A/N:

Disclaimer – I do not own the visual novel/otome game The Blind Griffin, nor am I making a monetary profit from writing this.

Just some fangirl plugging, but if you haven't heard of The Blind Griffin, you should look it up right now. The writing, art, and music are all fantastic, and the game has great diversity. To put it another way, every major character is of a different culture/heritage and one was not born with the name she uses now. (: It's not something you see very often. I heavily recommend this game to anyone willing to play it.

"What'll you be having tonight, Mrs. Grierson?"

The old lady sat down in her usual seat by the bar and dimpled, her clear blue eyes twinkling. "Sherry and gin, please, Lucy. And –"

"Don't forget the fairy dust," Lucy finished with a sigh. "I know." She turned to take a couple of bottles from the shelves behind her and began mixing the drink.

"You know me so well, Lucy." Mrs. Grierson chuckled but stopped when she heard the clacking of wood against wood coming down the stairs. She waited expectantly until Mr. Yamada finally came into sight, his cane smacking sharply against each step before he reached the floor. "Finally, Old Hound! I was beginning to think you'd passed away without letting me know."

"How am I supposed to let you know when I die, Old Bat?" Mr. Yamada pointed out, but he had a smile on his face as he settled slowly into his seat at the bar as well, groaning softly; he was older than Mrs. Grierson and was now inching past his nineties, but he still walked the entire way to the bar. For a few years, he'd even continued to bring his sweet little dog Arrow along, tucked away under his arm – but one day he lost his grip and Arrow had been lost to the streets, never to be seen again. It had broken Mr. Yamada's heart at the time.

Lucy shook her head, smiling for what felt like the first time in days – all these years serving the two at the same bar, and now the three were thick as thieves.

Prohibition had ended over nine years ago. Despite that, The Blind Griffin continued to welcome its customers with open arms, but as a legitimate business now instead of an illegal one. It certainly helped the place's income, now that Lucy no longer needed to bribe anyone to look the other way. Of course, the Crash had made things much harder – they'd been on the verge of closure at least once – but now things were getting better; today just happened to be slow.

Although, one of the reasons the country was finally out of the gutter also made Lucy's life harder in ways that didn't involve money.

She felt her already weak smile begin to slip at the thought as she passed Mrs. Grierson's drink to her, and while Lucy had been pulling her expressions back into shape for a while now, Mrs. Grierson was a hawk-eyed old lady who'd known her friendly, sharp-tongued Chinese bartender since Prohibition days.

"I know it's hard, Lucy," the old lady sighed, accepting the drink.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lucy replied stiffly. "What'll you be having tonight, Mr. Yamada?"

The old man eyed her carefully, but he played along. "Whiskey if you please, Lucy."

"Coming right up."

"Lucy," Mrs. Grierson began, quite gently.

"Just stop, Old Bat," Mr. Yamada murmured sharply, nudging her side with the top of his cane. "Don't you see that she don't want to talk about it?"

"But Old Hound –"

"Respect what she wants."

Lucy, of course, heard the entire exchange while pouring Mr. Yamada's whiskey. In gratitude, she sprinkled some fairy dust into his drink while he and Mrs. Grierson were still distracted. "A whiskey for the gentleman," she said lightly, passing him the glass.

"Thank you, Lucy."

The two sipped their drinks for the next few minutes as if they were tea, while Lucy began her usual routine of polishing glasses. Normally, they would sit like this in the comfortable silence of friends, but now it was laced with a bit of tension – and Lucy knew why. Regardless, she refused to think about it, until she looked down at the glass she was polishing and spotted the silver band on her ring finger gleaming in the soft light.

Lucy tore her eyes away from it, throat already clenching at the sight, and cursed herself silently in Chinese; why hadn't she brought herself to take it off? But she knew she would never be able to, even if the thought itself wasn't proof enough.

She continued her polishing as if nothing had happened, but now everything changed – she looked up expecting to see someone pushing a barrel across the room, and turned around to switch glasses hearing years of pleasant conversation with Mrs. Grierson and Mr. Yamada standing beside her. Lucy reached for the rag and felt a phantom shoulder press against her in an attempt to filch the cleaning rag before she could reach it, and she felt a bizarre sense of victory when no other hand managed to take the cloth before she did, despite no arm actually being there. The terrible crash of disappointment that followed made her eyes prickle threateningly.

Mrs. Grierson was right. It was hard. It was, in fact, harder than anything Lucy could've imagined before she suddenly had to start living it.

Eventually, Mr. Yamada set down his glass with a satisfied sigh, and Lucy realized that not a word had been spoken since she'd first served them. That hadn't happened in years. The difference helped push the demons from her mind.

"Finished, Mr. Yamada?" she asked pleasantly.

"Unfortunately so, Lucy." He wiped his lips, smiling sadly. "And I can't stay tonight. My old bones need a rest."

"If you're sure, Mr. Yamada," Lucy remarked in the same tone of voice, taking the empty glass from the bar and wiping the spot it had sat on in one easy motion.

Mrs. Grierson was looking at her strangely. She ignored her.

Mr. Yamada stood up slowly, groaning the same way he had sitting down earlier, and leaned on his cane. "Have a good night, Lucy. Don't get into any trouble now." The last statement seemed to be mainly directed towards Mrs. Grierson, as the old man gave her a pointed look while speaking.

"I'll make sure she doesn't, Old Hound," Mrs. Grierson assured him.

He didn't seem to like this answer, pressing his thin lips together in a frown.

Lucy shook her head at the two. "Don't you worry, Mr. Yamada. Have a safe walk home," she said, summoning another weak smile, and watched him finally shuffle up the stairs before returning to her glass polishing.

"Lucy," Mrs. Grierson said. She sounded strangely accusatory.

"Yes?" she asked without looking up.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"See? There you go again." Mrs. Grierson sighed in frustration.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Mrs. Grierson."

"You're afraid," the old lady said ruefully. "You should be afraid, young lady. Afraid of losing yourself."

Lucy looked up with a frown of bone-deep apprehension, suddenly aching for an escape. Mrs. Grierson hadn't called her a 'young lady' in over ten years; without Mr. Yamada here, she knew what was coming, and it terrified Lucy. "Losing myself?" she asked, trying to hide the quaver in her voice.

Mrs. Grierson shook her head. "Old Hound will be having my head for this," she said, "but I couldn't care less about that old man. Lucy, Emilio has been away for less than a year and you've already lost that sharp tongue of yours. Old Hound and I gave you four openings in the last few minutes alone. Four. And you took none. You didn't even seem to notice."

Lucy flinched as soon as she said 'Emilio', barely hearing the rest of the old lady's speech over the roar of her emotions. "Please stop talking, Mrs. Grierson," she pleaded.

"I will not. You need to hear this. I can't abide seeing such a fiery young woman like you reduced to this," she said with disdain, "a wet blanket of a bird begging an old lady for mercy and mourning the death of her future husband before it's even happened. For goodness' sake, you've even grown out your hair. What would Emilio say if he saw you right now? And the two of you still haven't middle-aisled it yet, to boot. When he comes back, you better get it done right away. Old Hound and I ain't getting any younger."

Lucy shook her head helplessly, struggling to keep her emotions on the inside. "He was drafted in," she finally managed. "Mrs. Grierson, he was sent to war."

"And? Don't you think I remember that, young lady?"

Lucy didn't say anything. She stared at the glass in her hands, but the idea of cleaning it was long forgotten.

Mrs. Grierson finally sighed. "Yes, dear, Emilio was sent to war all the way in Europe," she said gently. "I know that. And you know he wanted to fight after hearing about Pearl Harbor and what was going on overseas."

"Propaganda," Lucy whispered. "And you know I didn't take Emilio seriously. No one took him seriously."

Until the day they'd received a letter informing them that Emilio had been drafted, and he'd actually smiled at the news. Thank god, he had said in Spanish. Lucy had been dismayed, which had sobered Emilio's joy somewhat, but she still remembered him remarking how he was looking forward to the day when he was finally shipped over to Europe. You know they need magicians helping them, he had said. They need every person they can get. And Marie and Gio are over there, stuck behind enemy lines in Italy. I've gotta find them.

Lucy had offered every kind of objection she could think of at the time, but she'd finally ended up with: But you're leaving me alone.

Emilio had snorted at that. What, my bearcat? Scared of being alone? Tell me it ain't true, he'd scoffed. But eventually he had softened and said, If you need help, you can always call Alex, or even Viv. You know they'd come at the drop of a hat if you asked. But I have to go, Bearcat. Even if I didn't want to – and I do – I can't just say no. That's draft dodging. I'd get thrown in gaol.

Better in jail than six feet underground, she had retorted, and then she'd broken down right in front of God and everybody.

Mrs. Grierson looked at Lucy with sympathy. "I know how hard it is," the old lady said softly. "My youngest son was drafted in during the Great War. He ended up in the trenches in France."

Lucy, despite herself, looked at Mrs. Grierson with horror. She'd never had a formal education, but she'd heard enough stories about the Great War to know that the trenches had been a death sentence to tens of thousands of soldiers. She was almost too afraid to ask: "Did he come back alive, Mrs. Grierson?"

"No. Wandered too far into no man's land, I was told."

"Oh. I'm sorry." The apology fell flat even to Lucy's ears.

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Grierson said anyway, looking tired. It made Lucy wonder if she would ever look that way. "But it was decades ago. I still miss my son, but time heals all wounds, as they say."

"Are you saying that if Emilio dies, it'll be okay?"

"Of course not!" Mrs. Grierson looked as if she was offended that Lucy'd even suggest the idea. "I'm saying that I understand how you feel, dear. But Emilio isn't dead yet. He's certainly not fighting in any trenches like my son was. Have faith in him. He's never struck me as the kind to die easily."

The last remark made Lucy smile faintly at the truth of it. "That's true, I guess," she admitted.

Mrs. Grierson beamed at the sight. "I'm glad you agree with me."

"But he said he'd send me letters. And I haven't gotten a single one." Lucy clutched the glass in her hands tightly. "I'm worried. That something's happened to him and it's why I haven't any letters from him."

"I'm sure he's fine, Lucy. If he was hurt," and Mrs. Grierson said 'hurt' very carefully, "you know the army would've let you know. Might be correspondence from the soldiers hasn't gotten back home yet. It is a war zone over there."

"I suppose." Lucy's heart didn't feel convinced.

"Oh, Lucy," Mrs. Grierson sighed. "I can't do everything for you, dear. You have to make things better for yourself."

Lucy smiled sadly. "I'll try, Mrs. Grierson."

"I suppose that's the best I'm getting, isn't it?" When Lucy didn't respond, Mrs. Grierson shook her head ruefully and set her glass down, which was now empty. "Make me another, will you, Lucy?"

"Of course, Mrs. Grierson."

The old lady watched Lucy bustle around as she swiped the glass from the bar top rather a bit more clumsily than she'd had with Mr. Yamada's and put it away. As she took the bottle of sherry from the shelf with trembling hands, Mrs. Grierson asked, "When was the last time you were out and about, Lucy?"

"Out of The Blind Griffin?" Lucy paused to consider this, relieved at the change of topic. "When the last shipment came in, I suppose."

Mrs. Grierson made a noise of frustration. "That's not what I mean, Lucy. When did you last go out to enjoy yourself? Have fun?"

Lucy's spirit fell as she listened to her speak. "I stepped out for some fresh air last week," she replied stiffly.

"Oh dear." Mrs. Grierson shook her head, clucking in disapproval. "How about this, Lucy: tomorrow, don't open. I'll take you to one of my favorite shops. It has to be terribly lonely here by yourself, and they sell the most wonderful dresses. A surprise for your dear Emilio when he comes home, maybe."

Lucy shook her head as she poured gin into the shaker. "I can't, Mrs. Grierson. Someone needs to watch the place. And what about the candy shop upstairs?"

"Get that Russian gentleman to come over," Mrs. Grierson said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Alex, wasn't it?"

"He's busy with his own work, Mrs. Grierson."

"But he's your friend," the old lady said as if that fixed everything. "And I'm sure The Blind Griffin will be perfectly all right if you're not here for a day."

Lucy made a sound of annoyance as she passed the glass over to her, but she already knew that there was no arguing with Mrs. Grierson once she had her mind set on something. "All right, Mrs. Grierson. Whatever you say."

The old lady beamed at her. "Good. And maybe we can get that hair of yours cut while we're out. I know the perfect look for you, dear."

Lucy ruefully shook her head.

Mrs. Grierson had asked earlier what Emilio would say if he could see her right now. To tell the truth, Lucy knew very well what he would say – and if he was here right now, she knew that he would be dragging her out the door right then and there instead of waiting until tomorrow.

"Lucy? Are you listening?" She blinked to realize that Mrs. Grierson had been trying to speak to her. "Oh, sorry, Mrs. Grierson. What were you saying?"

"I said that you should pour yourself a drink," the old lady repeated.

Lucy shook her head forcefully before Mrs. Grierson could even finish what she was saying. "Oh no, no. I can't do that. It'd be unprofessional of me."

"Unprofessional? Dear, there's no one here except for you and me. And I certainly won't judge. Go on, Lucy," she insisted. "A woman needs to treat herself on occasion. What better time than when your boy's at war?"

Lucy sighed, remembering what she'd thought of Mrs. Grierson's stubbornness earlier. "All right, Mrs. Grierson. Whatever you say, right?"

Despite that, she poured for herself only ordinary cider - it had been a while since she'd drunk for enjoyment; now Lucy mostly only came into contact with drink because she had to serve it to patrons.

Mrs. Grierson didn't seem to notice, and the old lady beamed at her. "I went out to visit my grandchildren last Saturday," she began.

"Did they tear the feathers from your hat again, Mrs. Grierson?"

"Of course not, as you can see!" Mrs. Grierson said, trying to look affronted and failing. "What happened was far worse. You see, my son and I..."

Mrs. Grierson continued to ramble on pleasantly, but while Lucy attempted to listen, what she found herself thinking of was this week's newspaper reports of underground rebels in Italy, and of estimates for the war's duration.

. . .

A week later, Lucy came out of The Blind Griffin with a new haircut, ready to open up shop for the day. There was a letter in the mail.