Diamond Bright

When it came down to it, Emma was bored. There was only so much sitting quietly and playing nicely that she was capable of the in the first place, and she'd used most of it up the first fourteen years of her life, trying to be perfect for Winston.

Which is how the germ of an idea started tickling inside her head, and why Emma was in her alcove, pecking away at her Blackberry and haphazardly shoving items in a bag. It was devious and sneaky, and might actually work. Now she just needed to work out the timezone difference to make sure she didn't arrive too early, and her evil plan would be complete.

[OOC: Open alcove!]

Emma was quite done with this nonsense, thank you.

After a few bags had appeared around her feet during First Aid, continually tripping her up, she'd stomped back to the cabin, yanked the bags out from earlier, and promptly gone and tossed them in fire pits around the cabins. Sheilding herself didn't seem to stop them from them from appearing, or to stop her from chucking the smaller ones out the window.

The giant box marked 'Warning: Hazardous Materials' with the names of her family scrawled on it was too heavy to lift, so it got a blanket thrown over it, and Emma was going to sit on it and read her book, occasionally tossing another handbag outside.

Take that, Fandom.

[For those that know who they be, plz.]

Since yesterday had been a whirlwind of classes, Emma was dedicating today to organizing what little she had brought with her. Hank had promised to send the rest to her, and Emma was anticipating being able to buy or appropriate whatever else she needed from the mainland this weekend.

Her newest investments were apparently paying off quite nicely already, and while Emma didn't like touching her nest egg before it had matured a bit more, some sacrifices had to be made in the name of keeping up appearances.

Not that shopping was a sacrifice, when you could telepathically haggle the price down just a smidge. Emma did so love a bargain.

For now, however, she was stretched out on her bed, curtain of her alcove flung back, reading the newest issue of Forbes. Really. For men with money, some of them had horrible taste in suits. They could buy a personal stylist; there was no reason for so much fug.

[Looking for a sib, but open post is open. Please. Come poke the telepath.]