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Castti has leaves in her hair when she returns to the inn, which means she’s been spending time with Ochette. She looks a little flustered as she hovers near the door, adjusting her clothing—dirtier now than when she left—so Osvald raises his hand in greeting, hoping Castti will take it for the invitation it is.
She sends him a relieved smile and winds her way around the other lodgers to take a seat at his table, wedged away in the back corner of the common room. Then she lets out a long sigh and leans back in her chair.
“Ochette tiring you out?”
“That girl…” says Castti, shaking her head. She’s not quite smiling, but Osvald can hear the affection in her voice. Osvald can always hear whatever Castti’s feeling in her voice.
“You shouldn’t let her run you into the ground like that.” It comes out more clipped than he intends.
Castti frowns. “I’m not letting her run me into the ground. I like her company.”
Osvald can’t help but raise a brow. “You’re covered in grass and dirt.” He almost plucks one of the leaves out of Castti’s hair to prove his point, but stops himself. He wouldn't react well to someone touching his hair, unprompted, after all.
“By choice,” replies Castii, somewhat unconvincingly. “She’s not the one in charge. She calls me ma, you know.”
As if that proves anything. Ochette calls Osvald pops, and it’s not like she ever listens to him when he tries to tell her what to do. Ochette makes him think of Elena, the impossible task of wrangling her into bed or getting her dressed for school when she was ‘onto something’. Elena was always onto some magical discovery or other. Is, Osvald reminds himself.
“What are you thinking about?”
For once, Osvald’s inclined to talk. “Elena.”
“Your daughter.”
“I wonder if she’d get along with Ochette.” He wonders if she’d get along with him, when it comes down to it. The last time he saw her, she was still looking at him like he was a stranger.
“Ochette gets along with everybody,” says Castti. “I don’t know what Elena’s like, though.”
Osvald hesitates. Part of him wants to keep Elena in that secret place inside his head, the place where his wife still exists, where everything is still safe and as it should be. But it's true, what they say, about parents needing to talk to everyone, everywhere, about their children. “She’s a lot like me.”
Castti tilts her head, squinting like she's trying to imagine Osvald in little girl form. “Oh.”
Despite himself, Osvald smiles. “Don’t worry, she’s much better than me."
“I wasn’t worried,” Castti protests. “You’re plenty good yourself.”
Osvald stares at her. Castti talks like they're friends, like she knows him—but out of the group, Osvald knows Castti the least. It’s not that he doesn’t like her. She’s good at what she does and Osvald privately thinks she’s the most competent among them.
“Did I break you?” He hears Castti ask. He runs his fingers against the wood grain of the table, looking for splinters.
But Castti’s an optimist, she can’t help but see the best in people—and he can’t help but feel like he’s lying somehow, letting her believe what she wants so he can use her to his own ends.
Castti clears her throat. “You know, if you spend too long up there, you’ll get lost.”
It’s her own fault for calling him good. He feels like he’s back in that cell again.
Ochette appears at Castti’s side in a whiff of sweat and soil, bouncing on the balls of her feet and tugging at Castti’s shirtsleeve. “Castti, I was looking for you everywhere, where did you—” Ochette breaks off abruptly, staring up at Osvald. “What happened?” she asks in a loud whisper, standing on tiptoes to speak into Castti’s ear. There’s real concern on her face. “Did he forget to eat his vegetables?”
Castti covers her mouth and glances at Osvald with laughing eyes, and suddenly Osvald feels very foolish. The cell is long gone. There’s only his old life and this new one, and for the first time, he realizes he’s tired of being in two places at once.
“Pops?”
Osvald allows himself a smile. “You’re learning." Then, to his horror, he sees his arm reach out before him—moving of its own accord—to ruffle Ochette’s hair. He’s not sure what he expects to happen: for Ochette to scramble away, for Castti to scream, for the heavens to open and strike him down—but Ochette just giggles and leans into his hand, and Castti gives them that soft, fond look she gets whenever Ochette does something she finds cute. The heavens stay closed, for now.
Eventually, he awkwardly withdraws his hand and Ochette scampers away, in search of better entertainment.
He feels Castti watching him. He has no reason to be embarrassed, but he’s reluctant to meet her gaze. She’s probably thinking terrible, optimistic things about him. As long as she doesn’t say them.
Then Castti opens her mouth. Osvald tenses in his seat.
“Are you hungry?” Castti touches her stomach. “I’m hungry.”
Osvald tries to control his face—he's been smiling too much for comfort today—but there’s no help for it. Ochette’s clearly rubbing off on her.