The session with the healer had been... exhausting. Exhausting and on some level deeply sorrowful. Too many old memories. Too many old faces. Too much of all the things had come of it and...
She looked about herself - bright, flamboyant, a shade garish even. It was a statement, from the hat to the parasol to the corseting of the dress. It wasn't especially fashionable for the Sixties, at least not the Nineteen Sixties but with the muggles wearing ever more elaborate fashions, she considered that she could stride about London reasonably unchecked, and be merely considered old-fashioned or at the very worst eccentric. Walking around Diagon Alley was one thing - and before she'd arrived she hadn't had a care in the world, but now?
And with the realisations of the day, Deitha contemplated what to do next with her early evening onwards. That interaction with the healer Ó Dálaigh had rattled her. Unsettled her in ways she didn't want to articulate.
Thinking about her situation, Deitha considered finding somewhere for the evening; there was that bar she'd seen in Knockturn Alley - Sanctuary, she remembered. Ironic that it should be called that when that was she wanted but realised there would be no sanctuary for her there. She'd known enough that had given over to the drink and that it had done for them, even being wizards and all.
Then it occurred to her: she wasn't missing things like tipsy drinks or rich food. She was missing the human connection. Missing that thing which grounded her and left her with whatever passed for humanity was left in her soul.
And she thought of her brother. In their younger days they'd been much closer. Not perhaps friends - he was older enough than her to put paid to such things, but she was vaguely aware that he still looked out for her in some way. She had never thanked him for the money he'd squirrelled out of the family business. It wasn't wealth but it was a welcome reminder that someone cared enough to actually do something for her without her usual level of threatening and coercing behaviour.
She missed Margoyle. In her younger days - especially after what had happened - she'd envied him. It had distanced them too; she'd never blamed him for what happened, not for causing it, not for not preventing it, but it distanced them nonetheless. She'd wanted nothing to do with people and her brother was still people. And so they'd distanced.
But after the raking up of everything and her emotions a-while and a-churn, she desperately wanted something to cling on to. And so, she determined she would find her brother. She'd known he had a place somewhere in this stinking smoking sewer of a city, where he worked the family's business, clinching deals, arranging staff.
The thought of her brother wearing some stiff muggle suit made her laugh. And it was a wholesome, good-natured laugh, like they'd had as children.
She missed her brother. She missed their connection, such as it had been. Perhaps today was the day to reconnect.
She honestly had no idea how he'd react upon discovering her at his doorstep, whether that was his office or his home remained to be seen - mostly depended on how late it was and how readily she could locate either... one of the perks of her employment was a knack for finding people who didn't necessarily want to be found. It was a very instinctive thing on her part.
With a meander down through the streets heading along the Charing Cross Road, just as it was turning five, she found herself drawn in a westerly direction. It wasn't so much a 'homing beacon' but a 'feeling'. A sense of the right way to go, and a sense that was strong. What is it the muggles said, blood's thicker than water?
She headed out through Haymarket, past a quaint little muggle theatre - and wondered to herself: "Why would people pay money to enter a theatre, only to go outside again, because where else would the Fiddler on the Roof be?" She laughed inwardly, maybe she'd never understand the muggles.
Her route took her further west and it wasn't long before she reached the district of Mayfair. With its lavish hotels and extravagant wares for sale, she looked around and mused deeply. "If I were a Margoyle, where would I be? I would be here because I work hard and I appreciate some of the finer things in life and this looks like my kind of place."
This was, of course, nonsense - and Deitha knew it. But somehow trying to imagine her brother's thoughts was a pleasant mental image.
She meandered through the streets until reaching a small apartment where a black cat with yellow eyes sat outside. It sat a little huffily - if such a thing could be attributed to a cat - and glanced in her direction when she got near. Glanced, and then hissed.
The cat hissed again.
"Good kitty!" Deitha laughed.
She wondered if Margoyle had a cat. The notion amused her on some level... and absurdly she asked herself, what if this were his cat? It defied all probability, all logic and reason. But wouldn't it be the funniest thing?
And something clicked in her mind. Something that rationality suggested she couldn't possibly know but somehow felt. "Kitty, do you know my brother? Does he live here?"