[attr="class","gunstest6body"]"sugar cookies." she replies, words warm on her tongue, fresh baked. "these in particular are good during the holidays. due to the extra eggs for a more custard-like flavor and pie spice, a seasonal favorite." she brought her own eggs, all from chansey. two dozen for multiple batches.[break][break]

"would you like to try some of the dough?" she hands the girl a spatula, a perfect mouthful rests on the bridge of it. [break][break]

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[attr="class","gunstest6body"]the array before them is an assortment of decadence. snow-dusted powdered sugar in a landscape of sweet and sharp and bitter and something you might never have tasted before. madeleines dipped in ruby white chocolate and granular sized specks of peppermint. eclairs puffed and filled, sweet vanilla custard and sharp lemon curd. atop the miniature opera cakes sugar has been spun, the full face of santa's beard upon a jolly good treat.[break][break]

it is all mechanics now, button clicked and green light saying go. she pours her guest some juice, and ice cubes clink against glass. then she pours her own. sat upon stone white stone coasters, the way they are cut mimics fine lace. she smiles politely before finally taking a seat herself. ah, how lovely this is! such a treat for a winter afternoon. "gladly," her voice sings an eerie note. "i don't often get to eat what we make here. i'm all too thankful to you for the perfect excuse."[break][break]

she nabs an eclair and takes the perfect bite. a small one, but still enough to catch the pastry, the curd, the frosting, and custard. a bit oozes from the side, where the pressure is greatest, but it thankfully it avoids her face. nanette smiles, polite and prim.[break][break]

"please, do indulge."[break][break]

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[attr="class","gunstest6body"]she remembers only in fragments. puzzles from different boxes mixed and somehow pieced together, he comes to her in parts. a planchette shifting on an ouija board. the sharp smell of cologne. smiles and cookies fresh baked. [break][break]

"do i know you from somewhere?" her eyes are vast in their emptiness. for it is an emptiness that is akin to space. the space between him and her. the space between this floor and the one above it. the space between stars and many galaxies.

be careful not to fall in.

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[attr="class","gunstest6body"]she's forgotten who she is. she's forgotten who he is. so she invades his space like there is nothing to holdback. social norms between them left somewhere between the wrinkles of an addled brain. he struggled, so nanette helped him.[break][break]

nanette moves like clockwork, in the way that its almost systematic. an automaton. she hums as she works, sisters from white christmas lulls from a closed mouth as she straightens his shirt and fixes the crooked points of his collar. she finishes buttoning up the few buttons left and redoes one that he missed. "how long ago did you get hurt?" she turns sharply, rummaging around the space for something. "shall we find you a tie, mr. sawyer?" 

MADE BY GUNSMILE

[attr="class","gunstest6body"]her memory bounces like a game of checkers, one piece jumped over another. and here she landed, walking along a king. though that is another board game isn't it?[break][break]

"i prefer nanette. thank you for asking." she smiles, ever polite. "do you have a preference, mr. beckett?"

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[attr="class","gunstest6body"]the pokemon's odd appearance does not sit well with her. nanette flees. she begins to wander again, footprints marring pure white snow.

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[attr="class","gunstest6body"]they insisted on dressing her this way.[break][break]

it seemed the idea sprung from nothing and came to fruition in only a matter of seconds. a whirlwind of older women and quick moving hands and her outfit was complete. fast work. a red coat that nipped and buckled at her waist and flared from it too. it was a scarleteen velvet hemmed in tufts of white sherpa and billowing sleeves. [break][break]

she frowned in the mirror as they sat a red pointed hat upon her head. [break][break]

matching shoes must not matter.[break][break]

the fluffy white ball tickled her nose.[break][break]

"thank you," she responds, voice crystalline glass, "shall we get to work? there are so many things to do." [break][break]

nanette has liked baking for as long as she can remember. sugar and butter creamed, then three eggs added. recipes seared into her brain like they follow the wrinkles that make it. vanilla and a bit of pie spice, dashed three times. the actions of it comfort her, her had nearly falls off as she begins to mix dry ingredients into wet.[break][break]

"sorry," she says finally, speech forgotten amongst the list of ingredients, "i must've forgotten. my name is nanette. how do you do?"

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she likes white. [break][break]

in it she could be sat upon the top of a christmas tree; rosied cheeks and a tender'd smile. an angel for mirth and merry —— she thinks she'd like it there, poised above everyone else. an ornament stuck at the tippiest top of the tree.[break][break]

she turns to Ashley Shepard in all that billowing white (the hat, the hair, the coat, it's an avalanche). [break][break]

"i like this."[break][break]

she turns back to the mirror. fingers comb through hair.[break][break]

"i feel like a snowflake."

MADE BY GUNSMILE

[attr="class","gunstest6body"]She wanders along the paths of route 101. Wide eyes and puffy, winter coat dragging along the scenery. It feels good, the brisk cold of winter. When she breathes it billows, rising into nothing.

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