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Isabella Amariah takes a little under a day to fly to Québec City from her teacher's home in Maine. She doesn't have to spend that long in transit, but the book she's fetching isn't urgent; as long as she's faster than international overland shipping it's worth sending her.
Witches are politely ignored by customs on undefended borders as long as no clans are giving either government particular trouble. As long as she's in the air, obviously a witch and not a human dressed up as one to play a stereotyped character on television, she doesn't even have to dip down and show her clan tattoo to prove that she's descended from those who give allegiance to the Olympic clan. (Clans still refer to themselves by geography, though her teacher is as Olympic as she and lives on the other side of the continent and cloud-pine hasn't gotten any faster recently.)
Isabella touches the symbol inside her left wrist: two concentric circles, two lines. It doesn't mean anything, it's just unique, simple, easy to draw on the floor in herbs or honey or lighter fluid for a spell that refers to the coven.
"If only you were a proper Harry Potter owl," Isabella tells Pathalan, "I could send you for the book, you'd be able to carry it all by yourself, and I could be working out the kinks in this latest impossible assignment."
"Perhaps you wish I were an albatross," says Pathalan dryly, coasting through the air in her wake. "To fetch and carry and be not a bit like you at all."
"No," laughs Isabella. "Owl's fine. Soft and see-in-the-dark."
"It's never dark," says Pathalan. "Never quite."
She approaches the city, and attracts attention; witches are known but hardly common. A teenager - not even old enough to look properly ageless and spectacular like Metis Imestha, her teacher, or even Ranata Ekamma, her mother - dressed in raggedy black silks that whip around her in the wind, soaring over the streets on cloud-pine, is more unusual still.
Isabella Amaraiah coasts to a stop outside the correct address - witches can benefit from Google Street View even when they do not use streets - and descends to ground level.
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Speaking of teenagers, there's a boy about her age in a huge puffy brown coat struggling up the street when she lands. He waves.
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Isabella ignores him.
Path settles on her shoulder and waves a wing, though.
Path settles on her shoulder and waves a wing, though.
He laughs.
A tiny white fox with enormous ears pokes his head out of the cozy warmth of the boy's hood and sticks his tongue out at Path, then retreats again immediately.
A tiny white fox with enormous ears pokes his head out of the cozy warmth of the boy's hood and sticks his tongue out at Path, then retreats again immediately.
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"You think he's cute," Path says in Isabella's ear, too low for anyone else to hear. "The boy, I mean, though the fox too. Not enough that it'll bother you to leave it alone, but you do."
"Thank you," says Isabella through gritted teeth, because she did ask to keep updated on that kind of thing. She doesn't want to be blindsided by the kind of love witches can fall into. She suspects that her parents should never have married, but while Ranata may stray here and there on adventures with this clan sister or that friend from Asia or some teacher of crafts lately north from Brazil, she can never manage to stay away from Charlie too long, too aware of how he can die, too aware of how she'll regret any missed minute with him when he does and she's young still.
Isabella is glad to exist, but she does wish it could have come with less inconvenience to the both of them, Charlie alternately wishing his wife would come home and despairing of her flighty nature and Ranata alternately bored to tears with Forks and pining for her mortal beloved.
Picking up the book is simple. Isabella puts it in the black bag that she wears slung over her shoulders, sort of like a cross between a purse and a knapsack, and walks out the door again. Metis could have sprung for overnight shipping, but why would you do that when you have an apprentice?
Now it's time to find someplace that sells passable lunch and refuel for the flight home. Isabella looks around for restaurants.
"Thank you," says Isabella through gritted teeth, because she did ask to keep updated on that kind of thing. She doesn't want to be blindsided by the kind of love witches can fall into. She suspects that her parents should never have married, but while Ranata may stray here and there on adventures with this clan sister or that friend from Asia or some teacher of crafts lately north from Brazil, she can never manage to stay away from Charlie too long, too aware of how he can die, too aware of how she'll regret any missed minute with him when he does and she's young still.
Isabella is glad to exist, but she does wish it could have come with less inconvenience to the both of them, Charlie alternately wishing his wife would come home and despairing of her flighty nature and Ranata alternately bored to tears with Forks and pining for her mortal beloved.
Picking up the book is simple. Isabella puts it in the black bag that she wears slung over her shoulders, sort of like a cross between a purse and a knapsack, and walks out the door again. Metis could have sprung for overnight shipping, but why would you do that when you have an apprentice?
Now it's time to find someplace that sells passable lunch and refuel for the flight home. Isabella looks around for restaurants.
The boy has moved about ten more feet up the hill in that time. He looks back and spots her coming out again.
"That was fast!" he says amicably. His accent isn't local; it sounds more Brooklyn than Quebec.
"That was fast!" he says amicably. His accent isn't local; it sounds more Brooklyn than Quebec.
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Isabella shrugs. "It was already bought. It was held for me." And, because she doesn't see anywhere good to eat, she says, "Do you happen to know of a good restaurant? It doesn't have to be nearby if you can direct me there." She gestures at the pine. Her accent is a very witchy Pacific Northwest. Her father had half the raising of her before she could fly, after all, and she's not old enough to have drifted to the "generic witch" accent altogether.
"I'll show you a good one if you buy me lunch," he bargains, displaying a charming smile.
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"If you get something cheap," she shrugs. "The card isn't really mine."
"Deal," he says, and turns onto a cross street. He makes much better time on level ground.
The fox's nose emerges from his hood again. She waves her tiny paw at Path, then scrambles back into the warm interior.
The fox's nose emerges from his hood again. She waves her tiny paw at Path, then scrambles back into the warm interior.
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Path hoots a laughing sort of hoot.
And Isabella follows the strange boy. "Have you got a name?" she inquires. "I'm Isabella Amariah and this is my Pathalan."
And Isabella follows the strange boy. "Have you got a name?" she inquires. "I'm Isabella Amariah and this is my Pathalan."
"Have I got a name," he muses. "I might. Then again, I might not."
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"You might not?" Isabella laughs. "That sounds challenging in more ways than one."
"Really?" he says, interested. "Which ways?"
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"To have failed to acquire one," Isabella says. "At any point in your life, moreover. And then to operate in its absence."
"Maybe I used to have one," he suggests. "And I didn't like it, so I threw it out."
"Guess not," he says cheerfully, and makes another turn. This time they're going downhill, which is a little quicker.
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Isabella trips over a sidewalk paver trying to keep up. Exasperated, she flips her cloud-pine horizontal, sits on it, and floats after him instead of walking. Who ever heard of a clumsy witch? Grace should have been her birth blessing.
(She doesn't mean that. She's pleased that she and Path are protected against mind-affecting spells, she really is. But it's not usually as relevant as her clumsiness is.)
"Well," she says, "what do you and your daemon call each other?"
(She doesn't mean that. She's pleased that she and Path are protected against mind-affecting spells, she really is. But it's not usually as relevant as her clumsiness is.)
"Well," she says, "what do you and your daemon call each other?"
He laughs. "All kinds of things," he says. "My best friend calls me Truthwright; you might like that better." Merrily, "Or not. Why don't you pick something?"
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"The only man's name that's coming to mind right now is my father's, which I imagine would be confusing," she says. "I'll think about it. Maybe I'll think of something before it stops mattering. Why Truthwright?"
"'Cause I lie so much," he says, grinning over his shoulder at her.
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"Curious." She smooths out the needles on her pine. "So your daemon doesn't have a name either?"
"Nope," says the fox, sticking his nose out of Truthwright's hood again just long enough to deliver the word.
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Path squints at the fox.
"I think the fox was a female a minute ago," he whispers in Isabella's ear.
Isabella doesn't outwardly react to this.
But she does think of a name.
"Kas Petaal," she says. He probably doesn't know enough witch religion to know that she's named him after the only deity in the pantheon with a male aspect outside of her divine-daemon, although the entity is normally referred to as though fully female anyway because all the rituals are designed to rhyme with female pronouns. (It is perfectly acceptable to name people after goddesses. Amariah is a goddess, in fact.) "You can be Kas and the fox can be Petaal."
"I think the fox was a female a minute ago," he whispers in Isabella's ear.
Isabella doesn't outwardly react to this.
But she does think of a name.
"Kas Petaal," she says. He probably doesn't know enough witch religion to know that she's named him after the only deity in the pantheon with a male aspect outside of her divine-daemon, although the entity is normally referred to as though fully female anyway because all the rituals are designed to rhyme with female pronouns. (It is perfectly acceptable to name people after goddesses. Amariah is a goddess, in fact.) "You can be Kas and the fox can be Petaal."
"Okay," says Kas. "Fine by us. Does it mean something?"