The Queen's Curls

-1854- Something Lost

The bell above the door does ring this time, because it exists. She looks up and jumps.

The parlour woman had forgotten about her future meeting with Jack Sullivan, and had not expected him and his cinnamon aura to be here, in her shop, this late in the day.

"Good evening, Jack," she says, trying to cover her surprise.

Jack saw right through it and gave a small smile in response. "Good evening, miss. Were you not expecting me? You were the one to suggest we meet again."

The parlour woman looks away from his chocolate gaze. "I was just a little preoccupied is all. Would you like a drink?"

Jack nods and the parlour woman leads him to a lounge area further into her shop. "What would you like?"

Jack smiles a half smile. "Surprise me."

The parlour woman lifts and eyebrow, but smiles. She opens a cupboard and pulls out three things; a bottle of grenadine, a bottle of cola, and a plastic bottle of ginger ail.

While the parlour woman turns to another cupboard to grab two glasses, Jack picks up the bottle of grenadine. "I've never seen this before. Is it any good?"

The parlour woman chuckles. "You'll see."

Jack raises an eyebrow, but smiles that same half smiles from before. "Alright. Do you need any help with anything?"

The parlour woman hums in thought. "Could you pour some of the grenadine into the glasses?"

Jack pours red substance into one of the glasses until it is a fifth full. "Is this enough?"

The parlour woman looks over from where she had been measuring ice cubes. "That's perfect, love."

The two work on the drinks for a few more minutes, and when they finish, they head over to a round sofa.

"So, what are these called again?" Jack asks, taking a sip of his drink.

The parlour woman stirs her drink with her straw. "Yours is called a Roy Rogers, and mine is called a Shirley Temple. They are known as 'gender opposites' of each other."

Jack swallows. "This is delicious. How come I've never heard of them before?"

The parlour woman smirks. "Because it was invented in the 1930's."

Jack's brows furrow. "Then how do you..." He trails off as comprehension washes away any confusion. "Are you a time traveler?"

The parlour woman laughs. "You know, you're the second person to ever guess that I'm a time traveler and not a witch."

Jack smirks, his pride making his eyes sparkle. "Who was the first?"

The parlour woman's smile gets a sad edge to it. "A boy by the name of Gregory Johnson. He was very young when I met him, and he was actually the one to patch up these scars." The parlour woman pointed to the scar over her right eye and the burn marks that seemed to climb up her back and up to the back of her neck.

Jack seems taken aback my the sheer size of the parlour woman's burn scars. "How did you get these?"

The parlour woman meets Jacks chocolate gaze with one of mint green memory. "I was trapped in a building full of dynamite and someone lit one of the crates."

The parlour woman could feel cool, barely-collected fury radiating off Jack in tight, chilling waves. "Is he dead?"

The parlour woman exhales through her nose. "I don't know. He walked out of the building and I didn't see him again."