"Angua, hi!" Lacey wheeled around, tossing a couple of handfuls of rose petals just as a flourish (it didn't look nearly as stylistically-pretty as she wished it did) when she turned to greet her, only to stop short, her smile faltering.

". . . transfer papers? As in transferring out?"

The quaver in her voice was audible enough.

Lacey didn't waste any time (except to dig through the rose petals that had materialized in the pocket of her apron to get to her order pad) coming up with a full, carrot-free vegetarian lunch course, scribbling quickly to mask a tiny bit of her surprise.

"Back to Ankh-Morpork," she concluded a bit sadly. "Well. You have been missing it there for a while, haven't you?"

Lacey tried for a moment, and failed, to picture Sgt. Quinton and Constable Pelly . . . actually doing a job. But that was all very apples-to-oranges, wasn't it?

"In that case, you did a pretty good job of staying here for a while," she noted ruefully as the bell on the service counter rang to let her know the broccoli soup was ready. She got that set out on the counter -- yes, with rose petals strewn carefully around the edges of the saucer beneath the bowl -- along with a glass of water and leaned against the counter in return. "And dealing with Ralph and the troopers just isn't the same, right?"

"There is," Lacey replied, peering out from behind the coffee machine; there were fresh rose petals in her hair, thanks to the shower of them that had fallen into the stack of coffee filters she'd retrieved from the top shelf. "Is there something I can do for --"

She got a glimpse of the package. "Oh, that had better not be a pair of shovels or a pink stuffed cow . . ."

"Wow, that's official," Lacey said after several blinks and a slight tilt of her head. She reached under the counter for her purse and pulled out her wallet, fumbling a bit until she managed to extract her Ontario driver's license (class G). She held it out to him, asking, "Will that do?"

Arguably, she was one you needed to keep an eye on, depending on who you asked. (Sometimes it was just entertaining.)

"Okay?" That was new; most of the delivery people she'd dealt with in the past, here, hadn't really cared that much whether she signed for the package or not, and she'd gotten used to insisting on it. So it was a nice change, if unnerving in its . . . change-y-ness.

"I've got my own pen," she added, (unnecessarily) proudly and not terribly helpfully, clicking said pen a couple of times before she signed her name with a fancy little twirl at the end of the final 's.' That done, she took the package and -- having decided that maybe someone back home had sent her a surprise -- tore into it.

". . . rutabagas?" She gave K a perplexed look. "Someone shipped me a box of rutabagas?"

"Not exactly." The flourish on her signature was not code for anything. OR WAS IT? (No, it wasn't. But it could be.) "I mean, I typically get it delivered, but not by mail order. These are amazingly fresh for coming in parcel post. You'd think they'd have been a little ripe."

She giggled, a totally inelegant little snort. "Heh. Ripe."

"I can think of someone who would, but I doubt he'd claim the responsibility," Lacey admitted. (Responsibility ran away from Hank Yarbo. As did anything easily offended by a lack of personal hygiene.) "Besides, I think mastering the act of sending a parcel is beyond him."

He'd be that guy who asked about the price of sending a parcel and then asked, in all seriousness, if the price was a joke.

"He only thinks he does," Lacey said, rolling her eyes mildly. "I'm not even sure he has one most of the time . . ."

Okay, so technically she was an alien . . .

"Ameboids?" Lacey repeated uncertainly. "What are -- that sounds unpleasant."

. . . Lacey was now picturing an embarrassing physical affliction in line at the border, actually. After several years in Fandom it was surprisingly easy.

"Do we have pie?" Lacey exclaimed, looking a bit scandalized as she indicated the dessert case in a way that would make Vanna White proud. "We have all kinds of pie. Well. Apple, chocolate mousse, and lemon meringue today."

"Two slices to go it is," Lacey confirmed cheerfully, scurrying over to box up the requested dessert. "Any coffee to go with that?"

Lacey looked absolutely scandalized. "Of course I have real half and half!" And soy creamer, but he didn't seem like the type, and anyway she was bringing out the pitcher of creamer just to prove it. "I am not having any of that powdered chemical stuff in my coffee, thank you very much."

Lacey would have, had it not been out of reach and half and half specifically requested anyhow.

"Well, I guess there's no point in asking you if I should leave room for cream," she remarked, setting the box of pie on the counter before she filled a paper to-go cup (with a tastefully decorated cardboard heat sleeve) for him.

Someone like Lacey. Which was a sad commentary on Lacey, but eh. Facts of nature.

"Thanks for delivering it?" That was less than certain sounding, but come on. Unexpected postal rutabagas were unexpected. "Enjoy your pie, now."