The room they give her is large and lavish. It feels like having an apartment to herself. Something she tried when she and Tina fell out. Even now she still hasn’t gotten the hang of it. Being alone and killing time.
There’s no going out into the castle. Too many minds, unfamiliar, dipping in and out of range with apparition and disapparition. The fragments she picks up trigger anxiety in all their confusion.
Grindelwald treats her well when he’s around. Sends for her to join them at dinner, in the parlor. He’s so good a host on those evenings she nearly forgets why she’s there. Almost doesn’t notice when he asks her to look in on Credence or one of the new recruits. She reviews their thoughts and conveys them honestly. She sees no reason to lie. Most of the time.
And he keeps his thoughts to himself well enough. Though there are moments when she catches a whisper, a glimpse. When he’s close to sleep or waking, when everyone has gone and he’s had a touch too much brandy. At first she’s curious and is careful to listen close. But it turns out what Gellert Grindelwald is most preoccupied with is heartache. And with so much of her own, Queenie doesn’t need anymore.
For this reason, Vinda becomes a comfort. Her mind is cool and distant as her outward demeanor. If ever her stream of consciousness slips through, it’s a quiet song of French. Queenie listens to it some nights like the radio.
The two of them rarely have a moment alone. Queenie, in her rut, would love to ask about a girls’ day out. There would be time, Grindelwald and his cause have slowed since Pére Lachaise. But Vinda is serious about everything and Queenie is self aware enough to know she might be thought frivolous for bringing such a thing up.
So she says nothing and does her best. She asks for little and little is asked of her.
|
Credence is still a sweet boy. Despite everything he’s been through, is going through. He remains kind. He takes to Queenie, though, he prefers her at arm’s length. She doesn’t blame him, with her always being asked to poke around in his head.
Maybe it’s because they can recognize their own loneliness in each other that they start trying to remedy it together. On the days when the castle is empty, Grindelwald and his entourage gone off on some terrible mission, they find each other. Credence comes out of his room or welcomes her into the library. She makes sure she’s around.
He’s the only one she feels inclined to bake for. She makes small helpings of pastries which the two of them either finish or hide away before anyone can see. Neither caring for tea as much everyone else seems to, they often share a pot of coffee. Little secrets, small rebellions.
It doesn’t occur to Queenie that she might be able to take Credence out for a couple of weeks. Such a close eye is kept on him and while he keeps her company the two of them don’t speak all that much. They don’t really have fun.
But then Queenie catches him thinking about it. About fun. He and his littlest sister back in New York had their games. And at the carnival, between caring for the kappa and cleaning out the zouwu’s cage, he and the maledictis found ways to make each other smile. Queenie hears these thoughts, feels the longing in them, and takes the opportunity.
“Credence, honey,” she hasn’t gotten used to his other name yet and he doesn’t seem to like it very much, doesn't mind the old one from her. “Do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere?”
He looks up from the phoenix’s ashes. A new chick pops its head out, drawing him back almost immediately. He scoops it up and asks, “Where?”
“Anywhere you want.”
The chicks wiggles its little naked wings, opens its mouth without sound. Credence holds it close to his chest. “Do you think we could go back to the city?”
“You mean Paris, honey? I’m not sure that’d be safe. They’re probably still – “
“New York. I… He wouldn’t like it, would he?”
Probably not, Queenie thinks, especially without their asking. But she misses the city, too. All the familiarity, all that is comfortable [see screenplay].
“We just have to be careful,” she says, making sure her tone is upbeat and light. “No going anywhere they might expect us to, keeping our heads down. It’ll be fine.”
Credence’s thoughts speaks the same concerns she has but also the same priorities. He puts the chick back in it’s ashes – the little thing wouldn’t be able to stay up on the perch – and comes to stand at her side. She holds out her arm and instead of thinking of the distance between them and the city, of the logistics, she just thinks of home.
Credence takes her arm and then they’re in Central Park. Both are so surprised they shout. It draws looks from the pedestrians passing them by. Stumbling, clumsy with glee, they move off the pathway behind a tree to collect themselves.
They stay there a while, just enjoying the view. It occurs to Queenie they might want to disguise themselves. She grows Credence a short beard and turns her hair dark, tying it low in the back – how Rosier sometimes wears it.
They walk along the path ways until they’re out in the city. They stop for hot dogs from a cart, sit on a bench, watch the people go by. It’s refreshing to see all these strange faces, no one knowing them or the events of these past months.
Still, it all reminds her of Jacob. Credence catches her expression and asks what’s wrong. She just shakes her head and answers with a question of her own. “You want some ice cream, honey?”
When they get back, no is looking for them. They're all still out. Queenie says goodnight to Credence, who hugs her and thanks her for taking him along. She gives him a kiss on the cheek and wishes him sweet dreams.
On old instincts, she retreats to the kitchen. Her mind drifts to the afternoons she’d spent at Jacob’s bakery. His memories had comeback, thanks to the murtlap bite. The bad ones were the weakest but wasn’t that for the best? They’d been so in love. She’d watch him work, fascinated by how well he did even without magic.
Looking around her now, she decides she’d like to try making something like that. The no-maj way. The way Jacob would. She gets up from the kitchen table and goes through the cabinets and icebox. Inventory taken, she settles on strudel. One like from the night they met.
She gathers the utensils next, knives, spoons for mixing. She’s already tired by the time it’s all laid out on the counter. But she doesn’t feel like giving up or putting it all away again so she perseveres.
Usually, if Grindelwald and his gaggle haven’t returned by dusk, they’ll be out until the next day. But now, at a quarter past midnight, she hears the unmistakable sound of voices. Her heart hiccups, and she looks around her at the mess and manual labor. She could set it right with the flick of her wand. But she doesn’t want to, she’s been working so hard.
She cheats a little in waving her wand and cleaning up her dress. Shuffling to the door she peeks out and see witches and wizards passing by through the hall, heading towards the guest rooms. None stop to come in here. The procession peters out and she breathes a sigh of relief and returns to her work.
There’s a peeler in the drawer. She skins the apples and moves to the cutting board, taking up a large knife. She checks that it’s sharp, the edge biting with just a light touch. She knows from watching Jacob and from common sense that she should curl her fingers and cut away from herself.
It’s a fight, the apples do not want to cooperate and keep slipping on the board. The slices come out uneven, one by one. She’s halfway through the last piece when a voice asks, “What are you doing?”
Queenie snaps her head to look and finds Rosier peering back at her from the doorway. Rosier’s eyes fall to her work and widen. Queenie thinks it might be in response the project in general but then she feels the pain. Looking back down at the cutting board, she finds the knife sunk clean through the tip of her left middle finger.
“Oh,” she says, dumbly. Tears prick her eyes and she drops the knife. She staggers back against the isle, staring at the blood running down her hand.
Before she can move past shock, Rosier appears beside her. She takes Queenie’s wrist in a firm hold and guides her hand to her mouth. Queenie watches with mild, uncomprehending horror as Rosier takes the wound into her mouth. Queenie feels nauseous but waits, feeling a searing heat. When Rosier releases her hand, the finger is as it was, though the nail is bare of its usual pinkish-clear lacquer and is shorter than the rest.
Again, “Oh.”
Rosier looks over the mess and, before Queenie can object, waves her wand to clear it. The dishes clean and put themselves away, spilled excess ingredients fly to the trash bins, the apples and the rest arrange and bake themselves into a galette des rois aux pommes.
“Why are you baking like a Non-Magique?” Rosier asks, catching the tart as it drifts down through thin air.
“I don’t know, um,” Queenie tries to think fast but can only come up with, “to see if I could?”
The look she receives tells her that the logic doesn't resonate.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rosier decides, setting the tart on the counter. “I just wanted something to drink.”
As she gets herself a glass of warm milk and honey. Behind her back, Queenie sniffs at the galette. It smells delicious. She cuts a piece and takes a bite. It taste delicious, too.
Rosier doesn’t take notice this, already headed towards the door. “Bonne nuit.”
Queenie finishes off half the galette before retiring. She hides a piece for Credence and leaves the rest out on the counter. It’s gone the next day.