Elsa Vinters and Her (Dys)Functional Family

Summary: What do you get when you cross a cranky, bear obsessed granny, an eccentric, quirky father, a morbidly indifferent mother, and a gorgeous yet painfully shy daughter with a broke art graduate determined to have a job? Some form of the Addams Family meeting Elsanna. Fluff galore.

This is a little something I had swarming my head for a while, and finally decided to type it out. Trust me I'll get back to The Coldest Moon soon, be patient (if you don't know what that is then check it out). This will also be fluffier and shorter than my other Elsanna story (mentioned previously). No real plot complications.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy.

Oh, also I don't know if this is going to contain smut or not, so the rating may or may not change. Depends on what you guys want.

Warnings: Elsanna (not related), fluff, one cranky grandmother, and one murderous dog. You've been warned.

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Chapter 1

Anna Solsten needed a job.

Well, another job that is. Working as a waitress can only pay so many bills until the debts start piling up, the eviction notices start flying through the mail like in Harry Potter, and the landlords start knocking. And it wasn't until the fourth red stamped letter came through that she really began seeking another form of work.

Bank tailor? No, math was the enemy. She X-ed that out on the newspaper.

Movie theater attendant? Though the girl loved her cinemas, she wouldn't even trust herself at doing the job if the next James Bond movie premiered. Another X slashed through the printed words.

Garbage man? That's just a big, fat, capitalized No. She scratched out that one (twice for good measure).

Secretary? Sitting down all day did appeal to her, so Anna skimmed through the rest of the brief, descriptive paragraph and . . . as she thought. The job was for an executive law firm. If she wanted to stumble around stiff, pompous, blue bloods all day, she would have more fun dealing with her estranged family.

Scribbling that out, her gaze flinted over the newspaper, and sighed as only three unread help wanted boxes came into view. Setting down the newspaper, Anna buried her face into her hands, tips of her fingers rubbing her eye sockets. Frankly, the inklings of a skull splitting migraine was taking root at her temples, pounding away like a chisel to ice. Chuckling morosely, she remembered how her last significant, stress-affiliated headache went down. It was Anna's last year of college nearing the end of the last semester. The professors, like the little devil-spawn that they were, seemed to converge all of the finals in one miniscule exam week, otherwise known to her peers as 'The Seven Days of Hell'. Anna, to this day, swears that they contrived the plan just to spite her. Even still, she passed with flying colors (but at the sacrifice of sleep and sanity), like always, and was even Valedictorian when she graduated.

Back then, she preached about how the job markets in her field of study were gloriously open wide, yet now, at the age of 20 with her master's in Art History, Graphic Design, and Conservation and Restoration of Fine Arts (top if her class in all, she might contribute also), Anna Solsten finds herself working at a 50's themed diner making lowly tips, living in a piss poor neighborhood, and coming home to an equally piss poor apartment. Which is now, Anna may begrudgingly add, being evaded by the sensual noises one floor above nearly every night, the landlord, and now notices for assorted reasons.

And being the stereotypical broke artist, her reserve funds have depleted to the bantam numbers of 4 point 73 and her refrigerator died last week. How lovely.

Shaking herself from those musings, Anna straightened, shook her hands out in type of warm up gesture, and went back to the help wanted ads.

Laundry mat worker? She can barely do her own clothes let alone some else's. Nope. Next.

". . . Hello."

Private painting restorer wanted. Pay high. $350 per picture. Note: most are 50+ years old; payment will be deducted if art is damaged. Room and board provided if necessary. Please contact Agdar or Idun Vinters at 1-879-775-9010 or send email at themajesticvintersclan . Thank you for your consideration.

Like a wild woman, Anna dashed to her phone, scrambled to the key pad (darn touch screens, no, she doesn't want Free Fall), and called the aforementioned number.

One ring . . . two . . . four . . . six rings later, it went to voice mail.

A posh, articulate man's voice was heard, prerecorded, "Greetings! This is the wonderful residence of the Vinters household, we can't get phone right now, probably do to various reasons like work, family issues, or other aspects of our lives that take up our time. Please leave your name and reason for calling at the—"

Beep.

"Wait . . . what?" Did the machine really just cut off mid stride? Anna blinked twice.

A beat.

"Oh, shoot I'm still on the phone!" She slammed her cell back to her ear, face on fire and right ear ringing. "Um, hi, this is, um, Anna Solsten calling about the restoration job for your paintings." Okay, that was decent. She could roll with that.

"Um, yeah." And insert not so becoming start. "I was hoping that you still have the opening because I would love to be considered." No, duh Solsten, why do you think you're calling? Panic settled in. "Unless, you know, you already have the job filled then why would I be calling, of course why would you have put that ad in the paper if you don't need a restorer? Funny thing, those newspapers. You can send in a prompt and it takes about a week for it to be reviewed and published, then by the time you really need it, it's not there because of today's bureaucratic systems of business and whatnot . . . and . . . uh, shoot."

. . . And she was ranting. Great. If they hire Anna, for some unspeakable reason besides a form of psychosis, she would truly be amazed.

"Anyways. . ." Anna trailed off, cheeks now free of her freckles because of the crimson complexion she's now sporting. She exhaled into the phone, defeated, "Look, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I really need this opportunity. I've graduated college about six months ago with a master's in Art History, Graphic Design, and most importantly Conservation and Restoration, which I think you're most interested in, but lately the only job relating to my credentials is making those little pictures on the chalkboard for half-priced specials at the diner I work at."

Pausing, Anna gulped and cradled the bottom half of her phone, "Yet, that's beside the point. If you still have the job open—and if you're still listening because my word vomit tends to scare people off—I'm available for consultation. If you're also suspicious about my college marks in the subject you could call back and I could give you my email.

"So, okay, that's about it, so, uh, bye?"

Click.

Dear Gods, she was hopeless.

It was much later, when Anna was nursing a ginger ale and a new Hogwarts-from-hell's notice that she wonders why the name Vinters sounded so familiar.

. . . . .

The metropolis of Arendelle was founded in 1793 and, in the epicenter of sea-bound trade, it soon became a prosperous, cosmopolitan area with strong, archetypes in Scandinavian cultures and people. Like New England with its strong Italian and Irish, the city had a good portion of its founding fathers and residents be of Nordic ancestry. Anna is no exception. And so are the Vinters.

With correspondence back and forth, Anna providing her university grades through email (does feistypanted-redhead sound professional?, she thought) and Agdar supplying his address, the girl finally placed Vinters in the long line of Arendelle's history, rumors, and folklore.

And let's just say, the gossip she gathered didn't hinder Anna's confidence when she drove up in her older model Camry that her father so kindly provided.

Note the satire, she thought as the first glimmers of the estate came into her teal gaze.

With her trusty companion the internet, in just a few days Anna learned about general make-up of the manor and the residing family within. The Vinters are one of the few founding clans of the city of Arendelle. They were originally Norwegian immigrants whose home was destroyed by the great Oslo fire in 1624 and they signed up as indentured servants over in America soon after, whether to have a change of pace or escape the religious war going on within Europe, no one knows. From then on, the family prospered from sea-faring trade by being privateers, fishermen, or port merchants. It wasn't until the mid- 1700s that the family really boomed socially and economically with investments in English textiles and American lumber. Therefore, the rest is history. They were the embodiment of the American dream in their infant years (which now has changed from colonization and mercantilism to paying off student loans and whether or not America will catch up with the world socially. Anna had her fingers crossed for the latter).

To put it frankly, they had money. Lots of it. Old money, at that—

"Holy trolls on Christmas. . ."

The utterance was on the high scale of Anna's 'curses'. Which is understandable considering it was pointed toward the Vinters' abode. Previously engulfed by trees, the Camry emerged from the forest around the city to a slightly hilly area free of tall timbers. And that is when she fully spots the house.

No, not house. Manor.

Anna had never witnessed such a magnificent display of architecture before. Regarding that it was a mix of the Wayne mansion and the Addams Family one. Although it leaned more toward the latter. It was like a beautifully haunting work of tectonic bisexuality.

The area of the estate was large enough to dwarf most mansions within three counties, its lavishly green well-kept grass, shrubs and vines complimented the quirky colored stone, and the monolithic fountain could host a pool party if need be; representing the Wayne Manor half. The Addams Family other was presented by the balustrades on nearly all the dormer windows (and Anna means all), it opal slanted roofs protruding in several places unevenly with the highest being like its own tower, the oriel windows along a few of its sides, and other architectural terms that represented the stereotypical haunted houses you see in cartoons and two-tone movies. Carved pillars adorned the front porch, making way to a large dark wood, arched door. There were even a few gargoyles.

And it was purple.

Well . . . more of a shade of eminence, just a slightly darker hue, than actual purple. Various other shades of the color graced the stone (how they got stone to that color Anna was lost) that ranged from near pale violet to a dark royal.

Anna's jaw hung open while she subconsciously drove along the spear tipped iron gates that surrounded the place (another testament to the haunted house aspect).

It's like evil Barney's house or something.

Yet, that thought didn't distract Anna from the presence and aesthetic of the home. It was actually quite comely. Even if it's a purple monstrosity at first glance.

Coming up on the open gate, she drove through a fantastic display of metallurgy, the crafted iron doors with a series of wisps and curls along the bars and the arched word Vinters above, and rolled down the gravel driveway until she reached the fountain's bend and parked.

The dinged up grey Camry seemed so out of place—and that included its owner.

Shoot, I knew I should've worn the pumps. One look at my Converse and they'll bring out the shotgun.

No wait, a simple shotgun won't do, they'll probably have something more sophisticated like a Safari rifle or whatever rich people have.

With the fear of being the new mounted specimen, Anna extracted herself from the Camry. Some ashen gravel dust kicked up as she warily shuffled to the door, eyeing the (mahogany, she thinks) Tudor arched entrance with . . . really? . . . Stereotypically brass lion door knockers.

There's so much wrong here, it kinda seems right.

. . . If that makes sense.

Reaching the doorway, Anna made sure no errant copper locks were attempting to escape the twisting bun she done last-minute, or if her eyebrows decided to stand up on their own. She swiped a forefinger across them, straightened her emerald sweater-vest and blouse, and made sure no white speckles adhered to her dark skinny jeans. She could've dressed better—if she had any other clothes to choose from. Fashion is a subjective thing when on a budge.

Anna's digits curled around the cold, brass knocker and was just about bang it when a withered voice came from her right.

"Halt, you red keratined trespasser!"

Jumping back, Anna whipped her head around with an audible snap.

A cane brandishing, frizzy haired, runty old woman came bounding around the porch, a sneer along her thin lips. Short, quick steps carried her over to Anna, who took a few wary steps back, hands up in surrender.

"Um, hi . . ." she started, her voice shaking like the cane the old woman had above her head. "I'm Anna here for—"

"Well, I don't care who you are, little foxy!" The elder interrupted, closing the distance with a few more curt footfalls. Despite the impending senior, Anna didn't know if that was insult or a compliment. "You are on private property without permission—"

"Actually I have an appointment with—"

"—little rascals always trying to see the manor, well, I'll have you know that I won't allow for any of it!" Still waving the walking stick, the grey haired woman came in close, uncomfortably close, to the frightened girl. She stretched her neck up, revealing a saggy turkey like neck, and craned her head so that one bulbous eye could fully view Anna. The latter scrunched up her body, one leg leaving the ground so it kneed up to her stomach, hands still in front of her face, eyes smashed shut for imminent scolding.

In such proximity, and disregarding the fact that a flogging could happen on the doorstep of such a prestigious (even though purple) home, Anna took a warily glimpse at the enraged hag through one quasi-open eye.

The elder's face was predominantly a curved nose, her cheeks sagged like gravity had an ultimatum just for them, wrinkles adorned every inch of pale flesh, and her ears drooped low. She must've been around 90 or so, or at least that's what Anna hopes. Not everyone ages gracefully.

"—and now I have to interrupt my vrschikasana pose to chastise a no good, trouble making, trespassing redhead. My mother always said gingers were bad news—"

Insulted by the accusation, Anna opened both eyes, though still had her hands up. "Excuse me!" She was particularly fond and very defensive of her copper locks. Her species is endangered after all. Putting her leg down, she retorted, "Redheads are kind, gentle creatures like unicorns, and I will not have a melaninless old granny tell me that I'm 'no good'!"

The stick in the woman's hand stilled and soon it met the stone porch in a muffled thud. It seemed to stifle the air around Anna.

Well that's a new insult.

A mixture of hurt and astonishment came across the woman's face, and Anna swore if she started crying she didn't know what she would do. The other's ripened face fell, "Old granny, huh?" A pause, then a sadistic smirk played along her thin lips as she spoke, "Well, if that's what you think. . ."

Anna watched stupefied as two sun spotted fingers came up to shriveled lips and, with one deep breath, whistled. In three notes the silver-haired lady shouted, "Sick 'er, Marshmallow!"

"Marshmallow? What's a—gah!"

A furry flurry of white charged from around the manor's corner. Anna resumed her earlier standing, half-curled position with a squeal. Something knocked her from her stance, sending the ginger to the porch. Wide eyed and breathless, she stared up at large, jagged canines accompanied by a low growl from a St. Bernard.

His—Anna glanced around (trying not to expose her neck) yeah definitely a he—massive paws were on either side of Anna's face as he bent down toward her panicking face.

Gulping around the lump, Anna managed to squeak out, "I'mherefortherestorationjob!"

The hot breath of the dog vanished, replaced by spring air.

Silence. That's all there was. Anna thought she might be dead. Dead, from a fluffy Pomeranian now resting on her chest, tail wagging, dark eyes staring back down at her.

Wait, what?

Like some form of magic, the dog-bear thing that once stood above her was now a smaller, cuter, totally harmless toy pup. It's large, deep eyes glowered into teal ones.

Pushing up on her arms, the smaller dog slid down to her lap, still whipping its tail back and forth. She glanced back at the old lady, cane settled to the ground and St. Bernard by her side, who eyed her with a murderous glance.

"You're the painting restorer?" The lady asked, incredulously. Her gold orbs still held doubt.

". . . Yes," Anna responded, standing, small dog under her arm. She brushed off her pants with her free hand as she continued, "Why else would I be here?"

The woman hummed, "Oh, you'd be surprised. Juveniles, curious children, reporters—"

"Reporters? Why would there—ow!"

A smarting pain resonated from Anna's thigh as the granny retracted the stick.

"Don't interrupt me, little foxy. I get enough of that from my grandson, and God forbid, I get another one—a ginger at that!"

Waddling over to the front door, the lady pushed it open and the bear-dog dashed passed her. The little one just about wiggled right out of Anna's grasp before she let him loose onto the world (not before a small scratch behind the ears first).

"Well, come on in! I'm getting closer to dying, more than you at least." The granny yelled from the foyer. Anna jumped up, startled, and darted into the manor. Nevertheless, she only got two feet in before she halted.

Unlike the outside, the inside was posh and very sophisticated with dark cherry wood walls, a monumental staircase that split off into two sections, disappearing around a bend, and a fleshly waxed floor. The ceiling was high, making Anna stretch her neck up to see the crystal chandelier. Pictures and antiques lined the anteroom, fully intact suits of armor and long passed ancestors' dead eyes glaring back.

It was like she stepped into another world.

Hence, why when the door slammed shut with the old woman muttering about 'air-conditioning and loitering teenagers' and an exuberant man in a black and white pin-striped tux came bounding around the corner, Anna nearly left her skin.

He looks like a zebra. A really classy-looking, south of billionaire zebra.

The man also had a smile that could turn her, if that was possible.

"Oh goodie!" He began, eyes swarming with excitement and questions. "You must be the painting restorer!" His voice had an air of savoir-faire as if they had already exchanged pleasantries millions of times before and was articulated in the right vowels and syllables.

But the way his shoulders were loose, mellow, made Anna like him even more. Her own slumped in relaxation. The man, Agdar, Anna already surmised by the similarity from the voice on the phone, sauntered up to her, and when he was in good distance, took the ginger's hand into his own, shaking it.

"I've been waiting for this day since you called." He smiled, marginally blinding Anna. "I'm Agdar from the phone, and it looks like you already met my grandmother. Lovely woman she is—"

"Lovely, my arse!" That was the grandmother from behind. "And if you don't mind I would like to get back to my yoga!"

Yoga? It was then Anna saw what the old woman was wearing, without the snarling dog obviously. Clad in some jeggings and a tightfitting workout shirt, it made the cane-wielding tyrant that was seem frail and small. Anna's attention snapped back to the younger Vinters as her eyes trailed up to the woman's chest—it was rather droopy in places.

The blatant foreign curse didn't seem to deter Agdar none. "As you are entitled to, Geneviève!"

With that, Geneviève, apparently, stalked out, dogs in tow.

"Oh! And it seems as if you met Marshmallow and Olaf too! Sweet creatures they are. . ."

'Sweet' was far from her mind as Anna grinned hesitantly, "Sure. . ."

When she realized that she and her employer were alone together, still shaking hands and smiling awkwardly (well, more on Anna's side anyways), she finally took in his presence.

Agdar was lean, handsome middle-aged man with light copper, well-kept hair, a strong jaw and cheek bones. His nose was prominent but not overly so that it took away from his rather attractive features, accompanied with a small, delicate mustache along his upper lip. The suit that he had on was tailored to his form impeccably, and though it otherwise reminded Anna of Sheldon's Halloween Doppler Effect costume, it still gave him a humble presence. And he had kind, light eyes. Eyes like a father's.

She didn't know where that came from, but it seemed to fit him well.

Clearing her throat, Anna glanced down to her hand, still encompassed by Agdar's, and then to him. "Well, it's wonderful to finally meet you." She gave a smile. "To be honest, I kinda was intimidated when I remembered why the name 'Vinters' sounded so familiar. So I sorta stalked you on the internet for a few hours."

He gave a hearty laugh, not letting her appendage go. "Well, I would be lying if I said I didn't do the same. Top of your class, Valedictorian, high respects from your professors . . . no wonder you're so young."

Anna's face burned at the simple praise. It wasn't every day that the patriarch of a lime lighted family gave you compliments.

"Uh, thank you, sir. I graduated high school early."

"Another wonder!" Agdar shouted, astonished. Anna couldn't help but grin stupidly. His enthusiasm was contagious. "Let me guess . . . twenty-one?"

"Twenty."

"Gingersnaps, I had a bottle of Merlot chilled and waiting for us. Are you a law-abiding citizen?"

"Counting down the days, sir."

True, Anna has had some beers at the university, yet if the canines were still roaming the premise, she would rather not be inebriated if she needed to bolt.

"Oh, Ms. Solsten, please call me Agdar."

She smirked, "If you call me Anna." 'Ms. Solsten' made her feel old.

Chortling, he replied, "And a negotiant." His eyes sparkled as he (finally) let go of her hand and his went to the lapels of the suit. "I have an opulent feeling that we're going to get along splendidly."

Jitters settled in the girl's body. Not from anxiety. She got that out of the way on the drive here. They were from excitement. At long last, she was going to have a quasi-stable job that could pay. Don't get her wrong, waitressing was fun, however due to economic troubles the owners had to cut back hours to part-time. Plus, you could only take so much drunken college boys gawking at your ass for so long. Although, the tips were good, all the same.

Agdar waved her over to follow him as he continued to talk. "Too bad you can't meet my wife until tomorrow, business over in another firm in the Southern Isles. She's . . . something."

Anna couldn't help but smile at the wistful shift across the other's features.

I bet they're a cute couple.

Their shoes echoed along the walls as they moved from place to place, from the foyer, to the dining room, to the kitchen, all with Agdar beckoning wildly to tiny details as well as the large. He got so worked up when she asked about the medieval swords stationed at some of the halls. "Intruders seem already spooked when they get around the forest bend. You should hear them scream!"

Anna asked about the 'intruders' too, she got "oh, the sparse company we get." They both cackled like mind scientists while they trekked down another hall.

Grinning, Agdar inquired once down another corridor, "You mentioned in the first voicemail about a diner that you are employed at. Tell me about it."

"Oh, well," she started, tucking an auburn tress behind her ear. "Nothing much to really report. I waitress there six days out of the week to get by. It's a quaint place, nothing much. The food's good though, like really good! Their burgers are juicy and their chocolate cake is to die for!"

Impossibly arching an eyebrow, Agdar said, "Then why did you apply for the job?"

Anna gave a nervous chuckle, "Typical for an art major to be broke."

He didn't reply, so she went on, "Not to mention I need the money. I'm barely getting by as it is and, since the hour cuts at the diner, things are getting tense with my landlord and I."

They turned another corner with Agdar pointing out a tapestry. Once they continued on, he acknowledged, "Well, if you're willing, there're more than enough spare rooms in the household, I could lend you one if you want."

Stopping dead in her tracks, Anna stared at the man's back. When he realized that she wasn't by his elbow anymore, he pivoted, brow cocked. "Is everything alright?"

"N-no, everything's fine," she stumbled over her words, "It's just," sighing, Anna lifted her head back up. "I couldn't accept something that big."

"How so?" He seemed genuinely worried. Not like he just rented out one of his rooms.

"Well . . . for one we just met."

"Yes. . ?" Oblivious. Of course he was.

Anna didn't feel like giving her host a crash course in mannerisms and social acceptability, therefore she just went with, "I . . . I just can't accept the offer that's all."

He stared. Just stared as Anna's neck became inflamed. Slowly, something akin to a sad smile crossed Agdar's lips. A beat and then he shrugged and continued strolling down the hall. Snapping out of a self-conscious trace, Anna jogged back up to his elbow. She was about to apologize, mouth forming the first syllable, when the man interrupted.

"No need to say sorry, Anna," he gave her a sideways glance and continued, "It was only a suggestion."

Anna was about to explain but he once again came up with words first, "No explanation needed."

"Okay then," Anna said, unsure. Even still, something still nagged at her so she requested, "Why are you so trusting, I mean, I could be a homicidal manic for all you know. Or a kleptomaniac. Not sure which one's worse though. . ."

A chuckle, and he whirled to Anna an interesting glint in his light eyes. "Most people aren't as earnest as you Ms. Solsten." She gave him a look. He smirked, mischievously. "Nor as humble or honest. It's something people lack nowadays and it is something, if the chance comes up, I would want in my household."

Agdar smiled at her like she was already one of his kids. Something Anna has been deprived of since birth.

She grinned back, "Thank you."

The rest of the walk was filled with a warm, comfortable silence, Agdar's hands still at his lapels, Anna's own behind her back as she practically skipped next to him. She had a feeling she'll like this job.

Something creaked open and the pair spun around.

Anna leered at the woman emerging from the room.

Silvery-golden hair twirled around her head in an intricate, twisting bun with sheared, feather bangs swept to the left. Bow-shaped lips a specter of light rose enhanced by the clear gloss smeared across the skin. Her dazed, icy, azure irises intensified by the heavy mascara adoring her long lashes and the violet shadow along her lids gave an almost ethereal feel to them.

And her body. Toned, slender figure with heavenly hips were adored with an opal laced long-sleeve shirt and skinny jeans that just hugged her endless legs in all the right ways. And finishing the whole outfit off was scuffed up combat boots that were also black and matching nail polish.

A gothic goddess.

Lazily, the woman sauntered out of the room, not noticing the unconcerned male and the mesmerized female. But then she fully turned and Anna nearly collapsed as their gazes met. Something akin to lightning shattered through the air as they continued to gawk at one another. Anna couldn't breathe. She couldn't even move. She could only stare at the most gorgeous woman she'd ever seen.

Dear god, she even has freckles.

As if this woman couldn't get any more perfect she happened to have a tiny smatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose, a shade or two darker than her otherwise pale, flawlessly creamy complexion.

Teal remained locked with crystal. Silence engulfed the hallway—

"Eep!"

In one rapid movement, the mysterious woman yelped, scrambled around and darted back into the room, slamming the door and effectively ruining the electrified moment. A second later, a bolt clicked into place, the door locked.

"Oh yes," Agdar muttered, rubbing the side of his head, completely oblivious to the tense interaction. "Nearly forgot. That's my daughter, Elsa. She's a bit skittish."

((((0))))

Like you think I'm going to go easy on Elsa this time around. As if. If you read my other story then you know that is so not the case. In any case, yes, Elsa is a bit Goth in this story. Don't know why but I like the idea.

So, yah, the old lady is actually the witch from Brave. Don't have her name so I choose Geneviève. Suits her don't you think? Anyway, the King and Queen are going to be MAJOR OOC if you couldn't tell. It's just something that will elate the story more. Please don't flame me for it.

Etymology for this chapter:

Vinters—'Winters'

Solsten—'Sun stone'

Also I'm neither an architecture major nor an art major so, in this or future chapters if there are anything wrong with the info, please tell me. I will fix them. That also goes for grammar or spelling mistakes.

Nevertheless, thanks for reading. And leave a review if you want.

P.s. This was nearly 5,000 words. Not going to continue that pace for the rest of the chapters.