I am. I am. I am.

This post is backdated to the first day of Dark!

The first morning of Dark dawns clouded and cold, a ferocious wind howling past Susan's windows.

But her schedule shan't wait for nicer conditions. She's been inventorying and re-inventorying the supplies she and Tress put away — a surplus even if their population should swell considerably, but there are the individual taste preferences of residents to account for, and little surprises to tuck away in the event that anyone might be having a bad day. She's posted announcements here and there throughout the Mansion about where to find particular resources, including hand-delivering invitations to Lan Wangji and - yes - even the angel, explaining that she's got several varieties of tea stowed away in the parlor that has become part of her suite of rooms, should they run out. Some of the supplies she's lain away were provided by the Mansion; many preserves (fruit, vegetables, cheeses, fish, sausages, and so on) are ones she and Tress prepared across the course of the year, with aid from friends and neighbors. There are general stores available for all, and also pockets specified for particular individuals based off what she knows about their tastes. These latter stockpiles she's edited, again and again, as new people arrive and some individuals leave.

Last Dark, Sagramore and Laertes hadn't even had their little cottage by the lake. Now their home is brim-ful of family - and she's got the sense that their preference is to be able to host any friend who might wander their way in search of a meal, as well. Naturally, she'd like to enable that. At least much of her rejiggering of the size of their allotment was precipitated in early autumn by their visitors, when there was still ample time to easily make adjustments to the variety and volume of the goods earmarked for them. Still, there's more food than she could possibly carry over by herself, even with use of a wagon.

("You'll help me, won't you?" she'd asked Lancelot late last evening, curled up on his lap as they sat on the couch, the throw blanket pulled up over both of them in a facsimile of propriety and as protection from Regina's sharp little claws, the book she'd been reading aloud cast off to the side. His fingers stroking through her hair were gentle, distracting. "Neither of them has approached me about the signs Tress and I posted, and I shouldn't want them to go without just because they've not seen them." And of course he'd agreed to help her take over supplies after his morning training.)

Since she's got a very full day ahead, though, she takes the first bit over herself whilst Lancelot is still out. The wagon, full of what she imagines must be early essentials (coffee, sausages, fruit preserves, canned vegetables, and plenty of flour, sugar, and oil), drags through the snow, wheels catching on some frozen furrows of mud by the Mansion's door and as the path veers closer to the lake and then away again, but she makes it to their door unscathed. Once there, she squares her shoulders, wipes away the tears brought forth by the sharp frigidity of the wind, and knocks.