Author's Note: From the bottom of my heart – thank you for your continued support of this story.
And now we get the fun! Data and Tasha have arrived at their destination. They get five whole days to themselves with no Enterprise and no work.
There are a number of homages to various documentaries in this instalment:
"Hauxwell" is a tribute to Hannah Hauxwell.
The book mentioned is, in fact, a real book just Doctor Henry Stephens was a real author, inventor, and surgeon. His mention and our beloved "Clopper" are a reference to three of my favourite historical authors/presenters and their magnificent work to study agricultural history and the history of British rail.
As always, if you enjoy chatting about the fandom or writing in general – join me on Twitter TheTartanTart.
They arrived on foot in a small village an hour later.
For the first time in his life, Data felt he fully grasped the phrase 'kid in a candy shoppe.'
The street was cobblestone and lined with wee shoppes with brick walls and tin roofs. A horse-drawn cart passed them. It was filled to the brim with coal. A Vulcan man with a large handlebar moustache was selling fruit from a stand. He tipped his hat as they passed him.
Everything from the sound of the blacksmith's hammer striking a horseshoe to the oil lamps that lined the street were as if they had been ripped from the pages of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Charles Dickens.
Data stared in wonder. There was a quaint brick postal office, a woman hanging tallow candles in a shoppe across the way, and a historic chemist.
There was even a man pulling a live sheep along – which appeared to be more of a struggle than Data could have anticipated.
Data was so caught up in absorbing the sights, sounds, and smells of their surroundings that he failed to notice the strange looks of the various shopkeepers and residents as they eyed the android with scepticism.
"It's a protected area. Historic Preservation. Part of the Hauxwell Institute of Historical Sciences. No modern technology allowed. They specialise in the late Victorian Era," Tasha explained. "Welcome to Karstshire Village."
Nestled in the Yorkshire Dales, Karstshire Village was inhabited with living historians, archaeologists, agricultural researchers, and enthusiasts. They ran period-appropriate shoppes and wore late Victorian attire while both researching and teaching everything from historic farming and mining techniques, cooking, textile making, and woodworking.
Data was at a loss for words.
Tasha wasn't sure if his reaction was confusion, excitement, or disappointment.
"Look, I wanted to get you into the Sherlock Holmes Experience in London. They do this three-day thing where you live like Holmes and get to solve a case and everything," Tasha said apologetically. "I'm sorry. It's closed for maintenance. I thought maybe this would be the next closest thing. They offer Holmes-era activities and there's some interesting geological um – stuff - for you to check out."
She was rambling now, feeling doubtful, and questioning her decision to bring him here.
Tasha scratched the back of her neck as she shifted her weight foot to foot.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I should have checked with you before-"
She stopped speaking when he pressed his lips against her own.
"You planned this?" Data asked after he pulled away.
Tasha nodded slowly.
"For me?" Data pressed.
"Yes," Tasha replied, her voice full of uncertainty.
When he didn't react, Tasha decided to take the Targ by the horn.
"Was that alright?" Tasha asked.
Data did not respond. He cupped her face and ran his thumb across her cheek.
"I believe it is one of the kindest acts another being as ever done on my behalf," Data said.
Tasha beamed.
"C'mon," she said as she pulled him along toward the postal office.
A small bell rang as they stepped through the door. There was a large wooden counter. Behind the counter there was a wooden mail sorter that lined the wall.
The interior was lit only by the natural light that streamed in through the window. Data spied an oil lamp on the desk.
"This is an ineffective method of lighting," Data said as he pondered why the lamp would not be in use.
"Why waste the fuel during the daylight?" Tasha asked in response.
"Exactly," a man said as he stepped out from a back room.
He was a short, stout man dressed in straight trousers and a simple waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, indicating that he worked with his hands.
"Oswalt," he said as he shook Tasha's hand. "I run the parish post and Nettlewood Farm which means you must be my weekender."
"Weekenders," Tasha corrected, emphasising the plural as she pointed between Data and herself. "Like I mentioned in the booking, there are two of us."
She'd seen the looks Data had gotten on their way into town. Tasha wanted to shut down any prejudice before it could get started.
"Of course," Oswalt replied. "You two are a little more of the erm – unusual - variety."
Tasha stiffened.
"I just meant being Starfleet officers," Oswalt added quickly. "Sorry, most of our visitors are researchers or historical aficionados."
Oswalt provided them with a map of the area and directions to the cottage. He explained the hours of operation for the village services, walked them through some of the local attractions, and offered to provide them with training on how to use the equipment.
"I don't think that will be necessary," Tasha assured him.
Oswalt eyed them carefully, not quite buying her confidence.
Tasha swapped a significant amount of Federation credits for an equivalent amount of pounds sterling.
Data frowned as he watched the exchange.
"Tasha-" he opened his mouth to protest.
Tasha silenced him with a look.
"I don't know if you want to spend time in town first or head straight to the farm," Oswalt began before offering a warning. "But as a reminder, we don't allow anything modern – including your uniforms. Period appropriate attire is a requirement in the village."
"Not to worry, we packed for it," Tasha promised.
Data's audio receptors perked up at this notion.
Tasha apologised to Oswalt. She implied it wasn't possible for them to change out of uniform prior to their arrival. Data knew there was no regulation that would have prohibited this. However, he reasoned it was part of her effort to keep the nature of their destination a surprise.
"Once you're ready to head up to the farm, stop back in here," Oswalt instructed. "I'll introduce you to Clopper."
While Tasha stepped into one of the merchant's shoppes, Data slipped into the library. It was a long, thin building. In fact, it was the largest building in town.
Shelves lined the walls with antique books packed from floor to ceiling. In the middle of the building was a winding spiral staircase that disappeared into a beautifully painted mural depicting Arthwys ap Mar, the Kingdom of Ebrauc, and early Brittonic history.
According to Oswalt, it was the largest collection of preserved Victorian literature anywhere.
There was scent that lingered in the air – the mixture of parchment and the type of woody scent that Data had long ago learned to associate with non-replicated antique books.
Data heard footfalls and hushed voices coming from one of the nearby aisles of books.
"Hello?" he asked.
There was no response.
Data surmised it was likely that whoever was present did not wish to interact. It certainly wasn't unheard of. He was used to receiving this kind of treatment.
Being that he was on holiday, Data decided it was best to simply move along.
But as he strolled through the rows of the likes of the Brontë sisters, Butler, Ruskin, and Wilde, Data continued to hear the noise of tiny feet and wild whispers behind him.
"Is there someone there?" Data called out.
"What do you think it is?" a small voice asked.
"It's like Frankenstein's creature," another voice whispered.
Data identified they were young, likely children.
"Where's the steam?" a third voice asked.
"He doesn't look scary," a fourth child said.
The voice was higher, almost like the child was younger than the others.
"Quiet," the first voice said, shushing the younger one.
Data turned around and saw the heads of three kids retreat behind a bookcase.
"There is no need to be frightened," he assured them. "My name is Data."
The children stepped out from behind the bookcase.
There were four children – two boys and two girls. If Data had to guess, he would peg them between the ages of eight and ten. There was a fourth child that appeared to be younger, likely five or six. He didn't seem to be as afraid as the other children.
"Hello," Data said with a small wave.
The three older children bolted. They ran for the door that led back out of the library and into the cobblestone street.
But the youngest child hadn't moved. He took a step forward, staring up at Data with wide eyes.
"Hello," Data repeated.
He bent down on his knee to meet him at a closer height.
"George! C'mon!" one of the older children shouted.
The child took one last look at Data and then rushed off to join the others.
Data watched them go.
It wasn't the first time he'd experienced this. Children had varied reactions to his presence – some were fascinated. Others were terrified.
It was one of the things that had first prompted him to start volunteering at the school aboard the Enterprise . Many of his other assignments didn't have many families aboard. However, the Galaxy-class Enterprise had plenty of children and Data was keen to demonstrate he wasn't someone to be feared.
After the first instance of a child running from the sight of him in a corridor, Data had decided it would be best to establish a rapport with the ship's youngest residents.
With a resigned sigh, Data decided it would be best to find Tasha. He could get lost in a library like this. And they needed to get to their lodgings first.
Outside, Tasha was just leaving the shop across the road sporting a covered basket. She motioned with her head for Data to follow her back to the postal office.
"I'll have my best man show you to the farm," Oswalt offered.
"Oh that's not necessary," Tasha assured him. "I'm sure we can manage."
"He's looking forward to it," Oswalt said.
It was evident from the sound of his voice that Oswalt didn't quite approve of this.
The post master's eyes shifted to the staircase. There was a young boy peeking out from behind the banister.
"This is my son, Henry," Oswalt explained.
"Of course," Tasha said with an understanding nod.
Oswalt showed them around back to the stables where a large, black shire horse was waiting.
"This is Clopper," Oswalt said, introducing them to the horse.
"Hello, Clopper," Tasha said in a soft voice.
She carefully approached the creature and slowly extended her hand. Clopper sniffed at her hand. She held it there until he was satisfied that she was no threat.
Data now understood why Tasha had insisted he put on cologne that morning – she knew there would be a horse and she knew he needed to identify a scent to feel safe around Data.
"He's nearly eighteen hands," Oswalt informed them. "Part of research here is to help preserve breeds like this. Nearly five-hundred years ago, horses like Clopper here were a vital part of farm work in this area."
"Would you mind if I fed him a treat?" Tasha asked.
Oswalt nodded and she retrieved a few sugar cubes from her basket. She held her hand out flat to feed them to Clopper. She gently pet his neck and then backed away.
"I guess you weren't lying," Oswalt said. "You've done this before."
Tasha nodded.
Oswalt explained that, per Tasha's request, they would have Clopper for the week. He advised that all the supplies and feed they needed for him were already stored out at the farm.
As Oswalt walked her through the specific verbal commanders Clopper had been trained to recognise, Tasha pulled out an apple from her basket. She cut it into a few pieces and offered them to Data. Motioning with her head, she encouraged him to introduce himself to the horse.
Data had interacted with horses and horse-like creatures before – both in person and on the holodeck. However, he'd never met one quite as large as Clopper.
Oswalt watched curiously as Clopper seemed to relax. Data was speaking softly as Clopper nibbled at the apple slices in his hand. Oswalt could see from the angle of his ears that Clopper was content.
"Well I'll be," Oswalt admitted as he watched the pair.
They'd hit it off.
Oswalt hadn't expected this, but Tasha had known.
As it turned out, Oswalt's description of 'looking forward to it' had been an understatement.
Henry was nine and full of questions.
He liked to read. He collected rocks.
And he was fascinated by trains and ships.
"I've always wanted to see a starship," Henry said. "Papa says next year I'll get to go on the school trip to London to tour the Starfleet archives."
Although the area had physical restrictions about modern technology, the schools still operated with current curriculum and people came and went as required for medical care, travel, and research.
While there were some families that stayed long-term, most families only lived in the area for a few years to complete research before moving on.
Oswalt's family had been around for decades.
"Violet McCann's brother went away to Starfleet," Henry explained. "He came back a month ago. He spoke at our school. Do you study asteroids as well?"
"Sometimes," Data answered.
"How many planets have you been to?" Henry asked.
"1,238 planets, 751 moons, and 313 Federation starbases," Data replied.
Henry's mouth fell open in astonishment.
He wanted to know everything – what planet Data was from, how he operated without steam power, and if missed his family.
"I cannot answer that," Data replied honestly.
Henry's disappointment was visible. He was walking a few steps ahead of Data and Tasha. His shoulders slumped and his pace slowed.
"I was found on a planet called Omicron Theta. But I do not know if that is where I originated," Data explained. "As far as I know, I am the only one of my kind."
Henry stopped to pick up a rock along the side of the road. Although he'd physically stopped, his questions continued.
One of the things Data appreciated about children was their pursuit of knowledge – unabashed, pure of heart, solely driven to know the 'why.'
He could relate.
"Aren't you lonely?" Henry asked.
"Not anymore," Data answered as he took hold of Tasha's hand.
By the time they reached the farm, the sun had come up.
Henry showed them where the stable was for Clopper. As Oswalt had said, it was loaded with supplies to take care of the horse. There was a stack of firewood for heating the copper and a variety of farm animals on the property – chickens, one cow, and sow with a nest of unruly piglets.
It still appeared to be a working farm – despite the fact that it served as lodging for visitors. There were sheep in a nearby field and a functioning well.
There was also a bicycle available if they didn't feel like walking to town. Henry advised the seat was too high for him to ride comfortably but he didn't think it would be a problem for the adults.
"Me ma and brother will be out in the morning to tend to the farm," Henry informed them. "So if you hear anybody round the barn, it's just us."
Tasha understood. It wasn't all that different from the kind of chores she'd had during her early years on Turkana.
When they rounded the corner of the house a group of children ran off screaming. They jumped over the stone fence at the edge of the grass.
"Hello again!" Data called out.
Tasha put her hand on her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun and turned to Data for an explanation.
"They were in the library," Data explained. "But they seem frightened by my appearance."
Tasha could see their heads peeking over the edge of the wall. There were four of them in total.
She could tell Data was bothered by it.
"I don't think it's you," she said softly. "It's fear of the unknown. They've been raised in a world without modern technology. To them, you are the very thing they've been raised to live without."
She gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"It's not you, honey," she repeated. "They're just skittish."
Henry scoffed and waved them off.
"They aren't afraid. We're not afraid of anything," he said hotly. "Except I don't much care for sprouts."
His face contorted.
"Or high places. And I don't like when mummy sends me to the root cellar after dark," Henry added.
He shook his head.
"Thank you very much for all your help, Henry," Tasha said. "Why don't you go run along with your friends, hmm?"
"Papa said I have to see Clopper gets settled," Henry replied.
"I will see to it," Data offered.
He turned and headed for the barn.
Henry looked from the wall to the barn and back again.
"Go on," Tasha encouraged him.
"Thank you, missus erm-" he trailed off.
"It's Tasha. Just Tasha," she told him.
Henry nodded and then raced off across the grass.
"Hey you lot! Wait for me!" he shouted as he chased after the rest of the children.
Tasha breathed a sigh of relief.
They were finally – truly – completely alone.
As she approached the barn, Tasha could hear Data speaking softly to Clopper.
From the edge of the doorway, she could see him give the shire horse an extra treat – a few more sugar cubes he had been hiding since they left town.
"We will not tell Tasha," Data said quietly as he stroked the horse's neck.
Tasha smiled to herself.
For all Data's alleged emotionlessness, he was a real softie when it came to face-to-face interactions with other beings.
Tasha tiptoed up behind Data and wrapped her arms around his torso.
"You know we're never going to be able to have kids," Tasha commented as she rested her head between his shoulders.
Data stiffened and Tasha instantly regretted her choice of words.
Children were a sensitive subject.
"You've known this horse for less than half a day and you're already spoiling him," Tasha said, clarifying that her previous comment was just banter.
Data relaxed.
"Because he will be alone out here. And we are new. And I do not want him to feel uncomfortable," Data replied.
"You know your heart is too big, right?" Tasha asked.
It was a half tease, half sincere statement.
And it made Data melt.
Once inside, Data took their bags upstairs. The farmhouse was an old stone field barn that was estimated to have been built sometime during Earth's 16 th century.
The thatch roof had been replaced by tin in the early 20 th century and maintained ever since.
According to Oswalt, the tin roof offered a unique echo sound whenever it rained that most guests found nostalgic and comforting. Tasha suspected Data had never heard the sound of rain on a metal roof.
Tasha was familiar with the sound of rain on metal roofs, thatch, tarps, tents, and trees. She'd had more of her fair share of it on Turkana.
But rain was one of the sounds and smells she had always found comforting. The rainy season always brought a reprieve from the violence. People were less likely to kill one another when they were trying to stay dry.
The first floor of the cottage had a functioning Victorian kitchen. There was a large copper in the corner for hot water and a coal powered stove. In the middle of the room sat a sturdy wooden table with an oil lamp. There was also a hearth.
At some point, a wall had been added to partition off a sitting room which featured a small coal burner to heat the room.
There was no staircase – just a ladder that led to a loft where the bedroom was located. There was a large, four-poster bed covered in a homemade quilt, a dresser, a small wooden desk, an antique mirror, and another small coal stove for warming the room.
As he inspected the desk, Data was pleasantly surprised to find parchment and an antique pen and inkwell available for writing.
On the surface of the desk was a copy of a book with a well-worn spine.
Data picked it up and turned it over as he examined the object.
It was entitled The Book of the Farm: Detailing the Labours of the Farmer, Farm-steward, Ploughman, Shepherd, Hedger, Cattle-man, Field-worker, and Dairy-maid and was written by Doctor Henry Stephens.
Data opened the first page. The delicate nature of the object meant he was reluctant to read through it too quickly lest he damage the pages.
No, he would need to take his time and read it without the use of his inhuman speed in order to preserve the book's integrity.
"Hmm," Data mused aloud.
It was an appealing notion to think that he would have to read the book at a slower pace. It would give him time to savour it and to really get into character if he was going to pretend to be a Victorian era man all week.
Data's gaze fell onto the luggage on the floor.
He gripped his own bag and pulled it on the bed. Eagerly, unzipping the bag, he was excited to see the contents.
Tasha had insisted on packing for him.
And Oswalt had made clear that era-appropriate costumes were required.
There were pairs of trousers, waistcoats, braces, button-up shirts, thick woolly socks – everything he would need in order to blend in.
Data gasped as he pulled the final garment from his bag.
He ran his hands over the tweed and inspected the garment. It was not replicated. He could tell by studying the stitching pattern. While exquisite work, it was certainly handcrafted – and certainly the work of a skilled tailor.
Slipping it over his shoulders, Data stepped over to the mirror.
He turned around, meticulously studying every detail and angle with the precision that only he was capable of.
Data was curious how and where Tasha had managed to secure such a garment. There were no tailors of this skill level on the Enterprise .
All in all, Data spent nearly thirty minutes admiring his new garment.
He had a real Inverness cape.
Just like Sherlock Holmes. He thought gleefully.
After putting away his clothes in the dresser, Data selected an outfit for the day and headed back downstairs to find Tasha fast at work.
She was hunched over the table, carefully slicing an onion. Data watched from the ladder as she scooped it up and dropped it into a copper pot that was on top of the coal stove.
Tasha turned back to the table and then carefully measured a number of spices with her hand. She stuck her tongue out and her narrowed as she pinched just the right amount of salt.
After adding her spice mix to the pot, Tasha turned back to the table. She wiped her hands on her apron and then reached for her next task.
Data watched with fascination as she carefully shook some flour onto the wooden table and ten dumped a lumpy ball onto the surface. As she began to knead the ball, Data recognised it must be a dough of some kind.
In the time he was upstairs, she'd been busy.
Data had no idea she knew how to cook.
There was really no need to learn for most of the humans in Federation colonies. The use of replicators had largely made cooking a more symbolic or recreational pursuit.
However, as he watched her, Data had an inkling this was likely a skill learned because of the circumstances of her childhood. She was efficient and cautious – wasting no ingredients and working with the planning and skill that indicated this task was for survival rather than a hobby.
But as she worked, Data could hear she was singing softly to herself.
Data could not identify the melody, nor the language in which she was singing. They had removed their combadges as they served no purpose beyond the technology barrier.
"There is no universal translator here," Data commented as stepped over to her.
"It wouldn't have been able to detect it anyways," Tasha replied.
She dropped the dough into a dish and covered it with a damp cloth.
Tasha's hands were caked in flour, so she used the back of her wrist to wipe her brow. It was going to be hot in the kitchen. It would hell during the day – but they'd need the heat at night.
"What?" Tasha asked as caught Data staring at her.
"Will you teach me Turkanan?" Data asked.
It was a genuine request.
Tasha was taken aback.
She smiled nervously.
"Data, nobody speaks Turkanan-" she began to protest.
"You do," Data countered.
Tasha rolled her eyes.
"The Federation won't even go there," Tasha went on.
"All the more reason why learning it would be a unique opportunity," Data replied.
Tasha eyed him sceptically.
She picked up the bowl with the dough and moved it over a spot near the coal stove to rise.
"Data, nothing good ever came from Turkana," Tasha sighed.
"You did," he said simply.
Tasha stopped.
"When I least expect it, you find new ways to impress me," Data whispered as he came up behind her.
Tasha wasn't sure what to say.
"I want to learn Turkanan. I want to be able to speak to you in a language that no one else can," Data said. "I would like you to tell me all about Turkanan religion and history."
Tasha opened her mouth to change the subject, but Data cut her off.
"I want you to teach me how to cook," Data continued. "You have knowledge of history and language and skills that no one else in Starfleet knows."
He was right, of course.
And Tasha had never thought about it in that way.
"Tasha, it is my desire to know these things because they are your culture," Data explained. "And someday, if we have children, it will be their culture too."
Tasha sniffed.
"Onions," she said as she wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist.
Data released her as Tasha went to wash her hands.
"Thank you for the coat," Data said.
"Do you like it?" Tasha asked.
"It is thoughtful," Data answered.
Tasha flashed him a broad smile.
She'd been waiting to give it to him for three weeks. After their incident with the black hole, Tasha had wanted to get him something special.
Between the hearing and the Cardassians, the Romulans, and the black hole, the Sherlock Holmes program Tasha, Geordi, and Worf were working on had been knocked to the bottom of the priority list.
They were planning to resume after their leave.
In the meantime, Tasha had found something else that would suffice.
With the help of Guinan and one talented Cardassian tailor, she'd managed to secure a one of a kind, Holmesian Inverness cape made of real tweed. It had been a difficult task to track down the elusive Cardassian Garak.
But once they had found him, he had been thrilled with Tasha's commission request.
"You better open that package on the table," Tasha remarked, directing his attention to a box on the end of the table.
Data cocked his head to the side.
"Tasha, I was not aware you were planning to exchange gifts. I fear I did not get you anything," Data said.
"Just open it already," she said urgently.
Data opened the box. There was a small note inside that simply read ' all my love – T .' He pulled back the paper.
For a moment, he stopped blinking.
There was a calabash pipe inside – just like the one he'd destroyed during their investigation of the Antican and Selay delegates.
The same pipe he'd disposed of after fearing that he'd upset her.
The very pipe that she'd cried about, begging Data to promise her that he would never change who he was for anyone.
"Don't ever change who you are or what makes you happy for anyone. Promise me?"
It was the same pipe, only this one featured an engraving on the edge of the bowl.
It read: 'The little things are infinitely the most important.'
In their time together, Data felt that he had grown more in his human development than any of his twenty-six previous years of activation.
The pipe was more than just a material item. It was a reminder of what Tasha had given him that day and every day since - patience, support, and love.
"Tasha, earlier I told you this trip was the kindest act another being had ever shown me," Data said as he traced his fingers over the pipe.
"I find that statement is no longer accurate," he said as he looked up to meet her eyes.
"Just promise me you won't smoke it in this kitchen," Tasha teased.
Tasha had wanted to wait, but she couldn't resist the thought of him curled up by the fire with his pipe in hand. This would likely be the only time they would ever get to do something like this outside of the holodeck, and she wasn't going to deny him the chance of having his pipe in hand for a chilly night on the Dales.
She already had Garak working on a stalking cap to match his new coat and only hoped the holodeck programme would be ready in a few weeks' time lest she find herself growing impatient again.
"Is there something I can assist you with?" Data inquired.
"Not right now," she answered.
Tasha turned back to stir the contents of the pot. After she was satisfied, Tasha replaced the lid.
"I'm just about to clean this up and then I was going to change," Tasha explained.
She hung her apron on a hook along the wall.
"Would you like me to set the table?" Data offered.
Tasha realised that she should probably clarify.
"This won't be ready for hours," she informed him. "Probably late tonight since it's already nearly 10:00 hours."
Ten minutes later, Tasha climbed down from the loft – geared up and ready to head out.
"What?" Tasha asked as she caught Data's look.
"Is it your intention to go out like that?" Data inquired.
Tasha's face fell.
"Um, yeah," Tasha replied.
She couldn't hide the uncertainty in her voice.
Her posture changed immediately. She averted her gaze and tugged at her sleeve.
Tasha chewed on the inside of her lip as she tried to find the right words. She understood this was important to Data – and knew just how much of a stickler he was for historical accuracy.
But Tasha wasn't about to change who she was just because of some antiquated ideas about gender roles. Nor was she about to sacrifice security and comfort. They were on leave. And she was determined to enjoy herself as well.
Tasha also knew Data hadn't meant to offend her, but she couldn't help but feel hurt by his question.
Of course she was intending to wear this. Why else would she have put it on?
"Tasha?" Data prompted.
"I'm sorry if this isn't what you were expecting, but it's what I'm wearing," Tasha said firmly. "I know you didn't mean to be hurtful. But to be frank, I don't appreciate you questioning my choice of attire. I've seen Victorian women's clothes and I'm sure as hell not walking around some mucky farm in that."
Data's brow furrowed.
"I was not passing judgement on your choice to eschew a bustle dress for trousers and a waistcoat," Data said. "I was referring to the flour on your face."
Tasha's eyes went wide as she subconsciously reached up to touch her nose.
Data picked the damp cloth from the table and wiped the flour from her nose and the side of her face.
"I-I'm sorry," Tasha apologised.
She was embarrassed.
"I don't know how I could think you were-" she began to say.
She stopped when Data placed a finger on her lips.
"Not only do I endorse your choice of costume, I think you should wear it more often," Data said. "It is, what I believe humans would call, 'cute'."
Data thought she looked like an old-fashioned newsboy.
While the waistcoats she had packed for Data were vibrant brocades and made from the likes of silk and tweed, Tasha had selected a mix of neutral browns and muted mustard for herself.
It embodied the differences in their personalities to a tee, and for Data there was something adorable about it.
She threw on an ivy cap and pulled him along toward the door.
"You know you can check books out from the library here? Real books?" Tasha said, changing the subject.