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for Nikola (3/10/11)

Sofi had fallen into a routine with her days--surprising for residents of the Sanctuary--between schoolwork such as it was, writing letters to James and Declan in London, and generally being monitored as far as development. She took work seriously when she was allowed to help with small projects from Will or Henry, but even those were set aside for the opportunity to work with her father.

"It's almost supper," she says in greeting as she slips through the door to Nikola's lab, teacup in hand. Will, as the person she's around more often than the others, draws the line at drinking wine like her father, and always looks squeamish about blood.

Music Boxes

There's music coming from one of the closed doors in the Sanctuary; it's a light tinkling sound like a music box being played, though the song isn't usually one you'd be able to find.

Sofi's still making adjustments to it, and the music stops and starts while she's trying to get the chain the right length to turn the wheel at the correct pace. It's being moderately difficult, but so far nothing she can't figure out how to fix.

At least the building part itself is done.

Will: Assessment

Sofi knocks on Will's door, seeing that he's open, it being around their appointment time.

"Will? I'm here for my checkup," she says, slipping in the door. "And I took my medicine." Usually her father does the injection, but she's getting better at giving it to herself, though she only mildly tolerates needles on good days.

[for will]


It's her birthday. (Apparently fate has a sense of humor; it's January 7th, and almost anyone who knows Tesla knows what that date means.) Jasmine is wearing a dress and leggings, as is habitual for her, as she sits on the high cafe chair in the kitchen, with a bowl in front of her.

It's soup, since it's cold outside still and she wants something warm.

She's turning six today.
It had started to rain at lunchtime, and Jasmine was alright with the rain. It meant she had to come under the walkway to finish painting her birdhouse--the Big Guy had built her a little one to house the white pigeon she'd named and was feeding--but it was nice to watch it rain. Shortly after she'd been called inside to eat, it had started to actually storm; the wind had kicked up and the thunder was making the glass rattle in the windows of the kitchen.

That made it definitely not okay. She didn't mind lightning, but the loud noises the thunder made scared her incredibly. Jasmine ran, literally, down to the lab where her father ought to be, barefoot and still in the sweater dress from the morning.


The Sanctuary doesn't have many children. But one of them is currently and strangely easy enough to find, sitting with a little journal in the window, looking over the courtyard. There's a snowy white pigeon outside the--notably closed--window, that seems incredibly unperturbed by the girl's presence, and proximity.

Jasmine is watching it curiously, as if expecting it to do something other than sit there and blink at her, much like she's doing to it.


She's in the lab, with the cat--all white and with bottle-green eyes, a foundling as a kitten. Her legs aren't quite long enough to kick the first rung on the stool she's perched on, watching her father make something she can't identify yet, involving wire and a lot of sparks.

She hasn't been able to make sparks like that yet. Not like he does.

So far Jasmine's job has been to watch and keep the cat purring and out of the way.