that, not this far into things.) This article needed The Prophet’s audience, and it needed a byline that wasn’t Edith Holthouse. Or Martha Ann Jones, her previous pen name. Or Lucy Harrison, the new one she had ready, just in case.

She put a little more effort into her smile, really actually mean it, because this was good. “It’s happening,” she agreed after another minute. It really was happening-- truths about the obliviators, and obliviation; it might not put the ethical dilemma of obliviation--full stop--in everyone’s minds, but it was a damn good start, wasn’t it? It was better not to overthink it, not get ahead of herself.

Edith nodded a couple times, still looking at the liquor bottles. “Yes,” she agreed, to Cordy agreeing with her. She pulled her glasses off to clean them with her t-shirt while Cordelia settled the drinks, pushing them back onto her face and up the bridge of her nose in time to pick the glass with the clear liquid. “I’ll survive,” she said grimly, though she did it with a smile as they clinked their glasses. She knocked most of it back, saving a few more sips for the next (inevitable) toast, though they were celebrating, weren’t they? She drank the rest and set the glass back on the table.

“Any idea on the timeline?” They could be quick to publish if they wanted. It could be as soon as the weekend, and if they knew what was good for them, it would be front page stuff. But she wasn’t going to get her hopes up about that, either. She had plenty of experience setting herself up for disappointment, instead.

Yeah, well, you don’t want it to sound like I wrote it, Edith said, and a twinge of guilt reverberated in Cordy's collarbone. "Should be you what wrote it, though," the younger witch said softly. "It's your story." It was a bit half-hearted, that comment; in the course of following up on leads and getting @Camm Erskine to take portraits and rearranging scraps of parchment on her carpet like a madwoman, trying to get the flow of it all just right, just perfect, Cordelia had come to think of the whole affair as her own. There was no space in print for acknowledgements, so Edith was only mentioned briefly as the anonymous source that had tipped her off in the first place. Cordelia wasn't even sure if she had left that bit in this draft -- several more versions were scattered about her bedroom, to be cleaned away after this version was locked in for press.

Edith knocked most of her drink back at once. Cordelia followed suit, the burn of the vodka warming her. Merlin, this was exciting. This was what she had dreamed of from day one of her internship at the Prophet, through so many puff pieces about denim and Disneyland. Her eyes were wide and wild when she looked back at Edith, unable to push down the big smile on her face.

Timeline? Cordelia frowned. "Craig says he needs a week on the outside to get Breaking and Front Page to agree to run it, since I'm not one of theirs." There had been no 'if' when Craig had told her this -- the chief editor was a force of nature when he wanted to be, which was most of the time. "Then probably another to get through fact-checkers." Not that the Prophet was known for its journalistic integrity, but there had been some reforms after the war, namely to do with government stories. "Then another to get through Legal, if it leaks to Ministry." Another benefit to writing from the Culture office -- it was highly unlikely that would happen. "So end of the month, beginning of next, I reckon."

She cradled her empty glass in her hands. "I don't know what I'll do with myself after this is off," she admitted, waving her wand quickly to send the manuscript back to her desk, safe from any potential spills. "Go back to writing travel? Wait for you to drop another brilliant scoop on my step?" She laughed a little bit, reaching to refill both her glass and Edith's.

Cordelia finished her drink in one, so Edith finished what was left of hers after asking about the timeline. She nodded as Cordy elaborated, didn’t butt in that she remembered how the front page worked, or mention that she’d managed to land a column there once. She grimaced when she mentioned legal, though, wished she had already poured herself a refill; it was Edith’s fault if Cordelia faced any legal repercussions, which honestly seemed likely. She hadn’t told Cordy about the job offer from the Ministry—hadn’t wanted to spill the beans until it was a done deal—or their ‘special conditions’ for hiring her, reading everything she wrote before it was published. It seemed like their legal team was on top of things these days.

That didn’t fit the celebratory mood, though, so Edith just nodded again.

Her eyebrows went up— how did she not know what to do with herself? She had to keep writing about this, obviously. There were bound to be follow up stories, new angles to capture, never mind report on the fallout with the Ministry. But writing travel, sure, as if she wouldn’t get a new job offer out of this. Edith shrugged; she didn’t have scoops, but she sure did have ideas.

She stretched out her hand for a refill. “Have to finish your book, don’t you?” Her publisher had mentioned it, having heard it from Cordy’s publisher, because the book was similar to the one Edith was working on and she—Edith’s publisher—wanted to make sure it was unique, like Edith could have some hot take on the war. The books would be better together, companion pieces, and Edith had said as much. But there hadn’t been much opportunity to talk about it with Cordelia yet; trivia didn’t exactly put her in the mood to bring it up, but the mood she was in now—the one from reading the article about the office she used to work in—was just an offshoot from her war mood, anyway, so now was as good a time as ever.

Edith might have mentioned her book before, but it would have been in a very offhanded way; they certainly hadn’t talked about it in any depth. “It sounds like my book,” she said with a lopsided smile, no offense meant.

Edith's eyebrows attempted to fly off her head -- Cordelia laughed, taking another sip of her drink. There was something Edith was clearly dying to say -- "If they don't let me stay on this one, I mean," she clarified. It seemed too good to be true, to be allowed to actually do investigative reporting for her main beat, for her main job, instead of cobbling a story together in off hours and off the side of her desk. It was too good a dream -- Cordelia didn't let herself entertain the thought. She pulled her legs up underneath her, so she was sitting on the couch cross-legged.

"Hah, that's true." It was approaching publishing time for a travel book, anyway, if she wanted it out this season. It pained her a bit to think of all the wizarding tourists she was setting loose on the Magic Kingdom in Anaheim, but not enough to make her stop. Published author, Cordelia A. Leighton. Hm. She tilted her head -- the A didn't quite work next to the little a at the end of her first name. Perhaps just Cordelia Leighton. A middle initial was a little gauche, wasn't it?

Edith was still talking -- sounds like her book? Now Cordy's eyebrows took a little trip up her forehead -- she hadn't mentioned that book to Edith, had she? There was of course the chance she had let it slip at trivia one of the past few months, but Cordelia was certain she had never been so drunk to let her gab flap so loose around Edith. Maybe she was confused. "Since when do you write travel?" Cordy asked, tone light and smiling. If Mr. Dasher had let it slip, though... well, there were worst people to know first, but perhaps it should have been her own parents, not Edith.

Edith nodded along as Cordelia agreed with her; she needed to get back to her book, too, especially after she had made the excuse of it’s a holiday and I’m dogsitting instead of writing, which wouldn’t have been too much of a problem if she didn’t have a deadline now. (But that was months away-- nearly four). She sipped her drink, taking smaller sips than she would have preferred, but she was belatedly trying to pace herself because she still wanted to make it to trivia after this.

But it did sound like her book, and Edith was slowly realizing that she wanted to talk about it--her book. Practice for talking about it with other people because she would need to start doing that soon, maybe.

Edith’s eyebrows nearly met in the middle as she looked at Cordelia-- when did she start writing travel? It took her a second to remember that was her job, what she was meant to write for The Prophet, and her face smoothed out after another second before she grimaced. “Are you not--” Maybe her publisher had said another name and Edith had just heard what she had wanted to hear. Either way, Cordy was writing a book, because she had agreed she should be working on it, right?

“I thought you were writing about the war,” she said, as nonchalant as possible (not very). She lifted her glass to her lips, speaking again (and lightly snort laughing) before she had another swallow: “Dunno how my publisher confused that with travel.”

I thought you were writing about the war, Edith said, and Cordelia's heart momentarily stopped working as it jumped into her throat. "Oh," she said, a little more weakly than before. "Your publisher didn't confuse it." This was good, she thought, the spindle of anxiety that had stabbed up at her settling. "Just didn't know, uh, my publisher," now that sounded strange to say out loud, my publisher, "had said anything. No reason he shouldn't have, though." She let herself laugh a little. "Think that makes you the first non-publisher to know about mine."

It really should have been her parents, though. Cordelia took another drink.

Now that her guilt had been thought of and drunk through, it was easier to turn back to Edith with genuine curiosity. "I am writing the travel guide too, though – silly little pocket things will be out end of April, just my columns all put together." Just to make her sound a little less insane for asking her earlier question.

Cordelia tucked her legs under her, angling so she should face Edith a little better. "But, yeah. Memoir type thing, from being at school then." Edith had already been out of school then, hadn't she? Certainly Cordelia knew Edith was muggleborn, so couldn't have been at school then. A little furrow formed between her brows. "Suppose that would be a good compliment to yours, wouldn't it?" She imagined their books sharing a display, with matching cover art that was complete only when you looked at it together. "Coming of age while on the lam, coming of age when you couldn't go anywhere." Cordelia bit her lip. "Suppose I'm assuming yours is a memoir, too."

She wanted to ask Edith to talk about it, but despite the pitch she had written and the first outline buried away in her desk, Cordelia still couldn't bring herself to ask ask. She raised her eyebrows quizzically instead, hoping Edith would recognize it as an invitation to tell her everything.

“Oh,” Edith echoed, looking guilty, almost. Her publisher hadn’t been mistaken, which meant-- “Sorry.” She was quick to apologize, on behalf of Cordy’s publisher, and Edith’s own publisher, and then for herself, for knowing when she wasn’t supposed to. (She’d hate it if the tables were turned, and Cordelia was springing this on her.) But then she said Edith was the first to know, and her face fell. “Shit, really sorry.”

She drank when Cordelia did, nearly finishing off the refill she had just been poured.

There was a happier, “Oh,” next, when Cordelia confirmed there was also going to be a travel book. That made Cordy a published author twice over. “That’s great.” And it was. But she didn’t want to talk about the travel book, and she didn’t think Cordelia did either.

Her eyes went a little wide and she blew air through pursed lips. It was to be a memoir from her time at school and-- what a fucking nightmare that must have been. Edith drank. But would it make a good compliment? “It would, yeah.” She smiled smally, relaxing her mouth after a second, figuring a smile was a bit out of place. She had been on the lam, which was certainly one way to put it, kind of put things a bit more into perspective. “Christ.” It’d be a lot to swallow, just having one book on the subject, but then two?

“Oh--” Edith blinked, realized Cordy had gone a bit blurry as she spaced out a bit. “Yeah.” It was a memoir. “We, sort of.” Coredlia didn’t need to prompt her to go on, either. “I went back to some of the people I interviewed. For the column.” There were a lot of stories that complimented each other. “More info. More.. writing around the info.” She didn’t have a better way of explaining it, even though she really needed to find one. She’d have to be talking about her book to a wider audience at some point. “Been working on it a while, really,” she said, scratching her cheek.

Cordelia waved a hand airly, though she didn't feel so airy. Christ, Lysander was going to be pissed when he realized he wasn't third, after their folks. It wasn't scary, Lysander angry was a pouty sort of person, but it was still not something to look forward to. "Just don't tell my folks, hah." It was a half hearted little laugh. Her glass was empty. Edith's glass was near empty. Cordelia reached out and topped both of them up again.

That's great, Edith said. Cordelia let herself smile a little more. It was impressive, wasn't it? Two books out this year, and she was only turning twenty-two next month. It made her feel pretty special – she sat up a little straighter, not quite preening but not... not preening.

Christ, said Edith. "Yeah," Cordelia agreed. Christ, and the muggle god he represented, had been a common swear on tip of her father's tongue growing up. She hadn't heard it much outside of home – it felt a little jarring to hear Edith say it. But it did sum up the feeling quite nicely. "I'm surprised there aren't more of these out there, to be honest. Maybe we'll start a trend." Cordelia grimaced – she hoped not.

Edith was doing interviews. Cordelia's brows furrowed again, just slightly. That seemed... like more. Like Edith was doing more than she had to, and therefore Cordelia should be doing more. Not to copy Edith, mind – but to match her. If Edith was doing interviews, it must be the right thing, right? "I remember that column. It was really good." It had been, but how many people were featured? Cordelia struggled to recall. "This would be like, other people on the run that year, type thing?" She wondered, vaguely, if her father would be willing to entertain such an interview.

Cordelia's brows knit closer together. A while. "How long is a while?" Cordelia asked, glancing despite herself at her writing desk. How long had she been writing her own? Since September, maybe, but... The diaries had been sitting on a shelf since ninety-eight.

Maybe they would start a trend. “Yeah. Maybe.” She hoped not. She had been under the impression is was kind of a one-of-a-kind thing. That it was necessary. That had been one of those keywords that set her in that direction. But it was certainly a two-of-a-kind sort of thing, now, anyway.

Cordelia’s eyebrows were very expressive, she realized. Edith nodded when she said she remembered the column, that it was good. Was, like.. past tense. Edith sniffed, looking down at her glass for a second. She was definitely still writing the column. She knew she didn’t talk about it much, avoided talking about it as much as she could but-- what did Cordy think she did for money? The Quibbler was only once a month but she was published every month, and the magazine had allowed for more in depth writing than the paper had. It was a better column now.

There was a flash of something else, some other sort of feeling. She glanced up, locking eyes with Cordy, wondering if she had as much right as Edith did to write about the war. The experience. Not being a muggleborn-- nope. She wasn’t about to pit herself against Cordy, couldn’t pinpoint why her mind had even gone there. The vodka, probably. Vodka made her mean.

But she nodded, trying to clear her head. “Yeah. Somewhat.” She shrugged again. “That, one bloke who helped with the hiding.” She paused, had another sip. “Another woman who decided to leave the magical world after all of it.” Those last two examples had been Quibbler columns, so she didn’t think she was telling Cordelia anything she already knew.

“Er--” Those eyebrows, expressive again. Was she trying to figure out who started first? That didn’t matter if the books were complements and not competition. Still: “June, seriously, but--” she shrugged. “Been thinking about it since my Prophet move, so October before that?” She had another sip, shrugging again. “Haven’t been keen to talk about it.” She met Cordy’s eye again. “You know.”

Edith didn't sound particularly enthusiastic about trendsetting, either. Cordelia felt, not guilty, but a little uncomfortable with her word choice there. She didn't push the joke (was it a joke? It was a poor joke, at any rate) any further.

And besides, she said something wrong already. She hadn't noticed at first, but Edith looked down at her drink. When her eyes came back up, there was some unsettling emotion behind them that Cordelia couldn't read. Just... something. Maybe it was a reflection in her glasses. Was it the trend thing or – oh, was it the past tense? She wasn't sure if the column was still going, hadn't been reading much of anything between work and this project for a month or so.

(Or was it something to do with why Cordelia hadn't mentioned the book to Edith yet, and if so, was it the same reason that kept Cordelia from revealing this to her own father?)

Edith was moving on, though. Cordy took another sip of her drink. She nodded through the rattling off of subjects, recalling the vague outline of those stories in the Quibbler. Didn't have much to say to that; said "That's an interesting angle, hadn't thought of that," which was true, to fill the small gap in the flow of conversation.

June of the past year, October of the year before. "Oh, so yours will be out first!" There was excitement in Cordelia's voice, genuine, along with a hint of relief. "That's exciting." She couldn't articulate why, having used all her good words on the stack of paper in front of them. It was one part relief at not being the first, one part a sense of fairness – Cordy had taken this story from Edith, when you boiled it down. It was good that she wouldn't be stepping on Edith's toes again, a little nerve wracking that her book would inevitably be compared to Edith's, a little selfish gratitude that if everyone hated this genre of memoir, it wouldn't be Cordy stepping into it first. A lot of guilt for feeling the last thing.

Haven’t been keen to talk about it. You know. Cordy nodded, slower, looking at her reflection in Edith's glasses. "Is anyone?" Cordelia asked, a bitter little laugh sneaking through. Merlin, but there probably were people that were keen on it. The Brennan Reinhardt's of the world. Cordy grimaces, looking into the bottom of her glass.

Cordelia perked up, and the change in mood was palpable. Edith rolled her shoulders and sat up a little straighter. Would her book be out first? “Er-- maybe.” She shrugged her right shoulder; for her book to be out first, she probably needed to finish writing it. And everything was done--written, edited, re-edited--save for the bits about her. She blew air through pursed lips and shrugged again, both shoulders this time. “I’m not done yet.” She didn’t elaborate. “But they want a May publishing date.” She didn’t elaborate on that date, either-- she thought it was obvious that it was meant to be a war anniversary thing.

She wanted to be excited about it, really, but it was hard to get there. That wasn’t the mood she wanted this conversation to be, though-- not when they had trivia later, still.

But Cordy understood when Edith said she hadn’t been keen to talk about it, which was more or less hinting at how unexcited she was about it all. “No,” she answered, honestly. “There’s a reason my column is monthly,” she said, almost lightheartedly. “But I guess like--” she paused, took a drink-- “Once you see one story, you think ‘oh maybe I could tell mine, too’ and it just kind of--” she used her free hand to motion in the air, indicating that it had sort of snowballed.

And then things with Sweden, and her Prophet editor being an actual Death Eater and-- the hand motioned snowball was a vast understatement.

“At least I’m not the only one.” She tipped her glass toward her friend, waiting a beat before she drained it again.

May. Fucking May. Cordelia hated May. "Of course," she said instead, nodding. "That's -- soon, really." May was always too soon. May was always too close.

It just kind of -- Edith stopped, rolling her hand around her wrist to mime a proverbial avalanche. Cordelia nodded. "Yeah," she said, feeling betrayed by the word and how small it was when the stories felt so big. So all-encompassing. So terrifying to start to say, like if the floodgates opened they would never, could never close again.

Cordelia tipped her glass back to Edith, holding onto it a moment longer before drinking. Swirled the liquid in the glass, watching the tiny whirlpool form and dissipate in the bottom before looking back up. The mood was down, down from the enthusiasm for the article, down from the energy they usually had for trivia. She ought to say something light, something to bring things back up, to cut through the comparative lines snaking between them in the air.

Instead, she said, "You know I admire you so much, right?"

She wasn't sure why she said it. Cordelia furrowed her brows for a moment, looking down into her glass before forcing her gaze back up. "I mean it. I -- we're, like, we're starting to parallel each other, but none of this would be happening without you trusting me, and guiding me, and I just --" am very overwhelmed by honesty, all of a sudden, Cordelia bit back, sipping her drink to cut herself off. "Thank you for picking me, I guess."

Too vulnerable! Cordelia smiled, small, biting on the inside of her cheek. It was too transparent, there, how badly she wanted Edith's approval. Maybe the other woman wouldn't think that was weird.

Edith’s eyes went wide; Cordelia admired her. She hadn’t picked up on that, really. She was rather thick when it came to that sort of thing, actually. Should she be worried? (On Cordy’s behalf more than hers.) There had to be better people out there to admire.

But she meant it. Edith met her eye as Cordelia continued talking, blinking instead of doing anything else useful with her face to show she was listening. She wasn’t wrong, not really. The parallel was there now, or almost was. Edith was happy she wasn’t doing this alone, at the very least, but had she really trusted her? Edith was almost sure she had approached Cordelia with everything back in the summer because Cordy still worked at the paper and still talked to Edith; there weren’t exactly a lot of people that fell into that category these days.

Whatever her initial reason for it, Edith did trust her now, and she wasn’t sure what that feeling was as the realization of it washed over her. But guiding? Edith was having a harder time wrapping her head around that one. Edith had fed her information for a story she wanted to be writing, but it all came back around to Edith’s name being rubbish-- she worked for The Quibbler now; it was amazing there were even a small handful of people still taking her seriously. She hadn’t wanted this--the obliviation story--to come across as another conspiracy theory, and even Cordelia’s name--the byline reputation she had now with the fashion, and the travel--was better off publishing it.

“Yeah,” she said after a minute, by way of accepting Cordelia’s thanks. She wished she had more alcohol; it took her a few seconds of wishing it to make it so; she reached for the bottle and poured a little more into her glass. (She paused briefly to think through how she was going to get home after trivia, if she were already on to liquor now; her cheeks grew warm thinking about crashing in Paddington, but now wasn’t the time to think about that.)

Edith blinked, attempting to clear her mind as she had another swallow. The thought-clearing didn’t work too well; her thoughts circled back around to the article and Cordy’s name and-- “Do you--” She paused, unsure how to phrase in case everyone hates the article and wants to murder you in a more delicate way-- “How are like, your wards?” That was one benefit of working at the magazine, she supposed, not being hated as much. One benefit of writing under a pen name, too, which Edith had done for months. “Not too late for a pseudonym, y’know,” she added, without further explanation.