Instead, I found myself standing in the midst of a large vegetable garden with my spells hung and ready to strike up my magical band as well as call the fireflies to dance around us. The sprite had been summoned for the express purpose of delivering the note to Syrana, but apparently the romance of "meet me in the gardens" is lost when one's slightly over protective sister gets the message instead.
I'd argue that they should have known it was me by the handwriting before I realized that the small measure of fame I'd known in the Darkling Realms had been nullified by coming here and meeting with my new friends. I was pretty sure they hadn't seen me write anything. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually written anything.
So I was left with the awkward task of explaining myself to Gerda, who had come to the garden expecting the worst. Discussing these matters with her is an uncomfortable matter at best; to be honest, it left me with some interesting speculation as to what it may take to pierce that hard shell she carries with her everywhere to touch the tenderness within.
Probably a sharp knife.
In any case, Gerda was gone maybe ten minutes with the request to send Syrana along before I sensed another presence nearby -- this one a little less nimble. I didn't need the faint moonlight to tell that this was our host.
The conversation that followed certainly piqued my interest, though. I remained aloof while Matthias let slip his infatuation with a certain pugilistic redhead in our party. I felt the small devil on my shoulder start dancing with joy, and was only barely able to tell it to shut up. I offered to be of assistance in talking with the lady in question, but Matthias seemed to suffer from the deniability problems that I'd wrestled with over the last few weeks, and finally went on his way, lost in thought, of course.
There's no arguing that Cecily is fetching, but beyond appearances, I can't honestly say that I see someone who would lead to anything other than frustration or heartbreak, especially for Matthias. She has a very fatalistic and grim air about her, and I've only seen that break on a rare few occasions. She's become the de facto leader and spokesperson for our group when we saw her straightforward way of dealing with things and people *without* either immediately killing or maiming them. It would be an interesting experiment, though, to see if mixing Matthias together with her in a beaker somewhere would result in more than an explosion -- something longer lasting.
I wish there was someone in our group who had a more romantic feel to them, to whom I could discuss these kinds of things. Stark seems to flighty, Shen clueless of these matters. Fletcher had surprised me a bit in our discussion before I'd set this all up, but having conversations with him always makes one feel like they've lost some dignity in the exchange. Opening up to him just seems to be showing him where to stick the blade.
Even she whom I'd waiting this evening for doesn't exactly mesh with my romantic tendencies, or at most it has been a fleeting impulse in her. Syrana has a grounded air to her, with more than just a dollop of cynicism to go along with that, if our conversation in her room proved anything. Still, I sense a bit of something wanting more than what her world had provided -- a sense of the magical, a want for things unexplainable. What better than matters of the heart?
Finally she came to me, and after one last attempt to string together something coherent, a few gestures summoned the music and fireflies to the air, and we danced on the dew-sprinkled grass.
I hope I've succeeded in introducing a bit of the magical to her life.
*****
I vaguely recall Shen assisting me to my room, but I can claim that I was distracted at the time. I tried to ask him where he'd been all day but my only response was a spit bubble popping on my lips.
The Pattern was the Pattern -- it would be too easy to just describe it as the "most difficult task that I have ever undertook" -- but I want to give it more credit than that. It was the most pronounced fear for my own life that I've ever felt, and that was not even the worst part of it. It was the special touches, the dredging of your worst nightmares, fears, and regrets to the forefront of the mind. The look of someone you'd wronged or let down watching you from afar, shaking their head in disapproval with past, present or future actions.
I'm lying in my bed now, wishing she was here to comfort me. Now drifting into unconsciousness with a hundred billion images flashing before me -- Syrana in the garden, Syrana in her room, Syrana with her dark hair and cool... blue... eyes?
Syrana -- or a reasonable facsimile -- with a knife plunged into her chest.
No, not Syrana.
Claire, forgive me...
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