(1939-10-24) A Gentleman and a Scholar
Details for A Gentleman and a Scholar
Summary: Rena drops by Biggin Airfield to see Guy. He isn't available, but fortunately for her, Lieutenant Faulkner is. He gives her some lessons in Latin and shooting, and they have a grand old time.
Date: 1939-10-24
Location: Biggin Airfield

Irene Lee - for Rena, it's nice to use her maiden name whenever she happens to be kicking around on the Muggle side of the world. It's short, sweet and simple, and a good deal more suited to her than her married name. Eventually, the guards at the gate of Biggin Airfield are bound to get used to the little redhead showing up and asking after Guy. At least her name is as easy to recall as her face.
"May I see Squadron Leader Grosvenor? Uh… Tell 'im Irene Lee is asking for 'im." Rena asks after working up the gumption to approach the gentleman in the Guard House. As usual, they call in for the man in question. While waiting, Rena takes a step back and cranes her neck to see if she can catch sight of the goings on inside the airfield.

The guard is from one of the local regiments, his accent showing that he has not, as someone will put it in the distant future, been overburdened with an excess of education. "Roight, mum. Mistah Grosvenah ain't on at deh momunt, but 'is adjint," which must be 'adjudant', "Leftn't Fawkoner's on 'is way out, mum. Wait 'ere, if ya please."

Perhaps four minutes pass before a staff car pulls up, painted RAF blue and with a number and roundrel stenciled on the side. Apparently Mr. Faulkner was not in the Officer's Mess, but somewhere out on base, when the call came in. He hops out of the car, fixing his cap back to it's jaunty angle, and says, "Oh, Miss Lee! A pleasure to see our little spitfire again. Let her in, man, let her in. I'll sign." Which he does.

At first, upon hearing that Guy isn't there, Rena's heart sinks a little. Of course, it takes her a moment to realize what the guard even said, but it does get through eventually. She remembers Mister Faulkner. Thank heavens someone is around who might remember her in return. Otherwise, she might simply lose her nerve and tell the obliging guard not to trouble himself on her account.
Much to the young woman's surprise, the "Leftn't" arrives in a car. Almost immediately, she feels a pang of remorse and just a touch of timidity. "It's awfully nice to see you again, Lieutenant Faulkner," she replies, managing a bright smile in return as she passes through the gate to meet him. "But, what a lot of trouble I've put you through. I'm sure I've already caused you some inconvenience…" Rena adds, motioning to the car with her hand. She didn't mean to cause any bother.

"Miss Lee…" Faulkner says, taking a few steps forward and then, with strangely un-RAF precision (that would make any of those aristocratic German officers proud) he comes rather stiffly together, heels almost clicking, and takes her hand and bends over it politely. "A visit from such a lovely woman is no inconvenience, I assure you. And as it happens, I was just on my way back from teaching a training class, and was headed out to the range for a bit of target practice." The kind that doesn't involve machine guns and bombs, at least. "Would you care to join me? I can offer a few glasses of completely passable claret afterwards." He offers his arm to take her towards the car, opens the door for her if she comes along and holds her hand as she sits, and then shuts the door before moving over to the other side to settle in behind the wheel.

All of Rena's fumbling for apologies seems to fall to the wayside. Faulkner commands respectful silence with his military precision - albeit the wide-eyed, wondering kind of respectful silence from the young woman. Truth be told, her cheeks tinge a with a rosy hint of a blush. "My goodness, I feel as though I ought to learn to salute better." She murmurs, with a hint of mirth sparkling in those dark eyes of hers.
"I'd love to join you, actually. That'd be smashing!" Rena exclaims brightly, slipping her arm through Faulkner's without the slightest hesitation. Really, she can scarcely stop smiling. Nobody has ever gone the whole proverbial nine yards to treat her like a lady before. He even holds her hand as she slides onto the passenger-side seat of the car!
"Thank you," Rena offers quietly before making herself comfortable in her seat. "Guy… Squadron Leader Grosvenor," she corrects herself, "Gave me a shooting lesson, not long ago. I suppose it's not very lady-like, but I feel I ought to learn with things the way they are."

"All settled, then?" Faulkner asks, nodding to her as he shifts the auto into gear and pulls away from the guardhouse. He may not be the speed demon that Guy is, but he clearly knows what he's doing. And, well, the redcaps (Military Police, not the kind Rena might be more familiar with) frown on speeding. "Oh, you can call him Guy. We go years back, to the first war. And please, do feel free to call me Charles. Or Birdie, if you like." He works smoothly through the gears as they head along the perimeter fence. "And it's smart to know, Miss Lee. If we're successful, you may never need to use a gun - I hope you don't! Besides, as I used to tell my students, there's no harm in learning new things. Ipsa scientia potestas est - knowledge is power."

Well, now Rena's insatiable curiosity is well and truly piqued. While Faulkner drives, he may notice the young woman gazing at him with her head tilted to one side - not unlike an inquisitive little sparrow, timidly hopping closer to something interesting to investigate it. "Do you really?" She asks with regard to Faulkner and Guy having known each other since the first war. "I suppose I should have assumed that, what with the familiarity between you two; but, I didn't realize."
"I like Birdie - if you don't mind it, that is." Rena remarks with a warm smile. "But, that means you 'ave to drop the Miss Lee, stuff. Just call me Rena, like Guy does. Or Spitfire." She adds with a hint of laughter. What a nickname she's picked up for herself from the RAF. "Irene's always been too fancy sounding for me. I'm a simple girl, I am."

When Faulkner breaks out into Latin, Rena's expression wavers slightly. Her look can easily be mistaken for confusion; however, in truth, she was rather startled for a moment, thinking the man was saying some kind of magic spell. Thankfully, he adds the translation and her expression eases back into a smile. "Oh… maybe I should learn some Latin, too - if I'm to spend time around you," she kids.

"Irene is a perfectly lovely name for a perfectly lovely lady. Don't give yourself too little credit." Faulkner says, with a polite smile, "You were certainly a ray of sunshine in an often dreary place. And you've a marvelous singing voice." He continues to drive around the base perimeter - though he does have to slow down and return salutes now and again, which he does with the RAF's usual casualness. Rena no doubt draws a few approving glares as well - there aren't many women out here who aren't matronly WAAF types, and the redhead is certainly noticeable.

He continues to chat as they near their destination, "Ah. Between the wars I taught classics at a public school. That's why some of the chaps call me Professor. Latin to most of the boys, Ancient Greek to the older ones. I could recommend some excellent books, if you would like." The car is pulled smoothly up outside the little hut that abuts the range, and Faulkner parks it and then makes sure to get out to repeat the process from earlier, opening the door for her, assisting her to her feet, his hand leading her clear of the door before it shuts again. He tips his hat, and then reaches into the back seat for a case, saying, "Here we are."

Once more, Rena finds herself blushing. Faulkner has quite a way with words - even if they are merely polite flattery. She can't help but smile brightly, remembering the day she came to the canteen and sang for them all. It was such a lot of fun. Hopefully, she can do it again, one day soon. Also, truth be told, the looks that Faulkner recieves from the men while driving past with her in the car just make her beam all the more. It's funny to think of anyone being a little jealous of the older officer for driving her around the base.
"I think I'd best stick to my practical education for the moment," Rena replies warmly. "Shooting and Driving. I shall be quite the independent woman, it seems before the war can even get a decent foot-'old. But, maybe someday I can work on improving my mind, too."
Stepping lightly out of the car, Rena thanks Faulkner yet again. He's such a gentleman! She really had no idea. It's difficult not to be in awe of someone like him, but he's also easy to like as well. "I didn't do badly last time. I even managed to strike the target!" She says proudly. After a moment, her pride deflates, and she ruefully admits: "Well, just barely - on the outside edge."

Faulkner smiles at her, as he takes the case and walks towards the outdoor range. There is some momentary talk with the Quartermaster so that he can draw ammunition, but there is no trouble getting a bit extra to satisfy the lovely lady in Faulkner's company. Then, offering his arm again, he takes her towards one of the stations. He opens the case, and there is a revolver inside, along with a few other things. Opening a little cylinder, he dumps out something that looks like pencil erasers (rubbers, to Faulkner), coated in wax. He hands two of them over, and demonstrates how they go in the ears to blot out the worst of the sound of firing. "I know a lot of half-deaf artillery men and gunnery instructors." he says, raising his voice a bit, "Can't be too careful."

Loading the weapon, Faulkner steps away from her and then assumes a one-handed shooting position, arm outstretched with the lanyard of the Webly around his neck. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Three shots ring out in quick succession. All three would do substantial damage if the target were a person, but none find the /exact/ bulls-eye. He breaks the revolver and ejects the spent cartridges, then turns back to her, "Would you like to give it a go?" he asks.

Rena follows Faulkner quite closely, not daring to stray away from him for a moment. She's been to the airfield a few times, but certainly not enough to feel secure in finding her way around. Hopefully she never finds a reason to fly over on her broom. That would hold so much potential for disaster… Of course, that thought makes her feel a little sad. What on earth would Mister Faulkner think of her if he knew she were a witch? It doesn't bear thinking.
Accepting the rubbers with a slightly bemused expression, Rena copies Faulkner in slipping them into her ears. They do feel odd, but as she observes: "Cor, I need my 'earing for singing and all. Don't want to lose that!" Afterward, she slips off to the side, giving the man room to fire at the targets. Maybe they don't exactly find the bulls-eye, but it certainly impresses Rena. Beaming, she applauds briefly in a show of appreciation.
He offers her a chance to shoot, then, and she takes a timid step forward. "I'm afraid you'll be quite ashamed of my shooting," she says ruefully. "But, I'm game! I can't learn if I don't keep trying."

Unlike Guy, Faulkner is a teacher, and while he doesn't know the young 'Miss Lee' as well as his Squadron Leader does, his experience shows through. He explains about a proper two-handed shooting position, and gets her arranged properly, squared up to the target, pointing an empty revolver down-range. He gives her plenty of warning before he comes close to guide her into position, dropping to one knee to put her feet in the proper position. He supports her hands as he explains proper aiming - using the 'point and shoot' method at this range, with a pistol. "Now, just /ease/ back the trigger. It should be a surprise when the gun goes off…." Not that it will go off, but the hammer will fall with a loud *CLICK!* After a bit of that - and he has the patience of a saint, if she has questions or needs additional help - only then does he take the gun from her and load it, stepping back to see how things go!

Guy was a good deal more hands-off, and let's see how Rena handles herself on her own when he gave her the first shooting lesson. It hadn't been easy. In fact, the kickback had taken her off-guard on the first shot to the point of leaving her arm sore for several days. Faulkner is quite a bit different. He leaves absolutely nothing to her imagination for her to wonder about.
Once he has stepped back and given her space, Rena nods to affirm that she's got this. Biting her lower lip, she draws a slow breath to steady herself. Doing exactly as Faulkner told her to do, she eases back on the trigger. *BLAM!* The pistol fires, and the bullet manages to hit the target. Nowhere near the center by any stretch of the imagination - but it DOES hit. "Got it!" She exclaims, beamishly. And on the first try, this time!

Faulkner grins and applauds, "Bravo, bravo!" he says. And is that a few notes of opera that he starts humming? Yes, yes it is, even if he must be humming awful loud between his own earplugs and hers. He encourages her to try again, stepping in to make a few small corrections before reloading the pistol for her. She won't turn into a champion sharpshooter overnight, but he certainly seems able to ingrain the fundamentals. "I borrowed a smaller pistol from the quartermaster chap, the kind the WAAF girls use for practice." he says, "After this, I'll let you try that one and show you how to shoot one-handed.

Rena is all smiles, regardless of whether she's going to be a sharpshooter over night or not. The sheer joy of managing to hit the mark in one try is quite enough to keep her beaming for now. However, she does manage to sober down as Faulkner steps in to help her make a few adjustments to her aim. If she's lucky, she'll manage a little better on her second shot.
Smiling, she nods with regard to the smaller pistol: "That'd be champion. Maybe I'll do better one-'anded when all's said and done." But still, she'll try her best with what she's got in her hands just now.
Narrowing her eyes slightly, Rena steadies herself again and eases back on the trigger. *BLAM!* The pistol barks again, and the bullet hits the target. Unfortunately, no nearer its goal mark than before. There is a moment of disappointment, naturally, but she quickly smiles and looks to Faulkner: "No better, but I still 'aven't missed, yet!" Always look on the bright side.

"Don't worry, a lot of it is practice." Faulkner says, "Two more Latin phrases for you. Experientia docet - experience teaches, and repetitio est mater studiorum. Repetition is the mother of studies." He grins at her, "You're doing very well, though. I was hopeless at first. Always tended to pull things right. Maybe that's why they made me a pilot. Engine torque makes the whole machine pull left, and I hit the target. It cancels out, eh?" He laughs a bit at his own humor, and asks, "Has Guy taken you flying yet?"

As they talk, he pulls out the smaller .22 target pistol and begins to load it. Putting it on the table, he turns sideways and holds his arm out, as he did the first time, "Alright, now, like this, feet square, head turned towards the target…" he begins to instruct her again, and then puts the pistol in the redhead's hand. This time he stands behind her, his hand over hers, instructing her /as/ they shoot. "Now, ease back on the trigger…" the recoil on the .22 is much, much less. Though the resultant *BANG* is more of *bang* and the hole in the target is smaller. "Just let the barrel dropppp back on the target and…" *bang!* *bang!* *bang!*

Rena hopes that one day she might actually be able to remember the Latin phrases that roll so easily off of Faulkner's tongue. For now, she keenly watches him with a slightly bemused expression as he speaks. At the very least, she can remember what the phrases mean. They're good things to learn for someone who often lacks self-confidence in her abilities.
"Back when Guy took me for my first driving lesson, 'e said 'e might take me up in a spitfire," Rena admits a bit sadly. "But, some'ow, we just never found the time to do it. Then… well, the war started." A bit wryly, she gives a half-smile: "Guess I missed my golden chances."
Faulkner steps in and make sure that she really does a good job of shooting this time around. Keeping her arm steady with his hand over hers does the trick quite nicely. He prevents the kick of the pistol from jarring her so easily as it has been. Needless to say, she positively beams at the result - even though about 99% of the credit belongs to her teacher. "There's lovely, then!" She exclaims, looking over her shoulder at Faulkner. Of course, she realizes just how close together they are then, and she blushes a little.

"A Spitfire only has room for the pilot, so unless you're going to sit on his lap, that might be a problem. But we have some small training and scout planes that have a seat for a co-pilot or trainee." Faulkner says, and then glances around conspiratorially, "We might be able to do something. We'll see." He begins to put the pistols away, to be cleaned later, and then asks her to wait a moment while he checks the .22 and the ammunition back in. Returning, he tips his hat and offers his arm, taking her back towards the car. Opening the boot, there is a satchel in the back with some, ahem, rations.

Apparently, Flight Lieutenant Faulkner likes nice things. Despite the beginning of rationing, he's managed to procure some good crusty bread, cheese, sausage, and, yes, the bottle of claret he promised her. Pulling out a knife, he opens the bottle and pours her the single glass, using a mess-kit cup for himself. It is, of course, rather informal, out of the back of his car, but he does it all with grace. "Cheers." he says, clinking the metal mug against her glass.

When Faulkner explains about the seating arrangement inside of a Spitfire, the poor young woman blushes quite red. However, after a moment, she begins to giggle, and the giggle breaks out into gay, musical laughter. "Oh, lor! Do I feel a fair fool," Rena says through the laughter. "It's been such a long time since then, I got my planes muddled in my 'ead." It's an honest mistake, but the idea of poor Guy holding her on his lap whilst flying a plane is just too much.
Once the young woman has managed to recover, she takes Faulkner's arm and follows him back to the car. "Gracious!" she exclaims before explaining herself. "I suppose most people would see fare like this and think it a quaint picnic. Still awes me. When I was a little girl, a sight like this would be a feast."

Raising the glass with a warm smile, she echoes his "Cheers," cutely adding "Birdie," before bringing the claret to her lips.

Faulkner toasts and has a small sip, tossing his hat into the back seat of the car as he is now off-duty. He takes a seat on the tailgate and proceeds to break off some of the bread, then slice the sausage and cheese and make her a little plate. He looks up and nods. "Trust me, I've eaten was passes for military cooking. It's something of an oxymoron. The military music, military justice, and military intelligence. So this /is/ a feast." A broad grin, and he admits, "My family… well, I suppose that most of the other ranks would think of me as from a proper toff background - which is alright, they expect that of their officers. That we be 'propah gent'men, the guv'nas.'" A little smirk as he feigns a quite different accent than his usual public school and Cambridge one, "But there are plenty of officers who come from far grander families. My father is a country solicitor. My brother joined him in the firm after leaving the Army. He was injured in the Great War."

Listening intently to every word, Rena moves over to join Faulkner on the tailgate. Sitting herself there lightly, she makes herself comfortable. Accepting the plate from him once he has finished fixing it up for her, she murmurs a quiet thank you once again. She seems to be one of those people who can make herself at home just about anywhere she happens to be.
His joke about the cooking; as well as his little feigned accent shift cause her to laugh softly. But still, she quiets herself and is content to listen. After swallowing her first bite of food, she says: "I'm awfully sorry 'e was injured. But, all the same, I'm glad 'e made it out alive in the end… I was born the year the war ended," she innocently adds, not realizing that such a statement might make a veteran feel old.

If Faulkner feels old, he doesn't show it. Though the Ministry's unofficial blob of sunshine has a way of making people forget things like that. He raises his cup and takes a sip of claret, then nods, "Well, he won the Military Cross for his actions, so he's an official war hero. Now he's settled down and has a wife and children. So it all worked out in the end. I suspect that he wouldn't change things just to be rid of the limp. And my parents were gratified that I made it home in one piece, since I was engaged in the far more reckless task of… what was it father called it? 'Climbing into those infernal flying clap-traps and throwing brickbats at the German chaps'." He laughs again, "I prefer to think of it in a more historical context. At least at the time, there was the romantic notion that pilots were the knights of the air, mounting our machines to find glorious single combat against the enemy. So very different from the reality in the trenches." He sobers, "The end result, though, is the same if things go pear shaped."

Rena pauses with a piece of bread almost to her mouth when Faulkner begins talking about pilots being like knights of old - only flying through the sky instead of riding atop thundering horses. Guy has also told her about flying, but it never quite struck a chord in her the way it does now. Despite his remark about the trenches, her mind seems to be far away. Her dark eyes gaze up at the sky, and her hand drops slowly to the plate on her lap.
"Oh yes, it's wonderful to fly…" Rena says with a wistful, day-dreamy sigh. "I mean…" she snaps out of it quickly, somewhat flustered. "I meant that it must be wonderful to fly, regardless. When you aren't in combat, of course." Not the smoothest save in history.

Faulkner assumes, naturally, that it must be merely a slip of the tongue on her part, and would never draw attention to such a thing, "Yes, I kept my hand in a little after the war, but I thought surely I would never have need to fly again. I guess I was wrong. But once I came back to it, I realized I had missed it. It's amazing, what we've accomplished. My grandfather would never have imagined that one day his grandson would be strapping himself behind an engine and soaring into to the sky at two hundred and fifty miles an hour. Not long before that, before trains, it would have taken weeks to travel two hundred fifty miles. Progress." He nods to her, and shares, "It feels very free. Being up there. And, though you're right about combat - it's frightening as hell, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar, a fool, or both - there's something about knowing that power, the engine, the plane, the guns… that's all at your command."

Thank goodness Faulkner doesn't seem to be fazed by Rena's slip up. Perhaps he didn't even notice it. However, she does hide momentarily behind her glass of claret, taking another sip or two.
After that, Rena falls easily into eating while she listens. She may have grown up rough around theatre types, but she was raised to behave as much like a lady as possible. Faulkner can easily see the fire of imagination lit in her eyes as she watches him, though, listening to him with fascination. The little redhead makes for a charming, captive audience. "I don't know if I'd ever want to come back down to earth again if I 'ad all that." She says after a moment. "Makes me feel as though I've been missing out all the time I've spent down on the ground."

Faulkner treats her like a lady, too. If it weren't for the fact that they are sitting on the bumper of a car in the growing evening, they could easily be in a country house drawing room, talking over tea. It turns out that as a classicist and historian, he's also quite the good story teller, and while he keeps away from anything bloody, he is soon regaling Rena with the odd, and usually funny and embarrassing (to him or someone else) war story. The dangerous time that his landing strut broke as he hit a divot on a grass aerodrome field. The first time the engine on his little Sopwith Pup decided it didn't want to work anymore, turning his plane into a glider - and the resultant spray of motor oil that hit him directly in the face. "I always carried a second pair of goggles after that. I thought I would never get my eyes to stop tearing up after I got on the ground. The local army chaps found me and were gracious enough to give me a ride back to the Squadron without all /that/ much abuse." He refills her claret, and his own, a few times.

For her part, Rena eats it all up - every single word of every single story. And what's more, she seems to genuinely love hearing it all.
The food helps, but Rena is a notorious lightweight. Even a few small glasses of claret are enough to make her mind a little foggy and lift her mood - as if it even needed lifting in the first place. By far, this is the nicest day she's had in a while. "Birdie," she says at length, "People think I'm daft for swanning about with you RAF lads. They don't know what they're missing. You're a special breed of men, you are." Rena appears to wax almost poetic for a moment before returning to herself with a light laugh: "I'm sorry. You… are just so very different from anyone I've ever met. You're even different from Guy! And that's saying a lot."

"And all the decent ladies of the United Kingdom should silently give thanks before sleeping easy in their beds tonight that there are very few men about like Guy Grosevenor." Faulkner says, teasingly. "And while I'd like to think that I am, indeed, unique - you know that a certain level of eccentricity is considered laudable in an Englishman - I'm not sure what exactly you mean." He has no trouble holding his claret - what was it he said earlier about experience being the best teacher? "And you are certainly most pleasant company to swan around with, though I should apologize for my rudeness in monopolizing the conversation."

The all-too-true remark about Guy Grosvenor causes Rena to burst into giggles again. She can't help it - and Faulkner can easily see by this that she knows exactly what he means. As for himself, though, she just shakes her head with a smile: "If I told you what I meant, it'd ruin things. Just go on being yourself."
Although she continues to smile, Rena ducks her head a little and gives a self-conscious shrug of her shoulders: "You 'aven't been monopolizing. I wanted to 'ear everything you said. Besides, even if my life's been a little odd, it 'asn't been anywhere near as interesting as yours."

"Most of my life is dreadfully boring. I teach Latin grammar to school children, after all. The most exciting part of the day is catching someone hiding used chewing gum under their desk. And you wonder why I volunteered to come back to the RAF!" Faulkner jokes, as he finishes his food and begins to put the remainder away, saved for another day. "I should certainly like to hear about your life a bit more, next time we see each other. If you are planning on being a regular visitor, that is."

Rena laughs: "Regular visitor? Birdie, I'll come out 'ere as often as the RAF allows!" If only he knew the incredible pressure and stress her job places squarely on her shoulders on a daily basis… but, he can't ever know that. Unless their worlds collide, of course. It would be a far different story, then.
Not one to shirk when there's a job to be done, Rena does what little she can to help put the things away. "I can't thank you enough. For the shooting lesson, and for all of this," she says with warm gratitude in her voice. "I don't know 'ow I can ever repay you for it, but I definitely owe you one, as you might say."

"You most certainly do not owe me a thing, but if you insist upon it, then grant me the pleasure of driving you back, at least as far as the train station. The Officer of the Day owes me a favor, so it shouldn't be a problem." Everything put away, he offers her a hand to rise demurely before he closes the boot, and then takes her back around to repeat the little ritual of putting her in the passenger seat of the car. As he slides into the drivers seat and pulls out the keys, he says, conversationally, "Given your lovely singing, I don't suppose you enjoy listening to the opera?"

Faulkner may well consider Rena to be well and truly charmed after the last several hours spent in his company. Naturally she doesn't object to his driving her to the station. Spending that much more time with him is just the icing on the cake.
"You're too kind about my voice, Birdie," Rena replies with a half-smile. "I'm a show-girl. Opera singers are a far different lot. When I was a girl, I remember being made very much aware that they were the real singers, and we were just show-folk." Pausing, she looks out the window at the evening sun blazing on the horizon. "A few times, my girlfriends and I snuck into those theatres. Lavish, they were… I've always been amazed and awed by Opera."

"I've known a few showgirls in my day, and you are as unlike them as you can be. Though, one must admit, it's clear you enjoy performing, and have the very soul of a thespian." Her driver turns and glances at her, then continues, "I understand that they're starting to show again, since things haven't gone quite as the Prime Minister thought straight off. Lots of memories of the Zeppelins and whatnot." Faulkner skips right past that as he pulls the car back out and heads towards the gates, "A former student of mine offered two tickets to La traviata at Covent Garden next week. Would you like to come as my guest?"

At first, Rena does a disbelieving double-take. Then, she breaks out into a radiant smile: "You mean it?" She asks excitedly, turning to Faulkner before reigning herself in. "Oh, that'd be grand. I'd love to go! 'Ey, it'd be the first opera I ever legitimately attended like a real, proper lady." Pausing, she laughs at herself, somewhat abashed: "I'll behave. I promise. In spite of myself, I can be a lady."
A night at the opera with a real gentleman. What next? Rena ought to be thinking about a good many things beyond what dress she ought to wear… but, right now, the Witch isn't home.

As the sun dips down, the blackout makes driving treacherous, but Faulkner delivers Rena to the train station in good order, the small talk continuing along the way. He helps her out of the car, and, gallantly, walks her to the platform, which might be inconvenient if her method of travel is /not/ actually a muggle train. With a wave good night, he sends her on her way, after arranging for when and where to pick her up for the Opera.

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