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Gradually, these past couple weeks, the weather's been starting to change, and Jenny's not sure she could be more grateful for it. Back on the island, it wasn't something she let herself think a lot about, in large part because they had that month and a half of winter that provided a break from the usual tropical climate, but here, as it gets cooler, the temperature dropping significantly at night and a distinct crispness to the air, she finds herself something like relieved. It feels more like home. She might not miss the place itself, but in the year before she showed up here, she missed having proper seasons, or just something other than the persistent humidity that had come with living on an island.
Let out of class a little early, she's wrapped in a sweater as she makes her way back to the apartment that's grown more and more comfortable in the time since she got here, stopping on a whim in a coffee shop to get herself something to drink. There, it's the pastries arranged behind a glass display case that give her an idea. She'll still have the place to herself for a little while when she gets back, she thinks, and she might as well do something else productive when she doesn't need to dive into any assignments for a while yet.
They already have everything she needs, fortunately, ingredients she spreads across the kitchen counter so she can keep track of everything. Working from memory might not be the most reliable way to bake anything, but for all that she never had any interest in most conventions of her time, this is one thing she's always been good at, and she's already figured out that being in a different world or whatever this is doesn't have any effect on how the recipes she's familiar with come out. (It would have been irrational to think otherwise, she's pretty sure, but then, she doesn't know how she could be expected to make any guesses about this, either.)
Mixer in hand, she almost doesn't hear the door open over the sound of its whirring, and she doesn't look away even when she does. "I'm in here," she calls anyway, as if that much weren't obvious enough already.
Let out of class a little early, she's wrapped in a sweater as she makes her way back to the apartment that's grown more and more comfortable in the time since she got here, stopping on a whim in a coffee shop to get herself something to drink. There, it's the pastries arranged behind a glass display case that give her an idea. She'll still have the place to herself for a little while when she gets back, she thinks, and she might as well do something else productive when she doesn't need to dive into any assignments for a while yet.
They already have everything she needs, fortunately, ingredients she spreads across the kitchen counter so she can keep track of everything. Working from memory might not be the most reliable way to bake anything, but for all that she never had any interest in most conventions of her time, this is one thing she's always been good at, and she's already figured out that being in a different world or whatever this is doesn't have any effect on how the recipes she's familiar with come out. (It would have been irrational to think otherwise, she's pretty sure, but then, she doesn't know how she could be expected to make any guesses about this, either.)
Mixer in hand, she almost doesn't hear the door open over the sound of its whirring, and she doesn't look away even when she does. "I'm in here," she calls anyway, as if that much weren't obvious enough already.