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[nepharious]

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[nepharious]

Triss pouts - at being denied something to gnaw on and at the reminder that they still don't agree on this big thing. Hannibal just worries about staying secret; so long as they don't get found out, accidents are fine. But Triss, who's seen the results of 'little shows', whose life is still in the middle of being shaped by that kind of thing, refuses to buy it.

(It's not even about punishment or a lingering reluctance to make trouble. Hannibal's mutation won't protect him from a falling building or an exploding refrigerator. It might be able to stop her panic, but can't shield him from it. She's tried to explain that fear, but it keeps coming out 'I'm scared of what I can do' and not 'I'm scared I'll hurt you, too', like she means.)

The alcohol swipes that all away, has her biting her lip instead of puffing it out. She almost jerks out of his hand and she definitely whimpers, but here's where the 'medical doctor' thing is helpful: it's over pretty quick, as promised. Triss blinks back a prickle of tears of waits 'til her knee's all patched over to stand up. It still aches just as bad, or even worse, but all the exposed skin is comfortably swaddled away. She tests the fist wrappings again while Hannibal packs away the first aid stuff, wondering if it'll scar. She kinda hopes not, she's got enough weird marks without having to explain whole patches on her hands and legs.

"No," she's decisive about that, at least. Triss doesn't worry about Hannibal thinking she's a baby, but those three downstairs aren't allowed to laugh at Otto. The jellyfish shirt might be pushing it. She does take his hand, though, as they go back downstairs. Her knee likes the downward angle even less, a fact she'd wield like a club if anybody accused her of hanging on too tight.

Argus, Ruth and Danae wait in the kitchen as asked. Ruth's seated at the table, straightbacked and gesturing over something she's saying to Danae, who's perched on a stool at the kitchen island. Triss bristles a little; she likes to sit up high but she definitely doesn't wanna sit next to the mean one. Argus hasn't found anywhere to sit, he's leaning halfway over the table, hands clasped behind his back as he studies the books Hannibal's left out.

"This is an impressive collection of titles to have onhand for emergencies, doctor," he says, and he actually sound like he means it. Triss eyeballs the stack of books, but can't think of where they usually go when Hannibal's not using them. He's got so many, she can't keep track of them all, and lots of them are too old for her to touch without asking for help.

[itrhymes]

"Alright then. Let's make sure our guests haven't gotten lost." Which may or may not be a tease about a certain small child, some months back, telling him that this new house was 'too big' and 'easy to get lost in'. Hard to say.

The stairs are taken slowly, still tethered as he is to Triss, who has adopted a sideways slant to accommodate keeping her leg mostly straight. Rounding their way past the sweeping end of the staircase gives them a clear view into the kitchen, where Hannibal gets an answer to at least one internal question. Not only is one of them - Argus - interested enough in the books to have looked at them, he isn't even going to try to hide that he's done so.

So they are definitively here to talk shop. What a strange grouping of metas they make.

Hannibal goes straight to the metal-and-black fridge that stands about two feet from the table that the books rest on. Tendrils of cold air leech from the freezer portion as he removes an ice pack, wrapping it in an oxblood dish towel and handing it down to Patricia. At Argus's words, his mouth bends up, approving and willing to share, although his eyes don't quite thaw. "I take my responsibilities of raising a child seriously. I have found it is best to be prepared."

He sweeps right by Argus and Ruth at the table, happens to draw a little closer to Danae when he crosses over to the stove top. He turns his back on them to gather down a teapot from the cabinets, although his neck is turned owlishly to watch them still. His host-smile has grown a little more firm - it's an expression Triss might recognize from their court days. It's a face that means negotiation. A face for unknowns, for strangers, for hostiles; for when he doesn't know enough about the enemy yet to play the game any other way. When in doubt, chilled and exacting hospitality has always served him well.

Water from the sink fills the teapot. His voice is as steady as his hands. "I am under no illusions here. You have only come to speak with me because of her, not myself. Why were you so certain she is one of you?" There is no confusion in his tone, only a bare statement requesting information. "Ordinary children have been taken by kelpies before."

He only refrains from saying killed by because said child is currently standing among the head-height countertops.

[nepharious]

Climbing onto a stool (or up a countertop, her other favorite) isn't gonna happen with her knee all cranky and her legs taped up, so Triss takes the icepack and claims the chair across from Ruth. There's nothing special about the old books as far as she can tell, but Argus sure does look excited about them and Hannibal's got his happy smug face on. He likes when people likes his things, she's noticed. Fixing dinner's one of the best parts of the day for that reason.

Ruth laughs into her hand, maybe because she can see these aren't exactly parenting manuals. There's something kind of dry about the way she looks at the stack, and then at Triss on the other side of them, that tells Triss she must be missing something here. "You must have been quite the boyscout," she says, which conjures up a mental image so freaky Triss misses the first part of Hannibal's reply and only tunes back in on 'why were you so certain she is one of you?'

The other three go grave and serious. Triss clutches the ice pack to her knee and tries not to be noticeable. Adults are a lot more likely to talk about important stuff if they forget she's in the room, especially when that stuff has to do with her. Only her eyes move, flicking between them all. None of them look like they want to say 'no' to Hannibal's claim that she's like them, but what does that mean? What did he mean? She's sort of like him, too, isn't she? But he cut himself out of that, because he's a mutant and she's not? Does he know for sure that they aren't, too? Is it a mutant nose thing? Does she smell like them, under the kelpie stink?

"Historically, yes, you'd be correct," Argus says, "But you don't see that as much these days, for a variety of reasons."

"Modern security systems are harder to work around," Ruth interjects.

"Cold Iron limits their movements Overhill," Danae mutters.

"And changechildren in general have...fallen out of style with the fae in recent decades," Argus nods. He looks back and forth between Hannibal and Triss, the adult who has more context for his explanation and the child affected by it. "Any modern attempts have to be based on more than just whims. They have to be worth the risk." His tired gaze settles on Triss, eyebrows crimping together apologetically, "Whatever you are, you're either very interesting, very powerful - ultimately the same thing as far as the fae are concerned - or you pose a significant threat to them in some way."

That doesn't sound good. Triss went through half a dozen foster homes in her eighteen months with CPS, she knows exactly what bullies do to new threats. Stomp 'em out fast. Hannibal's face reflects none of her dismay, all politely flat and assessing. Why can't her stupid magic let her read minds?

"The list of things that trigger that sort of reaction from the Courts is fairly short," Argus has turned back to Hannibal, now. "There's always something new under the sun, especially these days, but..."

"Occam's razor," Danae's not even looking at them, she's got her chin in her hand and she's staring out the window, a frown fixed on her face. Argus nods anyway.

"Exactly, it's a good idea to work from that list, for starters. We have a pretty decent guess as to what it is about her that set them off."

"Unless you have some thoughts?" Ruth speaks over the soft beginning of the kettle's whistle. "You're her father, you've obviously been doing your homework, you hit on 'kelpie' quickly. What's your assessment?"

[itrhymes]

Their tandem speaking is almost endearing. Almost - Hannibal is generally playing the part of someone who has no idea about supernatural events. His political stance on the Mutant Registration Act, when asked about it at work, has always been gently brushed away with calm aphorisms about human freedom and safety and the delicate balancing act their poor legislatures and law enforcers have to deal with, with supernaturally-gifted people wandering around.

But in this conversation, he can flag himself as someone who does, in fact, know what he does. He's spent the better part of two decades getting his hands on every piece of ancient literature, media gossip, tabloid half-truths, and whispered fairy tales he could find. He knows a lot, and what isn't known tends to come with at least a general outline - shadowy secrets, skeletons of facts, the scattered bones of people and creatures hunted for millennia.

So being told things he knows, or could guess at, is at once thrilling and vexing. When was the last time he discussed magic in a place he lived in? Not since France, not since he was a teenager with a nose full of other people's emotions and the sensation that he was a living biological weapon, not since the one and only straight conversation he'd ever had with a family member about his powers.

(Only conversation - until Triss. She knows, and Hannibal had been very content that her fear of her own magic would see her take his secrets to her grave - at least until magic users had shown up at his door, with the possibility of normalizing all of this for her. Would a lack of fear make her less cautious, would it endanger both of them?)

He's getting ahead of himself. Hannibal stops to breathe, to remove the teapot from the stove.

Ruth asks him a question, and he looks straight at her. His eye contact is surprised but not alarmed; he's pleasantly taken off-guard that one of them thought to ask.

Hannibal makes eye contact with Patricia before answering, however. "I know how often you've had adults speak about you as though you're not in the room, Triss. I apologize." Since he is clearly about to do something tangentially related to that. When he starts answering Ruth, he still looks at Triss occasionally, and his words are chosen with the care of acknowledging that she's listening.

"I actually just gained custody of Patricia about six months ago. I'd known her for ten months prior to that, acting in the role of a professional therapist." He didn't usually see children. She had been a special exception to his normal clientele - a favor called in by an old colleague. Dr. Bloom had been shocked and initially skeptical at their development, five months down the line, when the idea had first been broached to foster her himself.

None of that is anything these three need to know. Hannibal measures out the tea leaves, places them in to steep. "Patricia has powers which have escaped my ability to pin down, but she is not a mutant, as the court involved with her case initially assumed. She's gifted with magic of some kind, and when I realized who her abductor this morning was, I assumed as much as you have." He looks fairly approving that they've all reached the same conclusion. By now, five identical teacups are laid out on the counter by his elbow. "Someone else thinks either that she is very dangerous, or very useful. Someone with better abilities of detection than myself."

He watches the other three with a small smile, eye contact sharp, tone pleasant. "Would you happen to fall into that latter category, as well? I confess, I was only so willing to let you in our home because I hoped you had something new to tell me."

[nepharious]

The icepack's starting to go smushy. Triss checks out of the conversation to consider her options when all the ice inevitably melts. Already it's trickling down her leg, dampening bandages and wetting down tape. Oh, well, she can just fix it herself before bed.

Bed? Bed was a few hours ago. Are they all gonna go through the whole day pretending like they got sleep? Or can she take a nap after this? A bath and then a nap, with some food in there somewhere? Will there be food after these guys leave? She can't imagine Hannibal cooking for them, not right away. Tea's probably about as good as they're gonna get for now.

She straightens up when Ruth calls him 'her father', looking to him to see if he verifies it as fact. She doesn't mean to, but it's a sticky thing they don't really talk about - in public they're parent and kid, 'cuz that's what people expect and it's easier that way. At home, he's never asked her to call him 'dad' or 'father' or anything except 'not Dr. Lecter, that's for colleagues and patients', so she's always just settled on 'Hannibal'. They're at home now, so--

Argus and Ruth look at each other, and then very intently back at Hannibal, when he explains about the adoption. Argus' head tilts again. Danae continues frowning out the window. Triss gnaws on her lip and watches, watches for any sign of what they might be thinking. Now that they know she's adopted, can they guess the rest? That her parents didn't want her? That she scared them, that she's hurt people, can they figure out about the--no, no. She shoots Hannibal an alarmed grimace when he talks about 'courts involved in her case'; that sounds so bad, like there was something wrong enough for them to notice. Which, there was, but these people don't need to know that.

Oddly, it's Danae she catches watching her from the corner of her eye. The thin woman's face has gone flat and unreadable, at least from this angle, but she doesn't pretend like she wasn't watching. She just blinks once, slow and unbothered, before directing her eyes back out the window.

"We hope so, too," Argus says simply. "There are some types of inborn magic that the fae have very, very strong feelings about. "Luckily those are pretty easy to test for."

"Test?" ice clatters to the floor, spilling out of the towel and Triss' spasming hands. She winces apologetically at Hannibal and hunches down in her chair.

"Nothing painful or scary," Argus goes wide-eyed at her reaction, hands opening wide on the tabletop. "It just checks to see if you react to certain substances. Like...like an allergy test."

Triss had a bunch of those done during the early days with CPS - every kid did, since you couldn't send somebody with a serious peanut allergy into a house full of JIF. If she has any allergies at all, they weren't common enough to turn up on the tests, so the example doesn't carry any unpleasantly itchy associations. She sits up a little, nodding her understanding. Argus smiles back, relieved around the edges of his own exhaustion.

"Those 'substances' are things you'd have to eat, though," Ruth cups her tea between her hands, her frown a worried echo of Danae's. "I know you weren't comfortable with accepting anything from us earlier--"

"--smart," Danae grunts.

"--but that's up to you. The two of you," Ruth amends, and sips her tea.

Triss sucks her whole bottom lip into her mouth. When Hannibal brings her her own cup, she cranes her head back and stares up at him, her whole face a question. Is it okay? Should I? They're strangers and it's not smart but we're at home so is it safe?

What if it's a trap?

[itrhymes]

Hannibal's only reaction to the word 'test' is to look for Patricia's face to see how she's faring; and sure enough, she startles hard enough to jostle her chair legs against the floor. It's a cascade of disconnected reactions, looking after her emotional health - he wants her receptive and trusting, although his own emotions tend to be distanced from hers.

(This morning is a tangle in his mind, a thorny hedge that he can't examine too clearly, only peering at the facts through the vines. If he thinks too hard about her being gone from his home without knowing why or by who, he feels the thorns catch at his ribs, get stuck behind his heart.)

Argus takes it upon himself to salvage the moment, though, and Hannibal continues pouring out servings of tea without comment.

Triss's own serving was made first, poured out from the boiled water before he added the leaves - hot cocoa, a special treat which seems both appropriate and a possible way of using sugar to help stave off the way her eyes are a little puffy and dark underneath. She's not drooping, not yet, probably due to all the action going on, but it's surely a matter of time--

Hannibal's thoughts grind to a rude halt. He pauses while holding Triss's cup out to her. When he reanimates and finishes handing it over, he gives Patricia a 'wait just a moment' finger, low at the level of his waist.

Holding his own cup, he now joins Patricia and Ruth at the table. His gaze settles on Ruth, and he looks as considering as he feels. "I'm sure all three of you realize what your request sounds like. It's neither particularly dangerous, nor is it particularly innocent. It's the sort of request that could easily be assuaged with trust - of which we have very little. Unless I'm misreading Danae's body language." His brief smile at her is not as discourteous as his words are, however.

"Is this substance meant to trigger something in the user? Or merely mark them for you? If the former, I think you may find Patricia will be very unwilling to participate in a demonstration."

[nepharious]

There's a small sting and the taste of blood, just a little, as her raking teeth shred healthy skin off her lip. Triss swallows it down while Hannibal sits, too far away for comfort, and answers for her. Normally she'd be delighted to be asked what she wants, but this is too much. It's like when Hannibal first said I've been considering approaching your social worker about fostering you, Patricia, would you like that?, with the catch that he wouldn't be able to be her therapist anymore. The choice was just too big, would change too much. She'd been too afraid to make it for weeks.

"I do," Ruth says, her mouth all twisted up and hard to read. Argus nods, but mostly he just looks embarrassed. Danae doesn't even twitch, nevermind go back to watching Patricia openly on the side. "Realize how it sounds, that is." But instead of answering the real question, she tilted a hand towards Argus, practically handing it over to him.

"The problem here is that she hasn't been using any magic for some time, that I can tell," his words are slow and thoughtful and, under other circumstances, they'd probably cheer Triss up a whole lot. She's been trying not to do anything for weeks and weeks, even though there's a warm spot in her belly that rolls around funny from time to time. "What we'd give her is, ah, a kind of fuel. If she has the predilection for the kind of magic I suspect, she could use it, but she wouldn't have to. The ability to detect it as fuel at all is its own answer, honestly."

Triss frowns at that, turning the words around to see which ones she can pick out to boil it all down to something sensible. Ruth taps her forefinger against the handle of her cup, and says, "Patricia, when you do use your magic, where does it come from?"

"Huh?"

"Is it something you feel in the air around you? Or do you draw it out of your body? From the ground?"

As Ruth lists off the possibilities, Triss' hands fall unconsciously to her stomach, palms flat against a silkscreened jellyfish. Everyone notices. Ruth nods and Argus smiles, neither of them seems at all surprised.

"Then that's where it'll be," Argus doesn't even say 'if', like 'if we're right about your magic', but maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it's different for everyone and she just works off her gut somehow. "You'll feel it, but you won't have to use it if you don't want to."

"It would be good if you did," Ruth's voice is very, very gentle, but Triss can't think past her own alarm to take offense. "If this is the right kind of fuel for you, I promise the results won't be bad. Danae and myself can stop that from happening."

Why? Why can they promise that? Ruth sounds so sure, but how? What do they know that Triss, and Hannibal, don't yet? And how badly do the two of them need to know it? Bad enough to take that risk? Bad enough to break the house?

Her breathing's gone all uneven, hot chocolate untouched. She twists the wet towel between her hands and stares at the pattern on the teacup, a geometric blue and gold she really likes. Think. Think about the 'why's and not the 'how's, that's what all her therapists have ever told her. Why do they know she's got magic? 'Cuz a kelpie wanted her. Why did the kelpie want her? 'Cuz her magic's dangerous to monsters. What kind of magic's dangerous to monsters? She doesn't know, but these people do, and they've said there are probably only a couple kinds. If they know that, maybe they can know how to stop her from being dangerous right here, right now. In her own house.

It didn't used to be a big deal. Triss can remember, fuzzily, moving stuff around in her room or her parents' kitchen. She turned the TV on once without touching it. Just reached out and pushed a button with her...she's not sure what, but she did it. A harmless use of magic. It doesn't have to be all tearing roofs apart with the simmering heat in her belly.

She says, "Okay." And they don't smile at her, but they all look a little happier. Relieved. Triss checks in with Hannibal, searching his face as Argus says, "Danae, we'll need yours for this."

[itrhymes]

'That I can tell', says Argus. Ruth deferred to him knowingly for this part of the explanation. Ruth is also clearly good with people, though, so it's not from a lack of being able to segue into trying to convince a man to let strangers give his daughter foreign substances to try. Hannibal is quite happy to remain quietly brooding over his teacup's steam, allowing them to extract information and permission from Triss in calm tones, while he rapidly slots the pieces they've given him, together and together and together. Discarding where they don't fit, vexed at not having enough corner pieces, staring at the empty areas in the middle.

But is it possible he does have a few of those other pieces, and he just hasn't been guided about where to look for them?

The difficulty, Hannibal thinks, in having your mind so rigidly organized by subject, means that accidentally coming up with answers is far less likely. He needs to look for it by associations, and he has very few search terms for the moment.

Until something clicks.

They're going to give Triss something to eat. Something they don't even question the safety of giving a child - so the dose and the type can't be terribly high. It's clearly something Hannibal could eat to no ill effect, since even with all this evidence they're not sure she's one of them, yet. (Hannibal remembers when Triss had first confided about the power coming from her belly - how it felt 'hot and awful' when she'd moved things around her parents, sometimes. He remembers wondering if it was just guilty anxiety, or a true symptom of her powers. It seems it might have really been the latter.)

So it's either a very benign non-edible substance, or a naturally-eaten nutrient - Hannibal leans towards the latter. Triss has performed magic before, after all, and he doubts she's been eating chalk to get those results. What else do children eat, though, is it possible? Medical facts run through his mind rapidly. Most common cause of accidental death in children under six: poisoning. Usually from vitamins. Lead paint used to be, and still is, alarmingly high on the list as well. Lead paint is usually craved as a result of malnourishment, because the body mistakenly trusts it as a good source of iron.

The iron in vitamins is almost always the cause of accidental poisonings. It's a substance that is so lowered in vitamins at this point that it's very unlikely Triss would ever have had too much of it, unlike nutrients like calcium and vitamin C. On the other hand, she's not terribly enthusiastic about leafy greens, so it's equally possible that vitamin K is what's snuck around, causing havoc with her powers.

Hannibal's ears feel like they're ringing. He feels close. Why does eating iron sound familiar, why is that the phrase he keeps returning to?

He turns towards Triss when he feels her gaze on his, leans forward in his chair towards her. He sat closest to her - instead of in a high seat over with Danae - specifically so he could be within reaching distance if she needed reassurance. His hand presses against the tabletop in front of her, an invitation to hold onto someone familiar if she'd like, although he watches her wring the towel nervously and isn't certain she'd want to mangle his hand the same way. "I'm right here, Triss. These people seem to know what they're doing. I trust them - and you - about your powers not being a threat to anyone here."

Ruth and Danae can stop it from happening. They specifically want Danae's substance for this. Argus can sense that Patricia hasn't cast lately. Perhaps Hannibal is already being too specific in trying to suss this answer out - it sounds like there's a variety to be accounted for.

His voice is soft, non-accusing, like he's remarking on his choice in banking, as Hannibal looks over to Argus. "You're certain the amount will be appropriate for a child her size? I wouldn't want any accidental overdoses happening in my kitchen."

[nepharious]

"Completely certain," Argus doesn't even bat an eye, which Triss only kinda notices since she's so busy watching Danae, who's straightened up a little. The thin woman sits back off her elbows and shrugs out of her jacket, revealing a cuff around her left wrist. It's almost as wide as Triss' palm, made of heavy cloth or maybe leather, decorated with...bullets? That's all her brain can come up with until Danae reaches for one of them, plucks it free, and tosses it to Argus. His reflexes are pretty good for somebody with that many bags under his eyes, he practically palms it outta the air.

What he sets on the table in front of Patricia isn't a bullet at all. It's plastic vial, about as long and wide as her pinky finger, stoppered off with a foam cork. She has to squint to make out the contents, a clear liquid suspending tiny flakes of something too dark to be sand. They spin and drift as the liquid settles, drifting slowly towards the bottom.

"What's in it?" for a second she's not anxious, or wary, she's just curious about the strangeness of it all.

"Iron," Triss looks up, surprised, when Danae answers instead of the other two. She's propped one elbow back on the island and watches the group at the table with dark and unblinking eyes. It's creepy. She's creepy. "You wanna talk allergies, just about everything that crawls out from Underhill's deathly reactive to it. Freaks 'em right out that some of us can use it to our advantage. So that's top of the list for 'things they don't like'."

That makes even less sense than the stuff Ruth and Argus have been saying. How's it supposed to hurt a kelpie if she can somehow turn a little bit of iron into magic? Would that magic be iron-flavored and dangerous to any faerie thing it touched? She keeps trying to work out some kind of peanut analogy in her head and falling flat. Her confusion must show, because Argus and Ruth trade an exasperated look and Argus says, "That's...fundamentally right, although there's more to it. But the important thing is that these pieces are too big for you to digest. They'll pass out of your body if you can't use them for fuel, like we talked about."

While that's reassuring, it's also embarrassing. Triss reaches for the vial so they won't have to talk about bathroom stuff, pulling at the cork with her fingernails. There's little indentations all over it, like...like teeth marks and, okay, she can see how it'd be easier to just bite and pull but she's not gonna try now that she's pretty sure Danae's mouth's been all over it.

"That's water and a little bit of alcohol, to keep the iron from sticking together," Argus says just as Triss gets a whiff. "It doesn't taste the greatest but it's not a shot, either."

"Luckily you've got that hot chocolate," Ruth sounds like maybe she's about to laugh, but Triss is squinting down the vial like it's the barrel of a gun and doesn't check the way she usually would. Nothing about this makes enough sense to her. How can magic come from a metal? Isn't it just supposed to be something you are, like Hannibal's mutation? Does that make magic a mutation, too, just an older one? Are faeries mutants? She should've shouted that at the kelpie earlier, see if it pissed it off. Her knee throbs in agreement and the towel in her lap is cold and heavy and she wishes none of this had to happen.

She's been wishing that for almost half her life, now. Why should it change now?

Nose wrinkled, mouth twisted up, she takes a breath, holds it, and slugs the iron-water-alcohol down. It's hardly even a sip, just enough to get to the back of her throat without leaving leaving the iron grit everywhere. It burns a little bit, like cough syrup, but it doesn't stick all over the inside of her mouth like a real medicine would, and it doesn't taste sticky-sick either. She reaches for her hot chocolate anyway, just to help get it to her stomach faster. Triss imagines she can feel it making its way, scraping sandpaper-like down her throat.

"'Kay," she says, grimly, "Now what?"

"Give it a second," Argus says, and she can tell Ruth's trying not to swallow. Danae hasn't blinked this whole time. "Then check the place where your magic usually comes from."

So Triss sits, and waits, and tries not to feel too much like she's back at a hearing with all kinds of important people staring only at her. Her stomach knots up at the thought, her hands curl into fists, and she's just about to say no this is dumb nothing's happening when the warm spot in her belly sort of rolls over and a second one throbs to life.

"It's--there's something--!"

Somebody, Danae, lets out a long breath. Triss' looks up and around with wide eyes, to find Argus nodding encouragement and Ruth smiling, a little...sad?

"You can poke at it, if you want," she says.

"Poke?" that's one of the weirder things she's heard tonight, which is saying something. Ruth's smile widens at how offended she sounds. "But--what if it..."

"You can turn it on without using it," Danae's scornful tone triggers a hot, angry stab from her gut, and Triss scowls at her. "Like, lighting a match doesn't have to set a fire. I got it even if you do, anyway."

She's so dismissive Triss almost wants to show her otherwise, wants to break something without using her hands, wants to throw things around. What does Danae even know about what she can do, Danae wasn't there at the church, she didn't feel every single nail peeling loose from the rafters, the walls, the pews, she didn't--

It's not a 'poke', it's a breath. It's blowing gently on an ember to coax a flame, or throwing open a window on a fire and setting a roaring backdraft alight. Triss' irritation is a gust, a puff of air that strikes a spark into something more and the warm spot turns into a pool of warms, spreading up her chest and neck and settling behind her eyes and--

"What're those?!" it's like she's in a spy movie and just put on special goggles, suddenly they're all sitting in a net of glowing blue lasers. Some are thicker than others, some glow brighter, but all of them start (or end?) in one spot: her midsection.

"There you go," Danae says, but not to her. "Lurcher."

[itrhymes]

Iron. Hannibal nearly laughs. His face shudders, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and nose deepening with a smile that he's only successful in keeping from his mouth.

His attention keeps skipping from one to another around his kitchen, interested in everyone's thoughts on Patricia - they clearly are all one something, one cult-like branch-off of the great preternatural tree that sprouted all of them. And they're being forced to share this knowledge with him present, presumably because they realized Triss would never keep something like what they're showing her a secret. (He cynically dismisses that they're genuinely interested in showing her guardian these tricks, helped along with the strongest defensive waves coming over from Danae. He can smell the tension, the trepidation, from everyone including of course Triss - it saturates the room.)

Hannibal takes a deep breath, relaxes more deeply into his chair, and prepares to ride the waves of the room's collective anxiety...right back into his own mind.

Metals. Different powers, different metals? They'd wanted Danae's, specifically, and they all smell too different to share a house and resources, which means that if it's something they all need, then it's something they all have their own supply of.

Eating metal. He thinks of that phrase in different languages - first in the habitual way of adding things to his memory so it's easier to find if he's speaking another one, and then out of curiosity. Lithuanian, French, German, Russian, Ital--

Italian rings out. Flashes of pages - ancient, sheepskin, notes written and rewritten in margins, editing as they went, gossipy and fearful. Hannibal relaxes into the memory rather than tear after it, lets associations gather so he has more threads to follow in this labyrinth...

Patricia snags his attention. He watches her face set at the disparaging tone from Danae. When it's clear that Patricia has somehow managed to do something, Hannibal feels an echo of the pride that normal parents likely get to experience when their child makes the honor roll. It thrums through his chest, warm and generous and selfish all at once. "What do you see, Triss?" His hand reaches out, fingers near Patricia's - more of a gesture of wonderment than any attempt at trapping her hand in his. This is...wonderful, finally there's answers. Have they finally found a way to let Patricia develop less fear about her powers, for her to grow into the fascinated amazement she deserves to feel for her abilities?

Hannibal is visibly happy about what's going on. His features warm, he looks over Triss's head. "You could have just said something, Argus. Or any of you." His expression doesn't budge from the quiet elation that had settled in, as soon as he'd mentally ticked through to the page he'd been looking for.

"Please pardon the slurs of our past generations, but: metallo-mangia abominazioni, are you not?"

[nepharious]

"Uhmmm," Triss can't stop looking around, head almost lolling as she tries to take in all the threads. It takes real effort to focus on Hannibal, nested as he is in the middle of the crosshatching. Some of the heavier lines go right through him without stopping, like he's a hologram and they're the only thing that's real. She gets hung up on one spearing under his collarbone, stunned awe fading into bemusement, "Lines. Blue lines everywhere. They're glowing? And I'm--attached to all of 'em."

Which kinda makes the obvious question: what's on the other end? Before anybody in the room can get all teacher-y on her, Triss takes quick stock and comes up with an interesting inventory. Each shining pot and pan hanging above the kitchen island has a line. Every knife in the butcher block, too. The oven's a mass of thick and thin cables all wound together, splitting off for eyes and buttons and racks. The chrome drawer-pulls are tied to her, and the microwave too. Even the steaming kettle sits fat and heavy and waiting. Triss's face smooths out in sudden understanding. "It's all the metal stuff."

"Oh, good job," Ruth smiles into her teacup. Argus sets his down with a broad grin.

"That's--you're very quick, Triss."

"She bit the fucking kelpie," Danae says, not that Triss can see how that's got anything to do with her revelation about metal, not when she's suddenly remembering all the things in her parents' house that used to slide around on their own. Silverware, picture frames, candlesticks...but it makes Ruth laugh and curl a hand over her mouth.

"Did you now?"

"Well it was sorta tryin' to drown me," Triss frowns again, "And I didn't like it."

"You bite things you don't like?" Argus has that particular choked 'I know I shouldn't laugh but it's really hard' voice adults get sometimes, which makes Triss roll her eyes. The lines remain stable.

"My old therapist said I had an oral fixation problem," after she'd bit a couple other kids who, to be fair, were holding her down at the time, so what was she supposed to do? Not unlike the kelpie problem, come to think of it.

Ruth stops trying to hide her laughter and even Danae snickers at that, like it's some great joke. Although if they've got to eat their magic, and her magic works like that too, then...yeah, okay, she can see how that's funny. Naturally that's when Hannibal says something in a language Triss doesn't know, too round and fast for her to even properly hear it, and everything goes inside out.

Ruth goes completely, utterly still, cold and unreadable in a way that frightens Triss so badly she almost doesn't notice Danae leaping to her feet, wouldn't've if she didn't hiss "What the fuck did you just say?" and knock her stool over as she lunges forward.

Three things happen almost instantaneously: Argus throws an arm out towards her with a sharp "Danae, stop, that's not a se--", Triss howls "Don't!" and rises up in her chair, palms slamming the tabletop, and every glowing blue line contracts sharply inward.

The oven door bangs open, metal rattles and shrieks and Triss reels backward with her arms over her head, blind and choking on her own panic again it's happening again I did it again but there's a yank, like a big fish running away with a lure and all the tension on those threads gets snatched away from her.

She blinks the blue away to a strange tableau. The air around the kitchen table is full of hovering things, knives and the egg timer and magnets and pans and egg beaters. Both the fridge and oven door have banged open and hang ajar, some of their contents spilling into the air, too. Triss gawks, while Argus runs a hand down his face. Danae's only taken a single step forward but her posture's changed, from threat to straining effort, her jaw set with it.

"Kid, I swear to god," she snarls. "Let go before you really do hurt somebody."

Those aren't very clear instructions, but somehow Triss finds she doesn't need anything more. Stunned and shaking, she holds her breath, cuts off the air to the coal in her belly and, like a smothered candle, it puffs out.

"Huh," Argus says, "Interesting technique."

Things don't just magically float back to their original places, but they do settle down on the nearest available surface. The floor, mostly, or the counter. Some crash dramatically while others, the breakable stuff, gets a gentler landing. Danae doesn't gesture like wizards in cartoons, she just stands there with a fixed look on her face and slightly flared nostrils, and when it's done she turns blazing eyes on Hannibal.

"Danae," Through all of it, Ruth has sat there in perfect stillness, watching him with a calm that's anything but placid. "Trust me to handle it if needbe."

Triss is too shaken to read the look Danae shoots her then, or maybe she wouldn't know enough to make sense of it anyway, but it does make her look younger and less mean. A little scared, maybe. "I...yes, okay."

Somehow the way Argus' hands thud to the table is exasperated. "Everyone just stop, please. It's not a difficult term to find if you're reading the right books." When he addresses Hannibal, he holds his hands out, palm up, but his head's gone to the side again. What is up with that? "And I can guess which ones those were, so...you can understand why anyone who fits that description would be upset to hear it. Especially from someone they don't know."

[itrhymes]

Watching the back-and-forth of the adults and Triss (Danae is not registering as an adult, not all the way, and she is certainly not included in this) keeps the good humor on Hannibal's face, although something else joins it. Curiosity, calculation - is this ragtag group going to just dump information and possibly a book-lending system on his front door and then huff away? Unlikely. So: are they thinking of a long-term relationship?

Is this a group of teachers, no matter how strange or untrained? Is that the environment Hannibal has invited into their home? It's...odd. More intimate than just the tutor Hannibal had been considering to help get Triss's young brain started on Italian. He wants her to learn about her powers, though, just as he wants to know more about them; he wants her to become something more. To grow as far as her abilities will let her.

It's possible some small, ignored part of himself wants her to have what he never did. But Hannibal has never confronted that part of his mind, and never intends to, and Patricia - however young and unfailingly rude in some of her questions - has yet to think to ask.

When the calm vibes are shattered, Hannibal remains still. His face is placid, loose, unthreatening, all except his eyes - which watch the angle of Danae's lunge, the way Ruth's face turns to stone, how Argus immediately becomes the voice of reason against everyone else's fear. Hannibal has had plenty of practice in not flinching - when you can smell the visceral root of someone's fearful anger, there is a good deal more to rattle you. Just to get to the point where he can breathe a roomful of terror and smile, not frown, was an uncoupling from normal reaction. This - in his own warded home, with people who want his child's education and safety so badly that they were willing to talk to a stranger about ancient magic - this isn't enough to frighten him. Not yet.

Triss's magic reacts poorly, however - powerfully, but poorly. Hannibal's face remains completely still and pointed at Danae, but his eyes flicker from side to side. He sees burnished pans to the left, salt and pepper shakers to the right, even his wheeled metal side table has leaned into his peripheral vision from the corner. She was frightened on his behalf...?

Which is logical. He's her guardian. This safe house that she values - if he was harmed, she might not have it anymore. And she likely is still on a knife's edge, ready to fall off and blame herself again at the slightest push.

There is still something a little small, a little vulnerable, in the expression Hannibal directs at Patricia. "That's some wonderfully impressive magic, Triss. Don't worry - I surprised them, that's all." He doesn't move his hands towards her to comfort. They stay on the tabletop, loose and ready, until Hannibal seems satisfied that Danae is done coming towards him.

Hannibal obligingly looks at Argus instead of staring down Danae, when Argus takes control of the conversation. There is still a thread of amusement in his face, a lack of repentance, although there shouldn't be any doubt that he's taking this conversation seriously. "Of course. It was a rash decision on my end." Hannibal doesn't look smug, but he doesn't look particularly apologetic, either. If anything, he looks very alert, even more than when they'd first showed up at his door. His eyes sweep to Ruth and Danae, but he settles back on Argus, and he's clearly speaking to him. "Your secrecy even while demonstrating made me curious. I wanted to know what you would do."

His eyes on Ruth are calculating, suspicious, and jarringly respectful - like he's spotted a jungle cat where he'd thought he'd been alone. His glance at Danae is alert but exasperated. Unimpressed, even if he remains cordial enough not to outright sneer. Clearly, he considers it a win - Hannibal got the answers he'd wanted.

It makes his gaze at Argus all the more pleasant, by contrast. He's practically smiling at him, even if his face barely moves. "I respect the paranoia and fear of your compatriots. I don't mean to insinuate a threat. Besides--" He reaches down for his sleeve, and pokes a glint of metal back inside. Patricia's tug of war with his metal appliances had nearly ripped it free of his sweater. Once the blade is fully back in, he flicks it out the end of the sleeve, one-handed, in a gesture that is all utilitarian movements and clearly practiced.

But he also puts it down on the table, willingly disarming himself, as soon as it's out. "--it's not as if I could hurt anyone with this. If I had known what you were when you showed up, and felt negatively about it, surely I would have picked a better weapon."

He stares at Argus, his own head tilting to the side as well. "Or. I couldn't have hurt Danae with it. I'm not so sure that extends to everyone else." His eye contact finally breaks for a moment, and he leans a few degrees further back in his chair. Physically, he's doing everything short of putting his hands palm-out for a truce. "Gladium linguas sounds much more fitting, however. I'm not such a hypocrite that I would call you abominations." It's a long-delayed olive branch - it's surely been an open assumption, but Hannibal will confirm he's not fully - or not simply - human, in the interests of perhaps calming everyone down.

Well. Calming the other two down. Hannibal clearly approves of Argus's commanding patience throughout this.

[nepharious]

Forget whether or not the adults have all decided it's cool, they can be calm about this, Triss has reached no such conclusion! She only smothered that thing in her belly out of fear, driven by the revelation of her magic's connection to metal objects. She knows, now, how she destroyed the church. What pieces she must have pulled to bring the tower tumbling down. The clarity this brings to her hazy imaginings and half-remembered nightmares of destroying this new house (or any of her old ones, or sometimes Hannibal's office, and often the courthouse) is so horrifying she just stares at Hannibal. Impressive? No!

She wants to say you surprised ME, or maybe they SCARED me but also you scared THEM but the soundless vacuum in her own head doesn't allow for any of that. She might as well be six years old staring up at the firefighter who uncovered her in the wreckage, although this time she manages to blink.

"I can respect curiosity," Ruth says. She doesn't raise her voice or even put much into it, but the vacuum in Triss' head crystalizes into a piercing scream. That's not good, not good at all, not-- "But there's a time and a place, and baiting potentially dangerous people when there's a frightened child in the room is callous at best."

Even Argus flicks her a worried, slightly wide-eyed look. Danae, apparently taking Ruth's request to heart, says and does nothing, not even when Hannibal flashes the knife up his sleeve. What does that make Ruth? What does that make Argus? Triss holds mouse-still and tries to swallow a frightened squeak. She's maybe 95% effective.

"Maybe we all got a little...carried away with discovery," Argus sighs. "Although I don't think you can call it secrecy when there's no real point to explaining a whole system of magic she might not have had, Even though we are. Secretive. As a whole." His mouth twitches a little, almost smiles when Hannibal says something else in a language Triss can't follow. Ruth only hmmms, unbending just enough to fold her arms back on the table. Triss lets out a breath she hadn't known she was holding at all. There's so much here she's not following, most of it probably, but it kind of looks like Hannibal's stepping back. He's making that face he uses when he's made his point to someone and he's just waiting for them to work through it. But what's the point? And are they keeping up? Frustration and uselessness and feeling-stupid simmers in her gut, next to the weird lumps of magic, and Triss goes back to chewing at her lip to keep from crying with it all.

"The accepted term these days is 'Allomancer'," Argus says, and then he bothers to look at Triss and does a very small double take. "Uh, are you...okay?"

"I'm fine," but her voice is really high and tight and her eyes burn and she just wants to be outside where there aren't any blue lines or heavy things to throw at people. Triss puts her head down on the table and folds her arms over them and shakes for a minute, oblivious to how any of the adults react to this.

"Oh, neshama, it's all right," at least Ruth sounds more normal now, like she's over whatever warning she was trying to inject into the air itself, "Everyone's first couple tries go badly. We've all got a story like that. Some much worse than others! You've done nothing wrong."

"'don't care," there's the mouse-squeak, "'don't wanna be dangerous and--and have demon horses mad at me and don't wanna be an a--allo--" and there's the hot burn of frustrated tears. Great. Wonderful.

[itrhymes]

"A frightened child. And what would you have done then, to 'take care of it if need be', with her in the room still?" Hannibal's voice has the same weightless heaviness to it that Ruth's does, and he looks absolutely unrepentant about having his actions pointed out.

But he does look over to Argus at his attempts to mediate. Hannibal's attitude doesn't stem from anger - not quite - so much as the wounded pride that comes from not being certain you're the largest predator in the room, after a lifetime of having that up your sleeve. He's dealt with Mages and mutants in the past with far more destructive physical powers than his, but he's always known what hand the other person held. Sword-tongued are more secretive, in that nothing Hannibal has read about them was by them. Or even approaching what you might call 'objective'. All of them - every single one - had been a guidebook on recognizing them to kill them, or simply decrying their heretical nature.

It's enough to justify the paranoia involved in trying to strangle him in his own kitchen, he'd admit - if their conversation was a little less snippy. As it is, he seems a good deal more relaxed than he has so far in their conversation, unrelenting attitude or not. These new pieces in the puzzle explain the oddities in their behavior, and their clear concern for Patricia makes him think they might be slightly less likely to orphan her a second time. Perhaps.

At the very least, he assumes they'd adopt her if they did, and in his possibly-very-twisted mindset, that's a positive sign.

Hannibal twitches an almost-smile of his own at Argus's, at least. Message received, although he wonders when - not 'if', surely he can take this for granted - they'll get around to discussing what his augmentation type is, since he clearly doesn't match his adoptive daughter and present company.

He's never shared that with non-family. He's not...entirely sure about his feelings on disclosing it. His knee jerk reaction is to think he never would. But if these people are going to be a permanent fixture...

He's getting ahead of himself. "Allomancer," he repeats. "It's not as dramatic. But I'm glad to have a more appropriate term." Is said with clear good humor, and enough of an inclination of his head and an apologetic tone that it...very well might be intended as an apology. It probably is. Definitely is.

And then Patricia becomes everyone's distraction, and Hannibal focuses on that. While her head is down, however, Hannibal's snaps up to regard Ruth when she attempts to soothe her. He finally leans across the table, voice low, and says with the first notes of anything approaching urgency he's shown so far: "I appreciate it, believe me, but please do not try to soothe her with the reality that it may have turned out worse. It already did, before." Which is, hopefully, said with enough weight to get his message quickly across.

Hannibal then sits back upright and pushes smoothly up from his chair. Danae crowding him or not, he moves past Argus, chair in tow, and methodically re-seats himself, close enough to Patricia's chair that the polished wood gives a small squeak. Moving slowly enough not to be rushing her, he folds in around her. His right upper arm circles her shoulders easily, hand tucking against one of her own, but he leaves her otherwise free to wriggle as she may choose.

"Many things are dangerous, if you don't know how to use them properly." Hannibal's voice comes from only about a foot above Triss's head. He barely checks in on the other adults in the room, only ensuring that he knows where each of them is.

They've talked about this angle of Triss's powers before. Shushing her and telling her 'it's alright, you're not dangerous' is too easy for her to (rightfully) dismiss - and Hannibal has promised her he won't tell 'those white lies adults always have'. He looks at the pragmatic pieces of what is happening to her, and picks them out to polish down into child-sized parts. "That's what these people wanted to see you for. They can teach you what I cannot, Triss. I would do it if I could." Another subject they've talked about, especially after the adoption. Hannibal's powers are different, different enough that even if Triss was willing to learn, there's very little he could teach.

"Learning about it will teach you to control it. Then you won't be dangerous unless you wanted to be."

[nepharious]

"I think we might have different ideas about how to defuse a situation," Ruth says, the trace of amusement in her voice chased by Danae's muffled snort. Triss tightens her arms over her head and pulls her feet up onto the chair, ankles tucked in, knees jammed under the table. The grown ups are talking, low and urgent, and sure that's better than yelling but not by much. Maybe she needs to be defused, disarmed, whatever. Why'd they ever give her more stuff, why'd they have to make her even more dangerous?

When she reaches down with that inner inhale and touches the iron lump in her belly, the blue lines spring back to life. Even with her eyes shut, even with her face pressed against wood and shadowed by her arms, she can still see the potential to lash out. Lash in?

Triss goes rigid as an uncooked noodle, and about as brittle, when Hannibal puts his arm around her shoulder. Her hand clenches into a tight fist beneath his and her breath catches, stops. Part of her wants to slip out from under his hold, duck under the table and make a dash for the stairs. Once her bedroom door closes behind her, she won't have to talk to anybody. She can wait until the iron 'passes' or whatever. The other part wants to curl into the comfort he's offering and cry some more. Her eyes are already so hot and dry, and everything else is itchy; her tongue, the bandages and tape, even the whole-but-unwashed skin that got a dunking in the harbor.

Neither's really an option. She can't run away from something inside her, and this is only the fourth hug of any kind she can remember getting into with Hannibal. Bad enough she was clinging to him in front of other people earlier, she can't cry all over him too. She might refuse that part of herself to him over and over, but Triss tries so hard not to be a crybaby about the scary stuff. About this stuff.

Lacking any good choices, she stays still and makes a low noise that might be a 'no' or a 'don't', but is definitely a negative.

"Not all of them are dangerous, either," Argus says. The pronoun's so weird and disconnected that Triss blinks against the table. "Different metals have different effects, many of them can't hurt anybody."

That at least gets her to lift her face, though her nose, mouth and chin remain hidden behind the circle of her arms. "Like...like what?"

"Like detecting magic, if someone's using it or if they have an object of power nearby," Argus' smile doesn't reach his eyes, those're still worried and tired looking, but she doesn't think he's lying. Hannibal doesn't react at all, his arm around her doesn't tighten in warning, and Triss knows he can always catch a lie. "That's what I do."

The other two don't look like they think Argus is lying, either. Ruth's eyebrows are all pinched in worry, and Danae's staring at the back of his head like she kinda wishes he'd stop talking, but that could have more to do with Triss' track record for pitching fits than anything. She watches them all in silence for a moment, squinting around those hot and itchy eyes, and lets herself lean into Hannibal a little. "You think I could?"

"It's very unusual for people like us to be able to use more than one kind of, uh, metal magic," he nods, "But I'd like to see if you can."

"Argus," Danae hisses, "Don't be stupid, the odds..."

"A kelpie didn't just come for her," Argus snaps, which is new enough that Triss flinches against Hannibal, "It did it under our own noses. The Courts know who we are, they know our territory and they still made this play. So I think," he takes a breath and lets it out through his nose, smiles a half-smile at her again, "I think you're probably very unusual, Triss. I'd like it if you'd try this, but you don't have to. We can come back later if you're done for the day."

"And if it's all right with you and your father," Ruth adds. Triss catches her rolling her eyes toward the ceiling as if searching for patience, and that's a lot like one of her old social workers, too. Though she doesn't smile, Triss does slowly uncurl and sit back up into Hannibal's arm.

"O-okay," she swallows, licks her lips and tries to expand, because it's important to let people know why you're doing things, even if it's something they want you to do. "If...if I can see magic, I want to. Then they can't sneak up on me again, right?"

"It's very helpful for that, yeah," instead of revealing a neat wrist strap like Danae's (or Hannibal's), Argus just reaches into his pocket and pulls out another vial. The flakes inside are a little lighter, maybe, but otherwise it's identical to the swallow of Iron. "Don't worry if this doesn't do anything. That's a lot more normal, for us."

That's two 'us'es in as many minutes. Triss wonders about that as she pops the cork, darts a quick look at Hannibal, and tries to swallow down the contents as quick as she can. She even rubs at her throat to help it go faster.

A third knot trickles into place in her belly, like warm sand filling the bottom of an hourglass. She doesn't even stop to poke at it or ask what she's meant to do, not this time, she just breathes in and lets the air stir up the grains, feels it rush up behind her eyes just like the Iron, but when she opens her eyes--

"Oh," Triss gasps. Or gawks. Across from her, Argus is surrounded with a soft sunset light, kinda rusty and gold all at once. Ruth, next to him, is a deeper and truer red, glowing low and steady under her skin and running in flaming lines up her torso and down her arms. Danae's a sapphire blue, and her eyes blaze with it. Even stranger are the trails that waft behind them, Danae's blue and Argus' sandy red trailing back into the foyer like smoke. Ruth leaves no traces, she's just exactly where she is.

Half the books piled on the table between them glow with different jewel colors - turquoise and emerald and topaz and amethyst. Stranger still, those same colors are dusted over Hannibal's hand, where it lays beside hers on the table.

"You didn't say it'd be pretty!" she says, and it's totally an accusation. Argus laughs, but it's not the quietly happy laugh when she'd lit up the Iron earlier, it's a little sharp. Ruth takes a long, slow breath, her eyes very large behind the warm rosy glow.

And Danae says, "Jesus H. Fucking Chris, you've gotta be shitting me right now."

[itrhymes]

Hannibal is so genuinely surprised at Ruth's response about defusing the situation that it shows on his face clearly and immediately. He'd assumed she meant physical violence, but what she just said sounds like she means that no, she hadn't been threatening him. Frankly, he looks more alarmed at being wrong than he did at the prospect of her being willing to get violent if he was an enemy.

But Ruth does respond how he'd expect - hope for, even - when he tries to cut off the well-meaning reassurances. Danae's somber face is also a nice thing to see. Patricia is more than upset enough about this - he doesn't want anyone making her draw more parallels than necessary between this and a certain set of choice flashbacks that they've kept running into.

Hannibal isn't certain what to expect when he holds Patricia. He's always leaning towards caution with her - a foster kid who was willingly given up by her biological parents of several years, there's enough reason to be careful around her abandonment issues, even if he didn't feel he needed to step very lightly and respectfully around the fact that - at the end of the day - he was a strange male who'd taken her home. Hannibal is content waiting for Patricia to make any and all first moves, to ensure she's comfortable, but it's...possible that that's slowed down the entire process. She clearly doesn't want to let herself reach out, even when things are being offered.

So as for possible reactions, her going rigid and breathless was on the short list. Hannibal is ready to pull away to avoid making a scene, face set into politely neutral lines for the sake of their guests and Triss.

But then she shudders with a breath, and somehow her lack of pushing him away feels like an action all its own. Hannibal stays exactly where he is, even when Argus joins in on the attempt at soothing her, trying very hard to read her - powers and general observational skills in tandem.

When she actually leans into him by bare degrees, Hannibal's own body loosens. No longer as concerned that he's misreading her lack of protest, he resurfaces to the conversation at large. His approval of Argus is only going to keep growing, it seems: both at his ability to play along with what will actually calm Triss down, and the fact that he's just outed his own specific power, and the way their delineations work.

A metal for every power. How many metals? Clearly not all of them. Even 'iron' could be a vague term, now that he's thinking of it in the sense of an ingredient for magic. What ratio? Just crude iron, no carbon in the mix? At what point does it become unsuitable, if ever?

Not every Allomancer is physically dangerous. In fact, Argus's ability is like Hannibal's own - good for information-gathering, not necessarily a weapon for combat so much as a tool for smart combat.

Except rare ones. And Argus has a good point - to Hannibal's outsider viewpoint - about Patricia. Does the doubt on Ruth's and Danae's faces reflect the rarity itself, then? Will Patricia be hunted down forever, if she is this thing? Will this complicate their lives beyond what Hannibal had even prepared himself for?

And then the reality is decided - Patricia is a multiple-metal Allomancer - and all of those concerns are buried under the broken dam of Hannibal's attention. He watches her, rapt, and looks at all the others in turn, to see the emotions he can already smell. Surprise, shock. Fear, perhaps. Triss still has the sour tang of terror and guilt, but her entire face yells excitement, now.

Frankly, it's an emotion Hannibal is mirroring, although you'd never get him to admit it.

The vague smile on his face doesn't look like it's going anywhere fast, regardless of his level of denial about how much he's thrilled at the rush of this discovery. "Danae, I've been incredibly tolerant about this until now, but I'm going to have to ask you to mind your language some, while Triss is present." It's said almost dreamily, with absolutely no bite.

Hannibal stays where he is by Patricia, arm still around her shoulders, although it naturally loosens as she sits up and looks around. He's not aiming to hold her in place, only to give his tacit support and approval for as long as she'll allow it. "There will be no keeping anything from you going forward, now, will there?" Is asked of the top of Triss's head, humor evident in his voice and in the fine lines gathered at the corners of his eyes. "What do you see, Triss?"

There'll be time to ask the others questions, in a moment. There'll be time to plan the next step in a moment.

For now, Hannibal's entire focus is on Triss.

[nepharious]

Danae says, "No, you really don't understand," and grips at her short, dark hair. The whites show all the way around her eyes, or Triss figures that's what the flash of searingly pale blue means. Not all the colors she's seeing make perfect sense, as her brain struggles to translate this new extra sense. "There's only eight of them."

Eight of who?

"Seven, I think," Ruth reaches out to touch her knee gently as she corrects that statement. This does nothing to disentangle Danae's hands from her hair, to staunch the weird strangled noise she's making. Argus bites down on a smile and leans back in his chair.

"No, now it's eight," he's looking right at Triss, and despite what he's doing with his mouth there's something odd in his eyes. It's not fear, she knows exactly what those stares look and feel like, but it's not...not fear. Eight of WHO? Triss kind of squirms at that, but luckily Hannibal, always interested and encouraging about the magic stuff, prompts her directly.

"It's all colors. I mean lights? Lights but they're colors but they're all in little pieces like dust?" she tears her eyes away from their now-glowing guests, from the shining books, and looks up at him with a small frown. What did he mean by 'no keeping anything from you now'? What was he keeping from her before? She's about to ask when she gets sidetracked by a weird glow in his pocket. It's reddish, kind of like Ruth, but not the exact same red. A grassy green something glimmers behind it. Triss' frown dips lower as she puzzles that out, before deciding: "You've got two magic things in your pocket?"

She didn't even know he had magic stuff, except for old books he'd warned her not to touch 'cuz some of the writing in them might be for real spells. All her anxiety and guilt gets set aside for a minute in place of an accusing pout - he said he wasn't like her, he couldn't use magic!

"Busted," Danae murmurs, while Argus puts his fist to his mouth and shakes silently.

"Maybe Lesson One should be 'you don't have to blurt everything you see," Ruth says, but she's smiling fondly at, like everyone, so Triss doesn't mind the assumption that they've got stuff to teach her so much.

"But all the colors are dif'rent!" she starts to reach for one of the books to demonstrate, before remembering that A) most of the others can't see what she's seeing and B) they're Very Old and Not For Touching, Patricia. She transfers her accusatory stare to Argus instead. "What d'they mean?"

He leans his cheek against his fist and raises his eyebrows, smiling bemusedly, "I have no idea," he says. "I don't perceive it as colors or lights. I hear them."

Oh. "Is that why you keep going like--"

The gesture's hard to explain, so she cocks her head to the side and furrows her eyebrows at him, a piece of mimicry that sets both Danae and Ruth off into badly smothered laughter. Argus twists in his chair to treat them both to a really not-amused face and a sigh. "Yeah, something like that."

[itrhymes]

Eight. Eight of them. That comes out to slightly better than a one-in-a-billion chance. To call it 'rare' undermines it as a concept. Hannibal feels Patricia's weight under his arm, real and warm and small, and listens to the warring concepts in his head and heart.

Rare and powerful. Precious. Impressive. His - technically. But Patricia is only any of the other things because she is her own person, her own self. The awe of recognizing the divine in someone else is in his gaze while he stares down at the top of her head. This is--

Dangerous. He needs to speak with the adults alone later. How many others will suspect what she is, when Argus wondered immediately? How many will learn, how far will the rumors spread? What measures are available for protecting them, or are the other seven lone hunters and predators, only heard of through tales others tell?

He won't ask while Patricia is here, though. That's one topic he'll keep her away from until he decides his approach.

Luckily, Patricia is her own distraction. Hannibal's smile spreads from his eyes, bends his mouth up when Triss catches sight of the magic in his pocket. "I do," he admits candidly. Not that there's much choice now. "I brought them out to help me find you. You may look at them later, if you'd like." He'd never told her he kept magical objects around the house. She knows about the books, but a vial of augmenting potion is different than a study of possible early mutants in the 16th century.

That will need to be a conversation later, that much is clear. "And I suppose now would be a good time to thank you for not blurting it out when you surely noticed earlier, Argus." Hannibal speaks across the table to him, above Triss's head. He looks as amused as he sounds. "In the future, perhaps you could take after him, Triss."

Argus had been keeping his head cocked, bird like, through a lot of this. Triss isn't wrong. It makes Hannibal very aware of the pantry door that leads out of his kitchen, the shallow room below it that stores the majority of his sensitive books and his collected potions and totems. He must be able to see it - or rather, see the shielding around it. Or perhaps he can see right through - Hannibal supposes he could ask Triss later. Except...their powers must work with very different ranges and degrees of accuracy.

Perhaps Argus could hear it all the way from the foyer, echoing down the hallway. Hannibal's gaze on him is warm but tempered with curiosity.

[nepharious]

"Yes!" her eager nod is the most enthusiasm she's shown for anything so far this awful evening. Morning? Since she woke up in a dream, anyway. Ruth smiles in her periphery. "I wanna. Want to see, I mean."

The colors are different than the lines Iron had shown her. Those were pretty enough, but confusing. They made her head hurt to try and figure out where they all went, and now she knows she can use them to move things. Did she pull them all towards her? It felt that way, only Danae stopped it before she could tell for sure. Triss likes the variety of this other metal a lot better. Even if she's not allowed to touch the magic, it's exciting to know it's there. That knowledge doesn't have to hurt anybody. It could even help them, if they were about to touch something they shouldn't.

Or not help them, if they were cruel and deserved to stick their hand in a wasp's nest.

"But how'm I supposed to know..." she trails back into gnawing at her lip, hand rising to jam a couple fingernails into the mix.

"I guess we'll have to do some cross comparison," Argus says, eyes and voice lighting up. "Take one object, you note what color you're seeing, and I'll tell you what kind of magic it sounds like to me. We'll see if there's a correlation."

That not only makes sense, it sounds really interesting. They'd both be learning something that way, even if it's mostly about how her magic works. Can Argus really tell the difference between one sound and another? That seems so much harder than picking out colors on a spectrum. She can't tell the difference between 'th' and 'd' some of the time. Or maybe it's like different instruments to him? No, that's not any better, Triss has a hard time figuring out all the strings in the music Hannibal likes. But she wants to ask him anyway, about how he hears it and what the sounds are like and if he knows anyone else who sees colors. If everybody's different, maybe they don't even see the same color for the same magic, and how confusing would that be?

Danae made it sound like she saw the lines just like Triss did. Maybe Iron's easier, after all.

"Of course," Argus is saying to Hannibal, who's thanked him for keeping the secret in front of everyone else until Triss spilled it. Whoops. "That's...good manners, with metas."

That's a word Triss has actually heard before. 'Metahuman.' It's like a nicer way of saying 'mutant', but means a little bit more, and nobody spits it out like a swear. Yet. Hannibal says any word can be made cruel if it's said the wrong way often enough, but she's not sure how long that's supposed to take.

"I'm sorry I was rude then," she decides. After daring a look at the others, Danae's wild stare and the deepening lines around Ruth's eyes, she adds, "A lot."

"Eh," Danae shrugs. Ruth's smile seems to mirror that sentiment.

"Neshama," she says again, "All things considered, it could have been much worse."