Jaime doesn’t further involve herself. She reads; gradients drift along her outfit.

Pam squints at one.

It moves!

"How'd you do this?" Pam asks.

She looks up from her book.

“... do what?” 

"The animation thing."

“I discovered that I could make my darkness colorful, and make it move on its own, after my appointment with a stylist. This was workable.”

"It's interesting."

“Thanks.”

Reading reading fidgeting reading reading fidgeting reading reading -

They don't get any calls all day.

Jaime sticks around for about five hours and then skedaddles. 

She spends a little while at home, practicing the process of creating backup ballerinas made out of darkness while herself dancing, and getting her tempo more consistent so she can reasonably program those backup ballerinas in advance of creating them.

She busks.

Her ‘stage’ is bordered by fancily moving swirls of darkness, some plain and some tinted silver or gold or rose gold; her basic set of routines is pretty similar to previous occasions, but she almost always has at least one winged silhouette dancing alongside her and complementing or mirroring her movements, and she sometimes has as many as three.

She makes $22.75.

That’s at least above minimum wage! Hallelujah!

She goes home. She spends time with her dog - she hasn’t been neglecting her outright, but she hasn’t really been setting aside much dedicated time to play with her, either. Her dog is in turns fascinated and befuddled by squirrels and cats and rabbits made out of shadow.

And then she looks up that one consultant service which is reportedly capable of matching her up with a suitable private sector application of her magic, and starts going through the process of setting up an appointment.

She can have a four o'clock on Wednesday.

That works. She schedules the power testing appointment for that time.

She looks up thaumotologist churches within about fifteen minutes flying distance.

There are two.

And when does the slightly larger church hold services?

Saturday evening, Sunday morning, and Wednesday afternoons.

Eh, what the hell. She doesn’t have anything better to do.

She shows up for today’s evening service.

The thaumaturge greeting everyone at the door is a lovely-faced woman in black and red with cardinal wings and ebony accessories in fanciful shapes draped like a wooden suggestion of chainmail over her red dress. "New face! Welcome!" she says when she sees Jaime.

“Hello. I’m not very religious -“ understatement of the year “- but I starscaped a week ago and I thought I’d look this place over.”

"Well, you are certainly welcome here. If you'd like to take a copy of the Wisdom with you when you go, those are free to anyone who wants one." She points at a stack of pretty-dustjacketed books by the door.

“Thanks.”

She finds a place to sit.

The church is really pretty. It's covered in probably-magically-made abalone shell all over the walls and floor, and the pews look like ceramic, glazed in pieces and assembled puzzle-style after firing. Its lights have different color filters over them, casting different sections in various cool colors. A statue of Abigail Lydia Claremont dominates the area the pews face, towering over the pulpit. The windows have a pearly sheen to them.

Jaime quietly appreciates this.