Wander West, in Shadow

Martimeos stared at the woman, as she sat calmly behind the black stone desk, smiling at him and Elyse.

He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. A thousand questions arose like small whispers in the back of his mind, but there was only one thing he could speak of right now. "Where is it," he gasped, stepping forward, his hands shaking. "Where is it?"

The woman gave a small, puzzled frown, folding her hands before her. Her arms were strange - it looked as if they had been painted black, in spiralling pattenrs, up to her shoulder. And, Martim noted, she was quite beautiful; though she wore her dark hair short for a woman, and sharply cut, her olive-skinned features seemed carved almost perfectly, not a blemish in sight. It was almost a little unsettling, in fact, just how perfect she was. "Where is what?" she asked, genuinely confused.

"You know what!" Elyse hissed, her dark blue eyes flashing. She would have no more delay; the Art was filling her with such a need that she thought she might explode. Resisting the urge to leap forward and strangle the woman, she brushed a strand of her long, dark hair out of her face, and said, through gritted teeth, "What - whatever it is that - the ART, woman! Don't tell me you sit here and have no idea of what it is!"

The woman regarded them both for a long moment. Her dark brown eyes drifted from their faces to their familiars; Flit perched upon Martim's shoulder, and Cecil growling anxiously by Elyse's side. "Oh," she said, "You're - a wizard, and a witch? Oh." Her tone seemed genuine enough, but Martimeos could not help but suspect that the woman was mocking them. "I should have known," she continued, offering them a sympathetic smile. "This would not have happened, if not for - well - nevermind that. Hold a moment."

And with that, the woman closed her eyes. For a moment, the light seemed to grow dimmer, the white walls no longer seeming so luminous. There was a strange hum, and the light returned to normal.

And all at once, the Art's song seemed dimmed, in Martim's mind. It was still there - still stronger than anything he had ever felt - but it was no longer so loud that it drowned out his every thought.

"Is that better?" the woman asked, opening her eyes and leaning her chin forward onto her folded hands. "I'm so sorry. I was worried something like this might have happened. Did the ogres give you trouble?"

With his mind freed from the shackles of the Art's song, was sent reeling for a moment. It was good to think again, certainly, but it felt like such an aching loss for that song to be muffled that it left him gasping for breath. Elyse held her head in her hands, as if trying to keep the music in there. "Th-the ogres...?" he asked, stupefied.

The woman nodded eagerly, but suddenly they were interrupted by a series of muffled frightful curses. They looked back at the white-walled hallway they had walked through to find Kells crawling through the crack in the gigantic steel door, fury written across his normally calm features; in that moment, he reminded Martimeos of Roark. "Bloody fools," the soldier spat, "I told you to use your heads, damn you -" he stopped, upon seeing the woman standing before them, his gray eyes going wide. "Who in the black hells is that?"

"Oh! More visitors," the woman cried, delighted, leaping up from her chair. She swept around the desk, her long red dress trailing behind her on the ground. "Please come in. Do not blame these two; I assure you 'tis all my fault."

Now that he had his wits about him, Martimeos was not sure, actually, if being here with this woman was a good idea. He had no idea who she was, or what she was doing here. She was almost certainly some sort of witch; but she seemed so young. Kells seemed to be dubious about the prospect, as well, but it was too late; Aela was already coming up behind him, and so with a sigh he stepped into the hallway, glancing about nervously at this strange place. The Crosscraw woman stumbled through and immediately recoiled, looking about herself in shock; her dirty, travel-stained hides seemed particularly at odds with the immaculate white walls. Her brother followed shortly after, and he looked, if anything, even more out of place than she; it seemed strange to see such a broken man in such a perfect place.

"My. Five of you? And Crosscraw, as well. That is what you're calling yourselves these days, isn't it?" The strange woman in the red dress raised an eyebrow at Torc's missing limbs, and his binds, but did not comment on them, as she moved towards the hallway. Her movements were graceful and fluid as she beckoned them, as if she had a lifetime of dance behind her. "Come now. Don't be shy, come in." When still Kells and the Crosscraw did not move, looking askance at Martimeos and Elyse, she tutted. "Why don't we make ourselves more comfortable?" She paused, holding one black-painted finger to pursed lips. "Something a bit more suited to your sensibilities, let's say."

She waved her hand, and in the blink of an eye, everything changed.

The blank white walls were gone, replaced with the rough-hewn logs of a cabin. A merry blaze crackled in a stone fireplace in the corner, smoke and sparks billowing upwards out the chimney. The skin of a large, white bear covered the floor, its fangs arranged in a frightful snarl.

And Martimeos was no longer standing; he found himself, along with Elyse, Kells, Aela and Torc, each seated in plush cushioned chairs, comfortable and warm, draped with foxskins. Cecil was suddenly curled on the rug, before the fireplace, looking well surprised to find himself there, his tail twitching and ears raised in alarm, and Flit was perched on a peg in the wall that seemed meant to hang coats upon, chirping in panic to find himself gone from Martim's shoulder.

A table sat in front of them, carved from a polished and smoothed tree trunk, and on it lay a large platter of cookies, still warm and steaming, as well as small, fine teacups, each decorated ornately with red butterflies. The woman sat on a small sofa across from them, its arms curling, dark wood, its pillows a lush violet, and tassled; something fit for royalty. She already held a cookie in her hand, nibbling on it as she watched them with large, curious eyes. "So!" she said, setting the cookie down to delicately sip at a teacup, "Help yourselves, please."

None of them moved. It was a transformation so complete, and so sudden, that it left them all breathless and stunned. This, Martimeos knew, was not something that could be accomplished without great skill in the Art. More skill than a woman this age should possess. "Who are you," he asked slowly, trying not to betray just how much fear he now felt. They were well within her power. What she was doing here was well beyond his guessing; someone, perhaps, drawn in by the same pull of the Art they had felt? How long had she been down here...?

"Me?" The woman tossed her short hair back, butterfly-wing ribbons fluttering as if they were alive as she did so. "You may call me Isabella. Yes, that is as good a name as any. And what might I call you all...?"

None of them answered this; still too shocked by the ease with which this woman had casually remade the world around her. Elyse gripped the arms of the chair in which she sat, white-knuckled. She understood the power of this woman, as well. "Are you," she whispered, her eyes wide with awe, "The...Stone-Mother? Of the ogres?"

"What an odd question," Isabella replied, resting her chin in one jet-black hand as she stared intently at Elyse. "It is usually the ogres who make their way down here who ask me that. I will tell you what I tell them. I am not her, but I have a...sister who matches the description. Though it has been a while since we have....talked. Let's call it that. Though I would find it very odd if she had actually birthed the ogres. I suspect they are merely confused. No, no, I am no goddess." She tittered, hiding her mouth behind her hand, clearly finding the idea amusing. "Just, well, let's say a witch. That is probably the easiest for you to understand."

Kells seemed to have recovered somewhat from the shock of finding himself suddenly transported by the Art; he looked up sharply at the mention of the ogres. "And so," he said carefully, "What is it that...happened to the ogres that made their way down here? After you talked to them?"

"Oh," Isabella replied cheerfully, taking another bite of her cookie, "They were killed." She looked up at them, dark eyes twinkling, and held a hand to her mouth. "Oops. Perhaps I ought not to have said that."

A silence fell over the group as the strange witch munched on her sweets, watching them all with dark, amused eyes. Her teeth seemed very sharp as she slowly chewed, daintily wiping crumbs from her lips with a small cloth napkin.

Careful, Elyse thought. We must be very careful. She knew what it was to play a game of words with a fell witch; she had done it often enough with her mother. Lies would not serve them well here; neither would anger, if their lives hung on the balance of what they said. She licked her lips nervously, opened her mouth to speak, and-

"So that's how et es, es et?" Aela snapped, her bright green eyes flashing as she reached into her hides and drew out a stone dagger. Elyse cursed internally."Ye kilt 'em? I'll nae bandy words with ye fer yer laughs whilst ye plan our deaths-"

Isabella lifted a finger, and Aela turned into a puppet.

She crumpled backwards into her chair with the clatter of wood, her limbs splayed awkwardly; her fire-red hair now curled yarn, skin now shining, lacquered wood, glassy painted eyes staring at nothing, jaw hanging ajar.

With a wordless snarl of rage, Torc launched himself at the witch, but he had barely moved a foot when he, too, was turned into a life-sized puppet. He fell to the ground, rolling until he hit the table, where he lay in a motionless heap. Even as a puppet, he still kept one arm. And even his bruises and burns were detailed in the carved wood in purple and red splotched paint.

Isabella sipped calmly at her tea, as Kells, Martimeos and Elyse remained frozen in their seats. "As violent as ever, I see," she said scornfully, setting her teacup down with delicate grace. "I never said I killed the ogres. I only ever talked with them."

Kells had managed to restrain himself, but he looked at the wooden dolls that Aela and Torc had become, his mouth a thin grim line. He turned his gray eyes towards Isabella, who regarded him coolly, and opened his mouth to speak. "You-"

"No!" Elyse cried, stopping him before he could begin. "No! You - you hush. Let me try this." It would be better for either her or Martimeeos to be the ones to speak; at least the two of them knew of the dangers of someone wicked and powerful with the Art. And of the two, she was probably the better choice. She would know even more of the tricksome ways of a witch than the wizard.

Kells looked to Martimeos, who glanced to her, and then nodded at the soldier. Kells grimaced, opened his mouth as if to speak once more, and then with a growl settled back into his seat. Good, at least he had some sense about him.

Isabella tittered at this, giving Elyse a wink as she crossed her legs, the long folds of her red dress spilling about her in strange patterns as she did so. "I appreciate a woman who knows how to handle her men," she said slyly, stirring her tea with one jet-back finger.

Elyse felt her stomach churn as she leaned forward to stare intently at Isabella. The woman merely smiled sweetly back at her, but Elyse was not fooled. In her younger days, she had clashed more with her mother; but as she aged, she had gained some wisdom, and her contests with her mother had become those of words instead. And she knew well how a wicked witch might twist words, or pretend not to hear a lie, only to spring a trap later on; how every word uttered was as delicate and dangerous as walking barefoot on broken glass. And Isabella was clearly a very powerful witch indeed, if merely a witch she was. "Will you," she said carefully, trying to hide the tremble in her voice, "Return our friends to their normal forms, alive, unharmed, and soon?"

Isabella laughed, unpleasantly. "I cannot return what hasn't been changed at all. Worry not. They will be fine. Let us speak not of them. I will not tolerate violence."

Elyse looked regretfully at what had become of Aela. Torc she cared not a whit for, but she hoped that Isabella was being honest, and that the Crosscraw woman had not just lost her life in an instant, here. But she did not think that there was anything that could be done for them at the moment. "If you did not kill the ogres, then who - or what - did?"

"Hmm." Isabella was quiet for a moment, her dark eyes drifting towards the ground. "You should know, there are certain - laws, let's say - that I must obey. Personally, I think they are quite silly laws; not much relevant anymore, given - well - you know how poorly laws hold up over time. But I am powerless to change them myself, or ignore them; suffice to say there are some things I must not speak of, and this is one of them. I do apologize." The woman seemed genuinely sorry, she gave a small shrug. "But please. Hold the questions. I still do not know your names. And I would like to know about you, as well, after all."

As Martimeos and Kells introduced themselves, both men nervous and wary, Elyse glanced about the room they now sat in. Something, she thought, seemed off; something other than the fact that had been suddenly whisked here. She did not know what it was, but she felt strange, looking at it all; the the curling spirals of the arms of the sofa Isabella sat upon, the etched grain of the wooden walls - it was as if her eye focused on the smallest of details, and it made her feel as if she was floating outside of her skull. She shook her head slowly, trying to clear it, as Isabella turned to her. "And you, little witchling?"

"I am Elyse," she replied, watching the woman warily. She licked her lips and cautiously asked, "What are you doing here, in these old ruins....? When did you come here?"

Isabella frowned and held up a black painted hand, and Elyse flinched. For a moment she worried that the woman was going to turn her into a puppet as well. But Isabella just shook her head with a small smile as she reached across the table and poured herself more tead out of a finely-wrought silver teapot, blowing the steam away from it as she lifted her teacup to her lips. "I have been here for a very long time, now. Where else would I be? And I am here to...watch things, on behalf of who I serve. And what brings you here?"

Elyse looked to Martimeos. She did not trust this witch, not in the least; nor her cryptic answers, if indeed a witch was all she was. She could tell that Martim had the same thoughts; the wizard kept looking at the puppets into which Aela and Torc had been transformed. Such things did not happen with an idle flick of the wrist; not, at least, from any witch Elyse had ever heard of.

But eventually he swallowed, overcoming his reluctance to speak, tugging nervously at the red scarf about his neck. "We...came here following the trail of two men, and then were drawn in by the Art," he said quietly, "One a wizard, and the other - a blacksmith. With golden hair. I know they were here. 'Tis the wizard's mark, that is above the door to where first we met. I don't suppose you know of them? They would have been here years ago."

"Hmm. That sounds like the last visitors I had." Isabella replied. She gave a small frown, staring down at her teacup. "They did not stay to talk, though." And then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, "The wizard stole my mind."

There was a small moment of silence.

"He - he what?" Kells asked, sputtering, shooting Elyse a rueful glance as she scowled at him for not leaving the conversation to those with knowledge of the Art. "Your mind?"

"Oh yes," Isabella replied, seemingly unperturbed by this. "Not all of it, obviously, but..." She sighed, and looked up at them all, suddenly seeming frustrated. "There are not proper words in your tongue for it. Or if there are, I do not know them. But my mind used to be very large." She held her arms out wide, as if trying to give them an impression of just how large it had been. "Room for many memories and many thoughts. The wizard took much of it, though he at least left enough for me to continue my watch here." She tutted disapprovingly, setting her teacup down. "Might I ask why you seek him?"

Nearly everything this woman said left Martimeos with only more questions. Why would his brother have wanted to steal her mind? What did she even mean by that? Who was it that she served? W hat did she mean by her mind being large...? Was she simply talking nonsense on purpose? He shook his head, and tried to stay focused. There would be time for other answers later. "I - I have my own things I must keep secret," he answered, deciding to dare to defy her. Isabella frowned, but then nodded and shrugged, as if this were only natural. "Other than....stealing your mind, what did he do here? What happened to them?"

Isabella, for the first time, suddenly seemed nervous. She looked to the ground, shoulders slumping; her teacup rattled slightly as she held it in its dish. "I...I cannot say. I am not allowed."

Martimeos felt a great desperation welling up within him. It could not be; he could not have come so far, only to have the answers dangled in front of him, and yet be denied. There was no way, he knew, that he might force answers out of a witch this powerful. "Please," he pleaded. "I must know what happened to them. Whatever laws bind you, I - I will pay you back somehow to break them. Just please, tell me what became of them."

"I do not have the power to break them," Isabella murmured quietly. "But there are...others, here, that might tell you. You may speak with them later, if you wish. I suspect you will not have the choice, anyway. They will certainly wish to speak with you."

"Others....?" Martimeos muttered. "Other witches...? Wizards...?"

"I cannot say. But please. Stay here with me a while, and talk, before you must speak with them." Isabella waved her hand, and the table before them filled up with yet more sweets; strange, elaborate cakes, topped with colorful icing, and tall fluted glasses full of odd, bright liquids, floating with fruits. It all looked very tempting. As did Isabella herself; suddenly, her dress seemed cut lower, exposing bosom where before it had been more modest, and her lips seemed fuller; an enticing blush stained her cheeks, and she fluttered long, dark eyelashes. "It has been too long since I have had a proper conversation," she cooed, "And it can be very lonely, to keep watch here. Please keep me company for a little while."

Elyse might have laughed, had she not felt so uneasy. If the witch's attempt at seduction had worked on the men, it certainly did not show. Martimeos was lost in thought, and fumbling absent-mindedly at his pockets for his pipe, and Kells stared at the food that had suddenly appeared on the table as if it were a heaping pile of poison that Isabella had offered him. The woman blinked, as if a bit surprised by this, and Elyse could not help but feel a fondness for the two men. And she saw an opportunity.

"Well, we are trying to be hasty, here," she said, mimicking boredom. "I don't know that we will be able to spend much time talking at all." She held up a hand to keep Martimeos quiet, as the wizard turned to her with alarm and opened his mouth. She knew he had a thousand questions to ask; she did too. "Perhaps if you returned our friends to us, we might linger for a while."

Isabella frowned, crossing her black-painted arms; Elyse could not help but wonder if it was the Art holding the woman's dress up at this point. It seemed nearly ready to slide off her shoulders. "Oh, very well," she huffed, "I would like to talk to the Crosscraw as well. But those savages will keep their peace in my presence." She snapped her fingers.

And in an instant, Torc and Aela were sitting in their chairs once more, the puppets gone; Aela even still held the stone dagger which she had drawn. "-ye wicked beldam!" she cried, and then frowned, looking around herself, bright green eyes full of confusion. "Wait. What jest happened, here? Did everythin' jest jump?" She yelped as Isabella snapped her fingers once again, and the stone dagger she carried burst into a cloud of red-winged butterflies that fluttered chaotically about the room. They alighted on the sweets and the walls; Cecil batted at them as they drifted through the air, and Flit eyed them hungrily. Torc did not say anything, but he looked at Aela with immense relief written clearly across his haggard face, and then glare murderous hatred at Isabella.

"Well!" Isabella said, clapping her hands together eagerly, as Kells calmed Aela and prevented the Crosscraw woman from leaping out of her chair, "Tell me all you can! I would like to know very much how things go up above. I have my little eyes, but they can only see so much. Anything at all you might tell me - courtship rituals, forms of government, that sort of thing. I take quite long naps, and I like to know all that I can about what I have missed between them."

Elyse pondered the woman's words as she watched Martimeos and Kells reassure the Crosscraw, muttering to her in low tones to restrain hersellf. She wondered whether Isabella were mad. So little of what she said made sense. She had heard that particularly knowledgeable witches were often eccentric and strange, from a lifetime of pondering the Art. Was that what they were dealing with, here? Some mad witch drawn to the ruins, who had made a little hole for herself down here..? Or perhaps, she thought quietly to herself, she had been driven mad by whatever Martim's brother had done to her. But then, what of the locust-men they had found? "We...we will tell you all you wish," she said, pushing these thoughts aside for now. "But there is one thing I simply must know first. What was it that we sensed that drew us here? What was it that felt so strongly of the Art?"

"Oh, that," Isabella said, putting a finger to her lips and pondering for a moment. "I can show you. Yes, that should be fine. They used to allow visitors down there. Only on certain days, of course, but, well, nobdy is around to say when it isn't appropriate anymore."

There was a strange, rumbling, whirring sound, and all at once the log cabin lurched.

Martimeos and Kells, who had risen from their chairs to speak quietly to Aela, stumbled and nearly fell as some force seemed to press down all around them. "Sorry! I should have warned you," Isabella said apologetically, over the loud whirring noise that seemed to come from all around them. Despite her words, she wore a mischievous smile on her face, and her dark eyes twinkled with amusement. "Normally you would not feel it, except that - well - it would be too complicated to explain. Just a moment more."

The force continued to press down on them, driving them into the cushions and hides of their chairs. And the sensation of the Art - the sweet song in Martim and Elyse's mind, which had dimmed earlier, grew stronger and stronger, though not quite as overwhelming as it had been amongst the empty stone halls of the ruins.

All at once, with a squeal, the sensation of movement stopped. A carved wooden door, painted blue - one that had not been there a moment before, in the log walls of the room - swung open. Isabella set down a cookie she had been snacking on, dusting the crumbs from her hands and dress, and rose to her feet. "I have - hmm - lowered the, ah - well. Suffice to say, what you are about to see can be dangerous for those who practice the Art, but it should be safe for now. Shall we go?"

She swept past them gracefully, her red dress shimmering as she moved.

Martimeos and Elyse practically leapt out of their chairs in excitement to follow her. Kells and the Crosscraw still look confused; the soldier tried to catch their eyes as they passed, tried to say something to them, but the witch and the wizard were far beyond hearing now. The two were not even listening to their familiars; Flit flapping after Martim to chirp a warning, and Cecil mewing anxiously as he trailed after Elyse.

And so Martimeos and Elyse followed the odd witch Isabella out into the strangest room they had ever seen.

It was large, immensely so, and circular; they stood on a strange catwalk that ringed about the room, carved from white stone. Though they had just left what looked to be a log cabin, no such building lay behind them; instead it was merely a door, set into a blank white wall. Down from the catwalk though, the walls were not blank; they were layered with strange, thick, silver ropes - or perhaps ropes was not the right word; for they branched and forked in tangled knots, like the roots of a tree, climbing up the walls from the deep pit that lay below them.

And all these strange roots extended from the center of the pit above which the catwalk lay. And there in the center was a pool of a strange, amber liquid, too cloudy and murky to tell how deep it went. And something within the pool pulsed with a golden light from its depths, like a heartbeat, in tune with the song of the Art that rang in Martim and Elyse's minds.

"It is quite impressive, if you've not seen it before," Isabella said casually into the stunned silence.

Impressive was the wrong word, Elyse thought. This single room could have fit the five largest buildings in Twin Lamps stacked on top of the other. Some of those strange silver roots that climbed the walls were larger around than she was by three times at least. Everything about this place was immense. And yet that was not what held her attention. It was the small pool of amber liquid from which it all sprang, and the enticing, gentle golden glow that lay within. It seemed to whisper to her, beckoning her, filling her with life and light and wild thoughts; she wanted to strip off her clothes and go swimming in it; she wanted to tear off Martim's clothes and swim with him, she wanted to pin the wizard down in that pool and-

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts; everything came to her through a brilliant haze. The world tasted golden. "I - don't understand - what is it? What is all this?"

Isabella extended one long, slender arm, pointing towards the pool, and the black spirals painted into it seemed to twist and move on their own. "There," she said quietly, "Lies what you might call...a sliver of the Art. A fragment of it, if you will."

Maritmeos looked lost, his dark green eyes unfocused, his shaggy dark hair a nest of chaos, drifting in all directions. "A - a sliver of the Art?" he said, bewildered. "The Art - it is not something you can hold."

"Oh," Isabella replied coyly, "Is that what you think?" She tittered condescendingly, toying with the butterfly-wing ribbons in her hair. "Perhaps you would call it something else. I am trying to put it in terms your language allows."

Martimeos answered her with baffled silence. Elyse did as well; what the woman said made no sense. The Art was something that lived in your mind; it spoke to you in your thoughts - it was not something you could reach out and grab hold of. The Art might be poured into an object, but never - never had she heard the Art described as something physical itself. Where would it have even come from?

So baffled were the wizard and the witch that it was actually Kells who spoke next. "Alright," the soldier said, his sharp gray eyes staring about the room and his hand on the hilt of amace by his belt, "So it's a...piece of the Art, whatever that means." He gestured around with one leather-gloved hand at the great chamber in which they stood. "So - what is all the rest of this, then?"

Isabella clicked her tongue, annoyed, and folded her arms, looking up at the high ceiling above her as she chose her words. "Once again, your tongue fails me. Let me put it this way. You eat food for sustenance, yes? So that you might have the liveliness and energy to move. Think of this place as a sort of stomach, then, if you will." She lowered her head and gave them all a smile, one that made them distinctly uncomfortable. "Yes. That is a good analogy. This place is a stomach, and here we eat the Art. Or...well, we used to. And we did all sorts of things with it."

"You eat," Martimeos repeated slowly, "The Art." Isabella nodded happily, beaming at him, as if glad he understood. We, Martimeos thought. The woman keeps saying 'we'. "Isabella," he asked, "How long have you been down here? How long exactly."

"Ten thousand, nine hunded forty three years, seven months, and five days," Isabella answered matter-of-factly. "At least the way you count them, on this side. At least - the way you count them, last time I checked. I do take very long naps. I spent much of it asleep."

"Nonsense!" Aela cried incredulously, as Martim's mind reeled. The Crosscraw woman clutched at her hides as she stared at the strange room about her, looking as if she wanted to bolt. Elyse wondered whether Martimeos and Kells had told her what had actually happened to her. "The mountains themselves ent that auld. Yer lyin'."

"What a cute notion of time you have," Isabella said dryly, examining her fingernails. "I suppose that answers a few questions about your...level of development. I assure you, the mountains are far older than that." Her smile was sharp and condescending as she regarded the Crosscraw with something like pity.

"I do not think she lies about this," Elyse said softly. She regarded Isabella with her dark blue eyes sharp and probing. The woman merely stood there, in her strange red dress and black-painted arms, smiling back with a mysterious, amused air. "But that would mean she lied before about being merely a witch."

"I did not mean to lie, precisely," Isabella insisted, and she actually looked a bit embarrassed. "I told you the thing that came closest to the truth without confusing you. I-" And then suddenly she paused. She shook her head, ribbons fluttering in her hair, and blinked her dark eyes. "No," she muttered. "Damn it. Damn it! Drat and damn it, not yet!" She looked regretfully at her guests, biting her lip. "I was having so much fun. I should have asked my questions sooner."

Martimeos, Elyse, Kells and Aela all shared a worried glance amongst themselves. But before they could speak, Isabella answered their question. She smoothed out her butterfly-patterned dress with a sigh, shaking her head woefully. "My masters wish to speak with you now."