For the next hour or so, you station yourself near Marcus, placing yourself right in the middle of the ebb and flow of life in the Timeless Circle. You wave to people as they pass, calling out greetings and curious questions.
You're something of a curiosity to them, too. You're the only person they've ever met who has magic besides Josephine, and they've spent the last week hearing about you from Josephine and Lianna. Maybe you can help them; maybe you can reinforce the magic that keeps them frozen in time—and keeps them alive, in some cases.
You talk to Marcus about his art; you talk to Gabriella about her poetry; you talk to other people about what they're growing in the garden, or what they hope to do next week or next year or next decade—they have all the time in the world, after all.
Every one of your casual questions has something beneath the surface: something sharp and pointed and probing.
But somehow, nobody seems to open up to you.
You try asking Nick about the repairs he's doing to his cottage, and he just shrugs and says, "Yeah, it's going well."
You ask Gabriella about what she's been working on, and she gives you a vague handwave as she says, "Oh, you know. Poetry."
You ask Marcus about his painting—an abstract piece in bright colors like the batik-print shirt he's wearing—hoping that that will lead to something useful. "It reminds me of my brother," is all that he'll say.
Oh, now there's something actually useful! It could be an opening to talk to Marcus about his family. And maybe get him to influence his relative's vote on the board of directors.