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A. It's too cold to be outside, or she would most certainly be out. It's snowing outside the library, the flakes drifting down beyond the pane, and the woman perched in the windowsill doesn't seem to be anywhere near dressed for the weather. Her robes are light, more ornamental than practical -- some relics of a bygone era. Dark hair is impossibly long, spilling down the sill and nearly to the floor, left loose and undecorated. In her lap is a pad, and she appears to be attempting to draw . . . though it's hard to say, watching her, that she even knows how to hold a pencil. She keeps shifting her fingers, trying to find something that looks comfortable, and the scrawl that she's producing doesn't look much like anything at all.

You'll either find her trying at this or casting down her pencil in disgust, staring out at the falling snow. For anyone spiritually-inclined, she's exuding an enormous amount of spiritual presence; for anyone else, she's merely a woman -- though one who looks very out of place.

B. Sounds like the triads are at it again. They seem to have cornered a tall, pale woman in the nearby alley. Her dark eyes spear them, her voice raised in demand. Whatever she says, however, is lost on the triad members, who smirk. One sparks fire into his hands, ready to move.

The woman answers with no bending. Perhaps she doesn't have any at all.

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"I have never paid attention to it." The Mother is studying the stick figure again, working to copy it. Her grip on the pencil is obviously awkward and far too hard. The pencil moves . . . the circle that it produces is wobbly -- the work of someone who has not ever developed the hand-eye coordination to write.

The corners of the Mother's mouth are tight with dissatisfaction.

"But it seems, perhaps, one of the better creations of humanity."

You know, if she can actually manage to do it herself. Otherwise she may yet change her mind.

Well, whoever this woman is is one of the stranger people Mia has ever met. Mia's still trying to swallow the last of her lines. Either it's a rather hyperbolic statement—to say that it's one of humanity's best achievements—or there's something more behind it.

Regardless, Mia doesn't comment on it. She's been raised better than that.

"There are some amazing pieces of artwork in the city that I could show you. There are a few museums in town that have some fairly decent collections," she offers helpfully. "Unfortunately, if you're looking for lessons, you'd have to find those on your own. I wouldn't know where to start looking."

Surprisingly, there's a half-smile -- amusement as the truth of the situation finally occurs to the Mother, though she still concentrates on the lines of her pencil.

"You do not recognize me."

"Though I may still take your offer."

Mia blinks for a moment, and suddenly her mind is strolling backwards through time. Should she be recognising her? Is this someone she ought to know? But try as she might, the face just can't be placed, nor can the exotic clothes. Nothing matches.

Unless...

Unless she's met this woman before in another context. But then...

A spirit? 'Tis possible.

A similar half-smile echoes Mia, though her eyes still don't light up entirely with recognition, even if they light up with understanding. "We've met before then?" There's uncertainty in her voice, but she's sure she's at least right about that. "If that's your wish, then... okay." She broadens the smile just a dash, becoming more friendly.

"I am the Mother of Faces." The Mother's voice is quiet, but she also does not seem to be overly concerned with anyone overhearing. Instead she focuses on echoing the legs of Mia's stick figure drawing. "In this time and place, however, you may refer to me as Uma."

And only then does it all hit Mia at once. Of course. Of course.

"Out and about exploring the world, hm?" Mia's voice is soft, just above a whisper, but her smile broadens. It gladdens her heart to hear her name and to know that she had taken the advice she'd given. "So, Uma... I admittedly can draw a little better than that; I was trying to do something... very quickly. And not to mar your sketchbook too much. But you might find real art much more amazing than what little I can offer you."

Her eyebrows rise at the first comment, though her reply is less offended and more a matter of pride. "Unlike some, I am not confined to my pools. And if I am to be forced to be here, I may as well understand my cell."

Yes, Mia, you and Aang both suggested it. And she knows it, privately, even she does not give the credit openly.

"As for my . . . sketchbook, there is nothing to mar." Her hand moves for the girl to see the finished product; the result is . . . well . . . pretty bad, like a two year old with their first crayon -- a fact that she's fully aware of, pressing her lips together briefly. "Apparently I cannot begin to reproduce what little human art I have seen."

So irritating, to have a human make something she actually admires -- and then be unable to echo it.

Knowing who she is, and with an implicit invitation to sit down next to her, Mia does so, scooting the chair closer to the table as she looks over at the rather uncertain lines and curves that make up the Mother's attempts. She smiles sympathetically but allows her eyes to drift up to her. "I knew you weren't confined to it, Uma," she says softly. "On the contrary, I'm glad to see you've come to visit, as it were.

"But that said, though you may not be able to reproduce our semblance of art, you have something far greater," Mia continues as she gently takes the pencil out of the Mother's hand and flips the page to find a blank page to begin a sketch of her own. "You have your own art—the art of creating faces... identities. You are the artist and sculpture behind this." She pauses from writing to wave her left hand over her face. "And... indirectly, you are the artist that created the capacity for us to create this more simple art. That, in an of itself, is perhaps the greater achievement." Perhaps the words might sound like embellishment, but they're quite serious. After all, Mia is amazed at the spirit's responsibility and her work.

That said, she begins a rather crude—but certainly better than stick-figure quality—outline of the Mother, occasionally glancing up at her for reference.

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