[Closed] Now And Then, Here And There

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

T he fact that Yazad was walking down an unknown alleyway where he had been saved from acockroach’s assault by a galdor woman whom he met eight years ago was something for the man to muse about. Even more amusing was how Niccolette seemed quite at ease out in the street that was entirely empty and lined with scattered clumps of brownish slush. The Stacks proved to be a relatively safe place for the duration of his unintended exploration of it, but he imagined that a galdor lady would at least want the company of a maid or a peer. But then again, even ladies of high standing must want some time alone for themselves.

Well, he is accompanying her for now, so it would be Yazad’s responsibility to be of help should she need it. If she needed it. The fact remained that she is the one who helped him, and that was one more debt that he owes her. The passive did not quite forget that she had let him borrow and try on her earrings all these years ago.

Every time Niccolette spoke, Yazad looked at her with an expression that was more than just a polite smile. She reminded him of a home that he had left behind, in a land that was more beautiful to him than Brunnhold could ever be. Her Bastian accent was even heavier than his, and the man wondered if it is because she had simply lived longer than he did, or because he spent most of his childhood was spent conversing with others in more than just one language.

"My goodness. This makes our meetings, both of them, seem rather fateful now." For what purpose he was meant to cross Nicoolette’s path under such unlikely circumstances twice, Yazad was not sure. The passive merely knew, with a bright smile still dancing on his lips, that he welcomed it. Who is to say that he is not merely eager for company that will not ditch him for theories about roses and plums. If only real roses and plums were involved. But no, it was just theories of them...

A spark of interest instantly lit up in the spring-colored eyes at the mention of Vienda and ‘The Rose’. The former he had naturally heard of, but not the latter. Such a name prompted an alluring mental image of a place swathed in greenery and roses in full bloom. A tea garden somewhere, maybe? The very thought made him inwardly giddy while he relished the view provided by his mind, a hand resting on his round cheek. "I am afraid that I have not been to either one of these, although I would so love to see The Rose." Yazad chimed dreamily.

"Ah, I had wondered back then if you would be present in other balls. Alas, that was the last one the master had attended before he boycotted them completely.” It was not even a well-kept secret in a society entertained by scandal and gossip that Sophronios Logarchon had ceased to show his sulking face in social gatherings ever since that day in the Agathangelou Ballroom. Some whispered about their speculated reason; that the man was far too angry about how a young woman slapped him after he repeatedly -and harshly- refused to return her interest, others shook their heads and said that the Logarchon family denied their son further interactions with the gentry in fear of more humiliating incidents happening. If Niccolette had not been to Florne since then, then there was a chance that she did not get involved in that tattling business.

"We have moved here during spring, as the good master has secured a teaching position in Brunnhold. I sadly did not make myself familiar with most areas in The Stacks, alas." He still, at the very least, got decent at making the trip to the grocer’s and the nearest tailor without taking many wrong turns. Every now and then, Yazad allowed himself a glance at his companion’s motions within the proper limits of not staring openly. She carried herself with such assured confidence that also looked effortless. The passive himself was not lacking in self-confidence, but not when it came to navigating the streets of an unknown location.

They had emerged out of the alley to the low buzz of movement and spoken exchanges. This was hardly as busy as the shops are going to be in the day, so he was thankful to be out at the time of relative calm rather than later. Curiously, Yazad took in his surroundings, in what could be a futile attempt to remember how to get back to this area should he need to for some reason in the future.

"The good madam mentioned a bookseller, so may I ask for what purpose? I must say that you do not strike me as quite mad enough to be a scholar, although I only have one point of reference to make that judgment." Yazad asked playfully with a chuckle, feet still following the pace that Niccolette was setting. She was a smart enough woman to understand whom he was referencing, he hoped.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Various Streets, The Stacks

Once, Niccolette might have thanked the Circle for such meetings: fateful, as Yazad called them. She had long since believed Hurte must have brought her and Uzoji together, for all that he credited Hulali for the same. If what Hurte loved above all else, Niccolette had argued, was beauty, then surely her marriage to Uzoji had pleased the goddess, for it had been far more beautiful than any alternative. She remembered with an odd jolt that the last time she had seen Yazad, she had been far less certain – not, of course, of herself, but of Uzoji, who in retrospect she had only begun to know, then.

Now, Niccolette was not so sure. Surely if the Circle took such an active hand, surely, then either Hulali or Hurte would have interceded on Uzoji’s behalf; surely something would remain in the world of him, rather than the aching gap he had left behind.

Niccolette’s eyebrows went up sharply when Yazad spoke of the Rose. Her lips parted, for a brief moment, as if to say something on the subject, and then she let it pass. She could not quite imagine it, she thought; then again, she had seen him only before in the Agathangelou ballroom, or rather in a small room down the hall from it. Not a galdor, of course, and not quite anything else either, not in Florne. Here in Brunnhold, at least, she supposed he fit into the set of gated passives in the university. She thought, with a faintly unpleasant twinge, of Ana’s little sister who she had met only weeks before, and looked once more at Yazad, with his gleaming hair and elegant coat, and could not be so sure what to make of it.

“I do not think you have missed much,” Niccolette said when Yazad said he had not become very familiar with the Stacks.“Brunnhold is far from Florne, a little grin lit her face, tugging at the edges of her lips; her gaze swept around as they walked onwards, lingering disdainfully on another half-melted pile of brown, sludgy snow. Florne, Niccolette thought, had at least the decency to snow properly when it snowed; already, or if not now than soon, the city would be buried in a blanket of white.

Niccolette let out a little huff of breath through her nose. “I am no scholar,” she said, amused, a little smile quirking at her lips once more. “Of late I have been engaged in some charity work at Grand Mercy Hospital in Vienda. I have found no spell suitable for my needs, and so I am here in Brunnhold searching bookshops and libraries both,” she shrugged her shoulders lightly.

In fact, Niccolette thought, she was close; she was very close indeed, to a working draft of the spell she wished to write. This book was more a curiosity than a necessity; it would be those in the library which should make the difference, alongside those she had brought back from the Muluku Isles for closer study, those she kept hidden in the false bottom of her chest, when they were not in the more secret of her safes in the Rose. But that was more detail than Yazad needed; that was, in fact, more detail than anyone else needed, from Hawke to all the rest.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

N iccolette’s expression when he had mentioned his desire to see The Rose was not missed by the man, who thought nothing of it more than just her surprise at a passive wanting to attend a place that is meant for people of higher social standing. Indeed, why would someone like him be in a tea garden, or any such establishment, if not to accompany and serve his master? If that was the reason behind her look of surprise, then it is understandable in a way, especially if The Rose was near Vienda, which he gathered is not all that close to Brunnhold, and that is about all he could say that he knew of the Anaxian capital. For all the freedom a slip of paper was allowing him when it came to walking the streets of The Stacks, he could not simply decide to go vagabonding throughout Anaxas to find his imagined place of roses and greenery.

"As far as snow is from mud." Yazad agreed with a nod, returning the woman’s grin before his eyes glanced at a shapeless pile at the side of the road that was a mixture of both. Perhaps he was being rather harshly biased to his city of birth, but really, he would not have to be if The Stacks stopped being so utterly lacking in terms of architectural grace. Although, if he is to attempt a genuine compliment, he would say that those who had constructed The Stacks had an ample amount of rather abstract creativity.

"And thank Hurte for that." The passive followed Niccolette’s denial of being a scholar with his playful statement. Frankly, he often wondered if all scholars were single-track minded or if it is just Sophronios. At first glance, he would say that there is absolutely nothing Niccolette and his relative could have in common, but a moment’s thought made him realize that there was indeed something they were similar in--they both felt a little distant, even when they stood right there, just next to him. "Awh." The soft sound Yazad made was something that is halfway between a coo and a noise of affection. His left hand, donning a plain and pristine white glove, went up to rest over his heart. The passive was impressed with Niccolette’s act of compassion and slightly surprised--but mostly impressed. "How very noble of you, good madam. The working of spells is clearly not within my expertise, but I shall offer a prayer for you to find what you seek." It was, perhaps, all that someone in his position can do to contribute to a charity.

Ridiculous as that was, Niccolette had -for just one moment- reminded him of his childhood.

"I must say that you bring my mother to mind. She is also a giving woman with a great love for philanthropy, Hurte bless her.” There was nothing but pure, unbridled fondness brimming in the passive’s pale green eyes as he spoke of his mother. Years of separation had indeed eroded the childish yearning he had for her presence and replaced it with something that is akin to resigned acceptance that she will never be more than a mere memory to him anymore.

"Ah, speaking of Hurte. I do hope that the wish you made that day came to be a reality." Yazad quickly asked when the thought came to him, his hands clapping lightly a single time. With Niccolette being the one leading their way, the passive did not need to be looking at much besides her.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Various Streets, The Stacks

There was a sweet, faintly insipid look in Yazad’s eyes when he spoke of his mother. Niccolette shrugged her shoulders; she had become used enough to the perception that her work at Grand Mercy has no motive but that of the charitable variety. She never claimed it to be so; nor did she - could she - say otherwise, and so the conclusion was obvious.

Generally, when asked, she had said it was the boredom of being newly widowed, when she could manage such bald terms.

Funny, Niccolette thought with a faint pinch; the last time she had seen Yazad, she had not yet known she would marry Uzoji, though she had long since known she wanted to. And now, she thought, a little idly, there was nothing she wanted but his revenge.

“May Hurte guide her hands to beauty,” Niccolette murmured, somewhat reflexively.

Yazad clapped his hands as he spoke; Niccolette’s lips pressed together, faintly, and the edge of her glance shifted to him.

They turned on the edge of the street, onto a larger boulevard; a man across the way was roasting cobs of corn over a charcoal flame, and the burnt smell of it trickled up into the air. A young woman waiting nearby was blowing on her bare red hands, glancing occasionally down at the corn.

Next to them, the door of a shop choked open, and two giggling students came rushing out; they didn’t look at either Niccolette or Yazad, walking quickly and talking only to one another.

It was cold enough that Niccolette’s breath that clouded faintly in the air, just a little more than Yazad’s did. She was aware of it with each exhalation, now that they were on a wider street and the sun gleamed through the gray clouds above. Each exhale, Niccolette thought, no longer holding to the rhythmic pattern of her earlier breaths, watching her warmth sweep out into the world beyond. On each inhale she tasted something of the cold, something of the stacks.

“I suppose it did,” Niccolette said, quietly. She did not remember exactly the wish she had made, but she knew what she must have wished for, that summer. It seemed strange to think of such things, to remember a time when - however worldly and mature she had thought herself - she had still believed in wishes, deep down.

Niccolette found herself twisting her wedding ring, her right thumb and forefinger slowly turning it back and forth. She let go, wiping both hands on the smooth bodice of her dress, and kept walking; she had never paused. Her hands ached a little with the cold, and she reached into the pocket of her cloak. Niccolette held a moment, sliding her gloves on one after the other, letting the ring be out of sight a little while.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

R everence laced Yazad’s features as he dipped his head slightly at Niccolette’s reply. Whether the veneration was meant for the goddess or the mother, it would not be clear.

Their trek continued, leading them to a wider avenue in which only a few people were present. Yazad liked it that way. Peak hours were certainly more lively, and mean that he had enough people around to find someone to give him directions--but he appreciated the calm serenity of a languid morning more, despite his critical opinion regarding the weather. Opinionated as he might be, it is not as if the gods will cancel the cold seasons and wrap Vita in eternal spring for his sake.

Both the appetizing smell of corn and the promise of warmth the flames offered caused Yazad to slow his pace down for a few seconds, his eyes taking in the slowly roasting cobs and the gloveless young woman who looked like she was -currently, at least- of his same mind about the temperature. Pale green eyes shifted from the red-nosed lady to the one he accompanied. When Niccolette exhaled, a fine puff of mist was born, only to die a second later. She did not show much, not at all. In fact, it did look like the galdor woman was tolerating the cold well enough. Hesitantly, the raven-haired man began to walk towards Niccolette again, after throwing both the other woman and the smoking corn a final glance.

"Fortunately for you." The passive chimed lightheartedly, his gaze focused on the woman’s profile. They were of the same height, almost. It was both surreal and amusing to remember that he had to look up at her eight years ago, and just how adult-like she had appeared to beat the time to the younger boy. Right now, things are a bit different. They had grown older, he had grown taller, and yet--he still felt the same way his starry-eyed self did in the past about Niccolette. Or perhaps he had simply not matured as much. The weakened rays of sunlight reflected off the tiny clouds she exhaled, and the smell of roasting corn still lingered in his mind.

"If you would pardon me for a moment, madam." Yazad hastily excused himself, leaving the woman’s side to backtrack towards the man who stared up at him with a rather puzzled look. The passive’s conversation with the man was brief enough, with his mild, polite voice followed by the exchange of tallies--tallies that were meant for his flowers if he could ever find them. The cobs were wrapped up cozily in sheets of paper, warmth seeped into his hands through the simple gloves he wore, and settled pleasantly over his skin. One of the two black-tinted corn cobs he carried was pushed into the hands of the surprised gloveless young woman, whom Yazad had quickly escaped the vicinity of before she could say anything, although she looked like she was about to.

"I do hope that you like corn. It is warm if nothing else.” The second cob was offered to Niccolette, along with a placid and visibly expectant smile.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Various Streets, The Stacks

Niccolette waited; her right hand slipped across her front, curling over the left side of her waist, and holding there steadily. She could not quite have said why she waited; she was not, generally, in the habit of waiting. Yazad hurried off; Niccolette watched him go for a moment, then turned and looked away.

She stood next to a plate glass window; inside was a display of small clocks, gleaming polished metal and wood, with glass and metal plates, and hands steadily ticking onwards. Niccolette watched the second hands move, slowly, creeping around circles small and large. Her breath clouded the air; the faintest of marks appeared on the shop window, and then dissipated away into nothingness a moment later.

Niccolette breathed in, and out again. Against the pale cloudy gray of the sky, against the street behind her, she was a dark blur of a reflection, a hint of hair around a pale face, and the faintest gleam of lip color. Her dark blue dress and cloak were nothing more than a hint of a shape beneath the rest. She exhaled out again, and in the pale film of her breath could see nothing else.

She could hear nothing of the ticking of the clocks through the window; she thought she could have imagined it, the steady chiming in unison, seconds by seconds, ticking onwards. Niccolette settled her breath into their rhythm, and made it her own, though she did not fully slip away into meditation, not here. All the same, it let her put behind her that which there was no need to feel, here and now, sharp slicing sorrow – for the girl she had been a decade ago, for the woman she had been a year earlier, for the loss of her husband’s life and the vibrant, beautiful love – set aside, at least for a time.

She half-saw Yazad behind her, a glimmer of movement more than anything. Niccolette turned back towards him her gaze did not quite drop to his hands, but all the same she saw the paper-wrapped corn held in his gloved hands.

Niccolette’s gaze dropped to it only when he held it out; her mouth twitched in a faintly amused smile. “No,” Niccolette said, evenly. Her right hand shifted from her side, and she folded both of them together before her, neither reaching out to take the corn from Yazad, nor even leaving him any simple way to extend it to her.

“I do not care for corn,” Niccolette added after a moment, though she knew she owed Yazad and the hopeful smile on his face nothing in the way of explanation. She did not linger; she turned away a little, and kept on, leaving it Yazad to decide whether he wished to keep pace with her or not.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

N iccolette’s refusal was, amusingly enough for Yazad, not entirely surprising. While his smile expertly remained in place, there was a soft sigh coming from the passive’s lips, his eyebrows curving into a small downturn. The woman was not obliged to accept something simply because he offered it, and she even folded her hands in a way that did not allow him to do what he had done with the other lady.

"A terrible shame, really." The raven-haired man commented, rather playfully, as he pulled back his corn-offering hands. The cob that was nestled between his palms felt pleasantly warm. More than feeling dejected at the refusal to accept his gift of corn, Yazad looked thoughtful, with his eyes looking at the back of the walking woman while his head tilted slightly.

The action was done without hesitation, and with so much intensity in a seemingly simple act. Niccolette, it looks like, was used to giving people her back, to walking away at her own pace while others were to be left behind or follow. The thought did not prompt any feelings of resentment or annoyance, but rather, of curiosity.

Short heels clicked loudly against smooth stone as the passive made his way to close the growing gap between him and the galdor woman. After a couple of quick motions, the cob of corn was fully wrapped in the paper. There could be someone else along their way who is meant to have it. "You said the same eight years ago, madam. Remember? About the beautiful earrings?" Yazad could remember it, clear as day. ‘I do not care for them much’, she had said. He exhaled and inhaled, watching the sparkling puff of smoke appear and disappear within a second. The pale green eyes continued to look ahead, instead of at Niccolette. "Clearly, you do not have much that you care for. Not back then, not now." His words were spoken matter-of-factly, like an observation being made rather than a cutting remark.

Yazad’s eyes took in the street that stretched in front of them, looking quite the same to him to most other streets. Why was he like this? It was one thing to be born a defective galdor lacking in any magical abilities, and entirely another to be this abysmal at navigating his way around a place that cannot even be called a city.

"You and the good master are so alike, I must say. I look at him and I search for anything to let me know if he is happy living his life, or if he simply knows no other way to live. An intriguing thing to observe, you see. But then again, that could as well be his happiness." And he would simply accept it as such if only Sophronios had the decency to openly tell him so. But as things were, he was left to always wonder. Niccolette evoked a similar feeling, to a lesser degree. She, unlike Sophronios, was not someone he regarded as family, and at the end of the day, his musings -verbal as he is with them- remained just that.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Various Streets, The Stacks

There was a moment of silence behind her, and then the quick sound of footsteps as the passive raced to catch her.

Niccolette did not wait, although she did not hurry, either; it would be easy enough for Yazad to close the distance between them. Her eyebrows lifted, slightly, when Yazad mentioned she had said much the same about the earrings she had worn to the ball when last they met. She did not, Niccolette thought, remember them particularly; they had, of course, never truly been hers, but had been family jewels borrowed for the occasion. She had not much cared for them – they were not to her taste, not of her choosing, and she doubted she had ever worn them again.

Niccolette’s lips twitched in a faint smile at Yazad’s words; she was not offended, though she did not think he had meant the remark to be offensive. She supposed it was true enough. She had less, she thought, with a tight ache in her chest, that she cared for now than she had a year ago.

She said nothing; they kept on. Yazad continued, turning the topic back to Sophronios, and saying that he was not sure whether the man he called Master was happy.

Niccolette shrugged, lightly. “Perhaps there are some we can never know such things about,” she said, quietly, “even when we love them.”

Uzoji was happy, some part of her wanted to say, sudden and aloud, though she knew such words would mean nothing to Yazad. Uzoji was happy – with me, with our life. If he made mistakes, it is no less than anyone else might have done. He was not such a person, she wanted to say – to insist – with a sudden flare of hot anger in the core of her chest. He could be known, and he, too – he knew, before he died, he knew that she was happy.

And now?

Niccolette’s breath clouded the air, softly; her hands shifted, coming apart, her arms moving lightly with each step that she took. No, she thought, and then: no.

She had moments of happiness, or at least, she thought, of satisfaction, of pride, of excitement or enthusiasm. She knew those emotions, still, as she had before. What did it mean to be happy? She could not – would not – live any other way; she had that which she must do, and it to her was valued more than anything like happiness. She could not think of after; there was nothing like after for her, not yet.

“Are you happy?” Niccolette asked, instead, still looking forward down the gray street. She did not turn to look at Yazad as she asked; she did not stop and meet his eyes, demanding truth of him, and nor did she expect it or anything like it. She merely asked, and though the question could not have been called flippant, perhaps it was not far from it either.

[Yazad]

The Stacks

9th of Vortas, 2719; Morning

V ortas was such a dreary, indecisive month. It was not yet as cold as a season can get, nor was it warm enough to go out in clothes one would comfortably wear during the start of Dentis. A time of in-betweens, when things are neither one or the other. Such a month, in an odd way, seemed to reflect Niccolette’s demeanor quite well. She, too, was neither welcomingly warm, nor unbearably cold.

The woman did not look like she had taken offense with his comment, and if she actually did then she was hiding it rather well. Niccolette gave him a husk of a smile, similar to the one she wore when calling out him ‘impertinence’ years ago. There was a sense of repeat and familiarity in the whole situation. Had they really changed that little throughout the years? It was not really a bad thing, Yazad thought. To not have much change in one’s life is, after all, to be living a peaceful life.

Silence reigned for a moment after Niccolette’s remark. Her words were true as the sun peeking shyly through the thick curtain of clouds, he knew that--but they still made Yazad’s eyebrows curve in a downward frown. Was it not an utter failure on his part to not be able to know such a thing about a person he cared for? And more importantly, was Niccolette experiencing the same kind of feeling? It almost sounded that she was.

Another young woman came into Yazad’s view--one whose age seemed to be below his by a few years if outward appearances were to be counted. Her embroidered cloak spoke of someone who is possibly a galdor student, and her wandering eyes showed that she was most likely waiting for something or someone. Yazad’s lips pulled back into a smile, and his head inclined in the young woman’s direction. He did not know who she was, or why she was out here waiting in the cold, but their eyes had met for a brief second, and that made him feel like extending her the small courtesy of a smile. Just one more of the habits that had been ingrained in his behavior by none other than himself.

A direct question, terse and unexpected, was sent his way. Yazad, not thinking that he would get asked such a thing from Niccolette, was slightly surprised at first, but that had passed just as quickly as it took for expression to shift from amused to smiling again. "I am." He did not even need time to think, to consider. It was a simple answer to a simple question. Spontaneously spoken, but full of contentment and conviction. "I have no reason not to be happy, therefore, I am." The man elaborated after a soft chuckle. What was happiness if not the absence of anything to make one miserable? At the very least, this is how he viewed happiness. "Less so when winter arrives, however." Yazad added, lightheartedly. Cold weather always feels like it is sucking the energy and joy out of him, turning him into a shriveling, sniveling mess.

"What about you, madam? Where is it that you find your daily joys? I must say that I am curious as to what a lady of your standing does for enjoyment." And that probably showed on his face without him having to say it. Some people found happiness in food and drinking, others in receiving gifts, or spending their leisure time socializing with like-minded peers. The woman had mentioned books, so it could be that reading is her favorite pastime, but he was not going to make that assumption just yet.

Now And Then, Here And There

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Morning, Vortas 9, 2719
Various Streets, The Stacks

Niccolette had long since left behind the belief that passives were intellectually deficient as well as magically so. One was told it was so as a child, of course, and seeing passives in menial world at places like Brunnhold or Anastou naturally reinforced it. Mugroba had come as something of a shock, and she had bent, rather than broken, but no such belief could survive long exposure to Aremu.

Listening to Yazad, Niccolette could not quite decide whether such a statement was simple or clever. No reason not to be happy, he had said, cheerfully, and gone on to make a joke about the weather.

There were many, Niccolette knew, who had little reason to be unhappy and yet were, deeply. Yazad, though a passive, was not gated, and Niccolette supposed gratitude for that was not out of place. It was, she thought, verging on the philosophical. Was happiness the lack of sadness? Or did it require something greater?

Uzoji would have liked such questions; she thought he would have liked Yazad, too, and she didn’t know what to do with such a thought.

Niccolette glanced sideways at Yazad. My joys have died seemed an odd answer to such a question, even if an honest one. She had nothing left of joy; it had been burned from her in the fire which had consumed Uzoji’s airship. She had watched it burn, and tumble to the sea below in flaming pieces too small to recover.

Her breath had caught in her throat; Niccolette exhaled it lit, evenly. She did not wish to be the widow, just now; she did not wish to say: my husband died and I am sad. There was no need to; Yazad knew nothing of her marriage, and had not asked anything of it beyond offering her congratulations. Even if he did, she owed him no response.

“In friends,” Niccolette said, quietly. It was Francoise she thought of, and the baby in which her friend took such joy, the baby which would be born in the next few months. It was Violetta she thought of, her indomitable spirit and her quietly feminist bookshelf, and easy way she had given Niccolette a cream to reduce the swelling of her eyes. It was Aremu she thought of, and his quiet, even competence, for all that she knew she had not been much of a friend to him, of late.

She did not care for food, as a general rule; she ate when she needed to. She enjoyed wine and liquor, but she would not have called them a source of joy, on the whole. Fashion she paid attention to, but she was happiest, these days, when she could wear Uzoji’s clothes.

“And my relationship with the mona,” Niccolette added, a moment later, having thought it over, for all she knew Yazad could not understand it.

Joy was perhaps a simplification of that relationship; it was, Niccolette thought, purpose. Some days it was the only purpose she seemed to have yet. She worked at it; she sat in mediation, and studied new spells, and all which she put in was returned to her with each flex of her field, every time the mona listened and agreed, and made her will real in the world.

Niccolette led them off the main avenue and on to a smaller side road - not an alleyway, still lined with shops. A cafe on the corner spilled sound into the street, laughter and the clicking of silverware on plates, smells of food and coffee wafting alongside it; Niccolette did not turn to look.