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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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"Eighteen," Kas says merrily. Petaal, now a red fox, rests her front paws on the fur lining of the hood and grins a foxy little grin.
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"I didn't think humans settled any later than witches," Isabella said. "I have a cousin whose daemon didn't settle till she was almost seventeen - he loved being a tiger, he resisted the pull to bird shapes as long as he could, I think that's why. Eighteen. Wow. And I've never heard of daemons changing sex at all."
Petaal giggles and reverts to fennec form, tucking herself into the invisible recesses of the hood.
"Guess we're just special," says Kas. And: "Check it out: lunch!"
He has found them a restaurant. It is small and extremely charming, with a hand-painted green sign that seems to imply it sells very happy snowmen.
"Guess we're just special," says Kas. And: "Check it out: lunch!"
He has found them a restaurant. It is small and extremely charming, with a hand-painted green sign that seems to imply it sells very happy snowmen.
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"Do you do anything else unusual?" Isabella asks, pushing into the restaurant. "Or are you just more... daemonically unstable... than the average child?"
(It's clearly not a secret. Petaal was changing like that in the middle of the street, half in clear view; Path's eyes aren't that unusual.)
(It's clearly not a secret. Petaal was changing like that in the middle of the street, half in clear view; Path's eyes aren't that unusual.)
"Define 'unusual'," he says cheerfully.
The restaurant owner greets them familiarly in French. Kas responds, mispronounced but intelligible. Apparently he knows the place, and the place also knows him. They are invited to choose a table.
The restaurant owner greets them familiarly in French. Kas responds, mispronounced but intelligible. Apparently he knows the place, and the place also knows him. They are invited to choose a table.
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Isabella knows enough phrases of French to pick up a book and guess at cognates in the menu. "Recommendations?" she asks, peering at the selection and listening to Pathalan's guesses about the words.
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"Well, that's nonspecific. But I'm not allergic to anything, so all right," shrugs Bell. "And I'm hoping to avoid stopping on the way back to Maine so I will also get this thing with the word that I believe to be 'chicken'."
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"Yeah. My teacher wants a spell in it. I think after she copies it out and I've had a bit to look through it, it's going to the clan library, but that's not urgent enough that she's likely to send me flying to Washington too."
"I lived in Maine for a bit once," he says.
The restaurant owner comes back to take their orders. Kas remembers and reproduces Isabella's, adds his own, and hands over his menu.
Apparently deciding that it's warm enough in here, Petaal takes his red fox shape, pushes Kas's hood back, and curls up in it with his nose and front paws resting on Kas's right shoulder.
The restaurant owner comes back to take their orders. Kas remembers and reproduces Isabella's, adds his own, and hands over his menu.
Apparently deciding that it's warm enough in here, Petaal takes his red fox shape, pushes Kas's hood back, and curls up in it with his nose and front paws resting on Kas's right shoulder.
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Path hops onto the table and a few steps forward from Isabella's shoulder. She doesn't have anything between his talons and her skin, but there must be a spell on her or something, because there aren't even marks, let alone wounds or scars.
"Hi," says Petaal, snuggling into the side of Kas's neck and observing Path's progress across the table.
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"You're puzzling," says Path. "Have you always known you could change sexes? Or did you discover it?"
Isabella's phone rings. It plays witchy music, wordless acapella vocals, until she answers it. "Yes, Metis?" she says. "Yes. Waiting for lunch. I'm hoping to fly straight back without stopping on the way. No. Of course. Not yet. Yes, if it's just that I can send Path. Shouldn't slow me down at all. Okay. I'll be back this evening."
Isabella hangs up the phone. "She needs a second original print of the receipt for the book," she tells her owl. "The clan library's going to want it for their insurance or something."
Path makes a sighing noise. "I'll be right back, then," he says, and he lets himself out of the restaurant with the next group to open the door and wings his way back to the bookstore.
Isabella's phone rings. It plays witchy music, wordless acapella vocals, until she answers it. "Yes, Metis?" she says. "Yes. Waiting for lunch. I'm hoping to fly straight back without stopping on the way. No. Of course. Not yet. Yes, if it's just that I can send Path. Shouldn't slow me down at all. Okay. I'll be back this evening."
Isabella hangs up the phone. "She needs a second original print of the receipt for the book," she tells her owl. "The clan library's going to want it for their insurance or something."
Path makes a sighing noise. "I'll be right back, then," he says, and he lets himself out of the restaurant with the next group to open the door and wings his way back to the bookstore.
Petaal giggles and dives into the bowl of Kas's hood, emerging a moment later on his left shoulder as a female red fox.
"We were ten before we knew other daemons didn't," says Kas, reaching up to scratch her behind the ears.
"We were ten before we knew other daemons didn't," says Kas, reaching up to scratch her behind the ears.
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Isabella drinks soup directly from the bowl. "Do you know which way Petaal appeared to begin with? Species too, that's always interesting. Path was a raccoon."
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Pathalan is back pretty quickly. He pecks at the window, and Isabella gets up to let him in. He stashes the extra receipt in her bag and goes back to sitting on her shoulder and nuzzles fluffy feathers on her cheek. Isabella murmurs the answer to his question in his ear, then drinks more soup; Path steals a bit of meat out of it.
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"Why did you want me to buy you lunch?" Isabella asks. "You could've just told me which streets led to this place."