Every Sunday Morning

Bayswater Road

Home of the 'West End'. Here, the famous Hyde Park sits on the southside, as well as Hyde Park Corner. This area has pubs, shops, and restaurants. Queensway and Lancaster Gate undergrounds service the area. Home of the 'West End'. Here, the famous Hyde Park sits on the southside, as well as Hyde Park Corner. This area has pubs, shops, and restaurants. Queensway and Lancaster Gate undergrounds service the area.

(Just outside Spellbound Books.)


Characters

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Andrew Ghost

"Oh, come on," Andrew says, giving the lithe young woman a charming grin. "Just one cup of tea. Won't kill you, will it?" He stands just outside Spellbound Books, not so far from the entrance concealing the stairs that lead up to his small flat. "I just don't see how a smart girl like you can possibly believe all this rubbish about magic and fairies and ghosts. You've got to know they're nothing more than folklore and superstition with absolutely no basis in scientific fact. You can't possibly not." He offers up a light laugh that makes his eyes sparkle as charmingly as his grin. "The British education system isn't that lacking. Really!"

The young woman's expression, as she regards him, is clearly amused. "One cup of tea may not kill me," she concedes, "but it could jolly well make me sick for weeks, depending on how it's prepared." A beat. "Allergies," is the explanation to that. And her eyes dance as much as his — a rich, earthy brown that suggest the colour of sable fur to match the chestnut of her long hair. "And, I don't see how a perfectly intelligent bloke like you would willingly risk the Good People's ire by openly scoffing at such things. Science and magic aren't that far apart, you know." A saucy grin answers his charming one. "And, for the record: I am not product of your vaunted British education system."

"No?" Andrew replies, a brow arching in surprise. "Educated abroad, then?" He shakes his head lightly. "Doesn't matter. Unless you were raised by completely daft, uneducated tribesmen in Deepest, Darkest Africa," he says, calling up rude stereotypes of early imperialist attitudes from nearly two centuries ago, "there's no way you could have missed the advances that have debunked the tripe Glynis sells as gospel." He chuckles ruefully, now. "I love the woman dearly, but… the stuff she sells is right bollocks."

"Home-schooled," the woman replies briefly. It's a good enough explanation, anyway. It's clear he's not the sort that would take the truth — were she actually inclined to give it to him — well. Better he think she's the product of a pair of 80's throwbacks to the Flower Power generation than the Huntlord's daughter. Better, in fact, most people think that, when it's necessary for them to think of her as human at all. So, yes. It's a well-practiced lie. "'There are more things in heav'n an' earth, Horatio, than are drempt of in your philosophy,'" she quotes at him, now.

"Ha-ha," is Andrew's response. "Heard that one. More times than you can count. True as it may be, it doesn't mean ghosts and fairies are real." He's stubborn, this one. If a fairy dies each time their existence is denied, he's killed more than his fair share of them over the years, and he remains entirely unrepentant.

If Ghost were a vindictive sort, she'd be more inclined to call his bluff. Indeed, if her father — or even her less-formidable mother — were anywhere nearby, she'd have no choice. As it is, she merely laughs at him. After all, she is fae, and she's standing right in front of him. He may not register her pointed ears beneath her long brown hair, and she may be dressed in the human fashion rather than her armour or courtly gossamers, but that doesn't make her any less the creature he would call 'bunk'. "So certain," she says, brown eyes twinkling still, "so proud. One day, Mr. Potter," — her grin is at once merry and challenging — "I'll make you eat those words."

"So you always say, Miss Hunt," Andrew replies in kind. "But, I've yet to see you try. Indeed, you won't even grace me for a cup of tea!" He tries to look hurt, but it's all in jest and she would know that. They've had this self-same argument almost every Sunday morning for the past two years. It's become almost a ritual. "One of these days," he suggests, changing his argument, now, "you'll have to join me on the show. I'll prove to you it's all bunk live and on television."

Ghost laughs at that change in tactic. "Perhaps one day, I shall," she says, not committing to anything outright. Always safer not to. Indeed, putting herself on television would be a BAD idea, she's no doubt. Best to leave that to the demi-fae celebrities that are forever finding their way into the entertainment business. It's hard to glamour a camera and she's not interested in expending that level of energy. She flashes him a playful grin and steps toward the shop, at last. "But, not today," she finishes, flirtatiously.

Andrew reaches out to snag her hand, "Danika…" He still smiles, though there's something wistful about it, now. His voice trails off. He still wants her to come up for tea — nothing more. But, he doesn't say it.

"Go have your tea, Andrew" Ghost urges him gently. "I'll join you another day. Glynis is waiting." She gives his hand a gentle squeeze and lets it fall. Then, flashing him another light smile, she pushes her way through the shop door, the little bells overhead jingling merrily as she disappears within.

Andrew watches her go. "Bollocks," he mutters, before he finally retreats back up the stairs. There's always next Sunday.

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