I believe in the concept of destiny. Oh, sure. Roll your eyes at just how horribly cliche that is. It feels true but I cannot prove why it's true. It is just something that I know deep in the pit of me. Just as I know that my sister is my soul mate, that Taneth is the most beautiful creature inside and out that I will ever have the honor of coming into contact with, and that the energies of all things living are interconnected somehow, I know that there is destiny at play. It's deeply ingrained in that place in me that rejects reason and laughs at logic.

Jolyon would probably tell me that there is no such thing and would plop a stack of books upon my nightstand that would prove his point. With that self-assured professor's smile that could come off as smug if I, unfortunately, did not find it quite so attractive, he would say, "Believe things are already written out as they are meant to be, then? No choices to prevent what is to come?" He believes that we each make our own choices, that we choose our own path. We will never agree on certain things because we inherently think with different parts of our being. He thinks with his head and I with my gut.

To a degree, of course, I believe in the concept of free will. However, it seems at times that no matter how hard we work at trying to get away from a life change, it is there to meet us at every turn. The more we refuse its path, the more it leaps up at us, teasing us with its presence. Now, finally, I accept that this is who I am, that this is what I am.

I am a witch from a long line of witches. I am the granddaughter and great-granddaughter of a midwife. This is the rich legacy that I was born into and I think I am finally ready to accept my place in it.

* * * * *

Soft chatter filled the humble parlor of the home. It was the sort of uncomfortable hum that only seemed present when someone was dead or dying. In this case, it was the former. Rose McAllister, an experienced midwife, respected witch, and beloved grandmother, was dead at the age of sixty-two. Now the shocked friends, distant relatives, and passing acquaintances flooded Rose's house with their baked goods to titter and murmur at the unfortunate loss of such a well-liked and capable woman.

The women swarmed around the house like restless bees. Yet, on the sofa, the two fifteen year old occupants of the house sat alone. Their grief was too morose, too palpable for the visitors to approach. Samantha laid her head against Serena's shoulder and Serena reached up to smooth Sam's blonde locks without a word. Even then they had been polar opposites. With her thick blonde locks, doe-like brown eyes, porcelain skin, and an ever ready smile, Sam had always been the pretty twin and the outstanding scholar. Serena's calculating, suspicious eyes and guarded expressions were off putting and certainly not helped by the over large features that would take several years for her to grow into.

Yet, there was never more a day than that day in which they were an inseparable set.

"I want this day to end, Bo-Bena." Sam's whisper made it past Serena's pensive fog, infiltrating her misery.

What was there to say? For after this day, they would face another and after that another. There would be an endless number of days without their grandmother, without any protection in the world. Although they had lost their parents over a decade prior, with their grandmother as their guardian they had never spent a day before this one feeling like orphans. Serena was determined to keep them moving. They had to always look ahead. Their grandmother was now the past and the past was useless to her.

The widow Ballard with her graying hair in a sensible knot emerged from the crowd of women and drifted towards them. She drew Serena's dark eyes for the fact that she actually seemed to be soaking up every detail of the teenage girls. Only a woman so comfortable and intimate with the gut-wrenching grief that surrounded them could join them. Her watery blue eyes met Serena's stubborn challenge unflinchingly.

"My dears," she stated softly, lying her hand upon Sam's shoulder.

"I am sure that you are both quite frightened but I assure you that your grandmother has prepared you both for the world. She certainly did not expect to leave you so soon but I am sure that you will each surpass her expectations." Her voice was tender and kind but resilient as well, providing a lifeline of strength through the murky waters.

Sam lifted her head and turned her innocent brown eyes towards Mrs. Ballard. The look instantly caused Serena's stomach to turn. Sam wanted to trust her, Sam wanted to trust anyone. Serena's bottom jaw tightened and she nodded politely to their grandmother's dearest friend, not at all eager for her to continue.

Mrs. Ballard's lips curled into a soft smile for Sam before meeting Serena's eyes once again. Sam might be the scholar but Serena was clearly the decision maker in this two-headed monster. "I am sure that both of you have many offers but I would also like to open my home to you. As I get older I feel my home becoming more and more work. My own granddaughters live too far away to assist me in my practice. Your grandmother always said that Sam was a genius with potions and that you, Serena, were a midwife born and bred."

No simple flattery would win her over and she raised her voice before it would have a chance to resurface the doubts she had verbally beaten free of Sam. "I thank you for your generous offer, Mrs. Ballard, but Samantha and I are determined to make a go of it on our own."

The woman smiled sadly, glancing between the girls. It was as if she could see the turmoil of the next eight years written on their faces in that one swift and far-reaching decision. Unlike the others who had offered, Mrs. Ballard did not follow it up with insults to their plan and even as Serena squared herself off to defend her desire, Mrs. Ballard gave a gentle squeeze to Sam's shoulder and released her hold.

"Remember, Serena, my offer will always stand."

* * * *

The morning sun was hidden from the city by gray clouds that after dumping rain on the city overnight were threatening to produce more of the same. While the clouds would have had a morose impact on her mood were it winter, the rain seemed a nice respite from the summer heat. Serena once had told Sammie that she believed that the smell of rain could serve as a renewing and potent elevation to the spirit and Sammie had explained to her that the smell often associated with rain was actually caused by tiny bacteria spores being kicked up into the air. Sammie also thought with her head rather than her gut.

Whatever the reason for or powers of the smell, it was fresh in her nose when she made her way before the two-story stone house on the southern most outskirts of the city that had served as Martha Ballard's home office for near on four decades. Serena's hand slid down the cool, wet stones of the wall that surrounded the front of the property before coming to a white picket gate left unlocked. The wall seemed more for keeping in the bantam chickens who were hunting around the front yard for beetles and grub escaping their wet holes than to keep the rest of the world out.

A cobblestone path cut up from the street to an ornately carved door painted a warm green to match the window frames. The door seemed new and alive with details that her fingers brushed across. More than likely it had been a form of payment from a carpenter who could not afford the monetary value of Martha Ballard's fee. Just as the chickens were probably a similar gift from another family Mrs. Ballard had served.

Not everyone in RhyDin had given up the old ways and accepted doctors and hospitals. Some still believed that the birth of a baby was not a medical emergency worthy of an expensive several day stay in a sterile environment. There was still a strong enough collection of women who believed in the traditional way of giving birth at home to create a strong need for midwives and after birth attendants. The 'baby-catchers' enjoyed the steady business that the population boom created and Martha Ballard was one of the best of these women.

Before she could knock upon it, the door swung open and an ungainly preteen girl stood before her with an openly intrusive and inquisitive expression. "Are ya 'ere fer an appointmen' wit' Mrs. Ballard?"

"You. Here. For. Appointment. With." Serena heard Mrs. Ballard's corrections of the girl's speech before she saw the older woman step out of the parlor and towards the door. A spark lit in Mrs. Ballard's pale blue eyes when she saw Serena on her front stoop shifting beneath the heavy weight of a bag on her shoulder. Her hair was now completely gray but still twisted into a sensible knot at the nape of her neck. Her posture was perhaps slightly stooped now and fingers beginning to curl with arthritis but her sharp spirit burned with as much intensity as the the youth beside her and the young woman before her. "I have this, Rosie."

The girl slipped out of the way but, more than likely, did not go far. She would be eavesdropping in a neighboring room or behind the banister. Serena knew the type. After all, Serena was the type.

Rosie would be disappointed to find that nothing was said between Mrs. Ballard and Serena for a long minute. Nothing needed to be said. Mrs. Ballard knew this day would eventually come and she had known it ever since that afternoon eight years prior. Her lips spread into a wide smile and she swung the door open further, stepping back out of the way to motion Serena within.

"It's good to see you, Serena. Rosie will show you to your room to put your things away. Be quick about it. We have a full day of appointments."

Perhaps I am just a mirror. I see what one wants me to be and I portray it back effortlessly. Most of the time I do it without even thinking about it. Being manipulative is so weaved into my being that I do not know how to stop. How much of my adult life has been spent pretending to be someone I am not for a con, for a man, for my sister? What if I have spent so much time pretending to be what they want me to be that I have failed to develop a personality of my own?

The question of my interests came up recently in conversation and it's a question which I wonder if I will be able to answer. I am a chameleon. I slide in and out of people's lives, changing my colors to adapt to their world but never quite feeling as if I fit in anyone's world. What do I want for myself? What am I interested in? I want only the next great challenge. I am interested in surviving. What does anything else matter? If I am needed to enjoy fast motorcycles, I will. If I am needed to enjoy sitting quietly and knitting, I will. If I am needed to fight and claw my way to the top, I will.

I do want to learn to be me. I want to learn who that person is but I fear that I may find that there is no hidden me, that I simply am who I have always been -- a liar, a grifter, and a thief.

* * * *

There was a time only a few short months ago that Serena would not have dared sunk her fingers into the earth. In fact, she had often feared even during her visits on Tucker's farm that her mere presence would salt the earth, destroying his livelihood. Potted plants she had attempted to care for would begin to look burnt around the edges of their leaves first but in a matter of weeks, their roots would be impacted and it would shrivel to a dry shell of its former self.

She had been the ocean's plaything and something in her seemed to ooze salt water. Everything living that she touched was poisoned by the destructive properties of the salt water pounding through her veins.

The return to being fully human had removed that liability and returned to her the skills she had learned in childhood to use herbs to create a number of medicinal elixirs -- both the traditional variety and a more magical sort. An inner witchly connection to the ground beneath her feet and the wind that tousled her shortened hair would take longer. For though she would not admit it to those she loved, despite being fully human once more, her heart still longed for the crash of the surf against the shore and the freedom of being unable to love anyone or anything but herself. On quiet, lonely nights, there were times when she could hear the call of the ocean. Her old friend teased her with its melody, reminding her of her loss.

With the heat of the midday summer sun beating down upon her, Serena rose to her full height in the garden behind Mrs. Ballard's home. After dropping the shoots of red clover she had just clipped into an apron pocket, she removed a glove to brush the her hair away from her face with the back of a wrist. The clover might be considered a weed in some gardens but it was prized by herbalists and healers alike as a useful blood thinner among other uses.

"Serena."

She turned at the sound of her name, lifting a hand to shield the sun to get a better look at the approaching man. A smile twisted her lips upward as she recognized him. Her hand dropped and she wiped it off on her apron as she twisted through the maze of plants to meet him. "Mr. Fellwinder! What are you doing here?"

The elderly jeweler came to a stop at the entrance of the garden and reached up to rub at his cheek sheepishly. "My wife said I could find you here but, I have to admit, I'm shocked."

Her smile remained pasted in place. "I am a midwife now but I have a feeling you are not here to see me in that capacity."

"I need your help." There was no small talk. He went straight for the point. She was a con artist and he was a good, upstanding business owner. He must be desperate to be showing up at her figurative door.

Quite clearly he did not need her help as a midwife. Mr. Fellwinder's wife was well past the age of baring children. A hand slipped into the apron pocket to squeeze the grip on the gardening clippers weighing down the one side of the apron. She kept her tone brisk and to the point. "I'm out of the business."

He reached up to pull his hat from his balding head, mimicing Serena's gesture without realizing it by squeezing the hat between his hands. "We don't know who else to turn to, Serena."

"What do you need?" Didn't they always need her in the end? They would call her a thief and middle man behind her back and shake their head at what a disgrace she was to her dear grandmother's name but they always came knocking on her door when the chips were down. She didn't even bother to keep the disgust from her tone.

"Our son, Nick, he's gone to work for Mr. Davis and his organization. I make a good living and he can take over the business some day but he insists on ruining his life in this ridiculous manner."

Serena gave a short bark of a laugh at the outrageous request. The life had been drawn out of her form. Her hollow body stood stock still. Even her restless energy was missing. "You want me to waltz in to see Mr. Davis and demand that he fire your son?"

"I have heard it said that you and he were quite close," the jeweler stated carefully with his hat still between his hands.

The suggestion would have caused her to set her jaw angrily if she allowed herself such shows of emotion. Instead, she remained a blank slate. "Mr. Davis is a dangerous man and, as I have said, I am out of the business." Eager to end the conversation, Serena brushed past him to head for the house, causing the chickens picking bugs off the cobblestone courtyard to scurry away with indignant clucks.

"I'll make it worth your while." The short, stocky man spun on his heels and called to her back.

They were the magic words. Her body froze and she finally forced herself to release the hold on the shears. "Fine." It was a reluctant reply and then she turned on her heels to face him fully. "But I name my price."

"Anything," he promised.

* * * *

Gangsters always seemed to gravitate towards the style and charm of the 1920s, 30s, and 40s and Frank Davis was no exception. He entered one of his West End nightclubs from a side door dressed in a well-tailored gray suit and a Fedora cocked to the side. The sultry voice of an old Eartha Kitt recording could be heard just beneath the din of the patrons. His usual clientele was out in full force even though it was late into a weeknight. Frank Davis catered mainly to his business associates -- both legal and otherwise. They came to the spot to talk business, smoke cigars, gamble heavily, and oogle the scantily clad cocktail waitresses he made sure to fill the place with. This place certainly wasn't his main business but it was an important part of the overall picture. Any good gangster knew how to diversify.

The club's manager nodded politely to his boss as he nervously approached his side. "I am sorry to have to send for you, Mr. Davis."

Frank gave a dark huff in acknowledgment of the apology. Frank's wife, Ida, was out of town visiting the couples young grandkids and he had been really just hoping for a quiet evening at home. Instead, here he was working after eleven at night to put out a ridiculous potential problem. At the age of fifty-six and in the heath he was in, he was really getting too old for these messes. "How long has she been here?"

"Two hours. She's playing poker with Mr. Williams, Kingston, Henry, and Mr. Fuller's nephew."

The brunette in question sat smiling innocently at a table in the center of the room in a slinky floor length ice blue silk evening gown that matched the era that the room was decorated in. The plunging drapery of the back of the dress left it nearly backless, giving the young woman a sultry air that she often lacked during the day. Another round had just drawn to a close and once again she was throwing an arm out to drag in her chips with a delighted laugh as if surprised by her success while the fingers of her opposite hand clung to a smoldering cigar.

Instantly, Frank realized that all of this was to get his attention. It had been her plan all along for him to be sent for. Were she really playing for money, she certainly wouldn't make such a show of herself as she knew full well that she was banned from not only his gambling parlors but most in the city. He sighed heavily before turning his gaze on the manager. "Is she cheating?"

The manager merely shrugged his shoulders in response. That's what his managers always did. There was never any proof. Yet, even the most talented con artist wasn't talented enough to be as good a card shark as she was merely by reading opponents. There had to be a trick involved that drove deeper than bedroom eyes and flirty smiles.

"Alright," Frank stated with a nod, steeling himself for whatever Serena had up her proverbial sleeve. "Let's go break up the party."

The gentlemen at the table nodded respectfully for Mr. Davis and the dealer paused upon his approach. Serena looked up as the dealer did and smiled brightly up at Frank. "Mr. Davis! I heard that you were not in this evening! What a pleasant surprise!"

"Indeed. Lovely to see you, Serena," he stated beneath his breath as one hand reached for her cigar, shoving the lit end into the ashtray on the table once he had taken it from her hand. He gently pulled the cards from her hands and placed them face down on the table to signal to the table's dealer that she would be folding. "If you excuse us, gentleman. Serena and I must have a little chat. Mr. O'Brien here will take care of your chips, Serena" Frank stated, nodding towards the manager who quickly began collecting the chips.

Serena's hands dropped to the arms of her chair as she rose to her feet, shooting the men at the table an easy smile. "Just as well, just as well. I was about to fold anyway. Mr. Kingston over there has a set of Queens."

With that announcement, several more hands were laid down and Mr. Davis was forced to issue Mr. Kingston an apologetic smile as he led Serena towards the bar. His voice dropped to a low harsh whisper. "What are you doing here, Re Re? You know you're not supposed to be in my clubs. We don't put up with cheats here. It's for your own safety. One of these days somebody is going to take offense to you winning in an unnatural percentage of hands and kill you."

Her features were set into practiced innocence as she draped her arms over the shoulders of the much older man, pulling herself in closer. Her eyelashes were batted at him as she tilted her head to the side coyly. "I am most certainly no cheat, Mr. Davis."

The show was clearly not over. Frank was a wise man and he knew to play along. "What angle are you working?" He whispered into her ear.

"I hear your wife is out of town." Her tone was a bit louder, almost as if she meant to be overheard.

"She is," he replied with a humorless twist of a grin. "Are you asking to go home with me, love?"

Serena's lips slid into a sly smile and, with the watching eyes of the patrons and the employees on the pair, she offered a demure nod of consent.

***

Frank Davis gave a groan of delight. "This is so damn good, Serena."

"I know."

"You really are some kind of angel."

"Just swear to me that you're going to have this all cleaned up before Mrs. Davis gets back home. She would totally kill me if she knew. I promised her that I would stop after your heart attack."

Frank Davis drove his fork into the pecan pie before him and deposited another large bite into his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut in delight. After swallowing, he held his free hand palm up innocently. "She will never know a thing, my dear. Not a thing."

Serena's lips settled into a pensive frown as she dropped both elbows to the island in the kitchen of Frank's New Haven home watching Frank devour the pie bite by bite. "If you die, I will never forgive myself. This might have been a bad idea."

"Hush, hush. No one is going to die over a pie and should I die tonight it would be as a very happy man," he grinned back at her as the sun began to creep up through the kitchen window. He tilted his head thoughtfully and addressed her in her professional capacity. "Do you think they bought it? You think that they bought that we're sleeping together?"

Frank had to admit that her idea had been brilliant. His enemies had been licking their chops since his heart attack hoping to edge in on the end of the docks that he controlled. His business partners weakly expressed their well wishes for his health while secretly opening the option of going with other vendors. He had spent so much time and energy since his heart attack two years prior proving that he was still capable of running his business that he was sure the stress had made a noticeable impact on his blood pressure. But what better show of it than the suggestion that a twenty-three year old woman was still interested in going home with him and that he and his health could keep up with the young woman.

He was asking the con artist, not the girl. The smirk that rose to her lips was confident to the point of cockiness and there was pride in the amusement that settled upon her face. "I am sure they did."

Perhaps that smile reminded him that with this girl nothing ever comes free for he tilted his head at her, waving the fork around vaguely. "And all you want in return for that little unexpected show and this pie is for me to fire the Fellwinder kid? Done. He's an awful employee," Frank announced quickly and with a decisive nod. "Why didn't you just come and ask? Why the game?"

Serena turned her back to dump some dishes into the sink before answering the question. "I had to sell it if I wanted payment from Fellwinder. Word will get back to him that I had to sleep with you to get what I wanted. In his eyes I will have earned my pay."

"And what is your pay? Jewelry I assume since your mark is a jeweler? Is it for you?" Truth came so infrequently from the troublesome woman that on those rare where she seemed willing to drop the tricks of her trade, he couldn't help but be curiously struck by the wicked cunning of the well detailed plans she artistically spun in complicated webs of deceit.

"It will be a gift," she declared as she turned back to face him.

"Business or pleasure?" His question was clear. Was she using it as part of a con or was she really intending to make a present out of it?

The question gave her no pause. An easy, unaffected smile spread across her face. In an instant she reverted back from the cold hard criminal that had fascinated him to the sweet, caring girl that had slipped into his wife's heart when the twins had worked in one of his clubs several years back. "Most definitely pleasure."

"Good for you, girl. Good for you."

*****

"Serena!" Rosie's voice from the bottom of the stairs of Mrs. Ballard's home caused an amused grin as Serena shoved a notebook and pen into her battered old messenger bag.

"My Lord, child. Do not shout in the house! In the civilized world instead of calling from the top of our lungs we go to the room in which the person we wish to speak with is in." Ironically enough, Mrs. Ballard herself had leaned out of the kitchen to shout her admonishment back to Rosie.

Clearly Rosie was too excited to risk punishment by calling Mrs. Ballard out on the hypocrisy for the sound of pounding footsteps could be heard climbing the stairs in a heavy, rapid fashion. Within the blink of an eye, Rosie stood in the doorway, her strawberry blonde hair half fallen from the braid that Serena had drawn back for her just an hour earlier. "Serena! A messenger just dropped this off for you."

The bag drew a bright grin and with a delighted laugh, she reached forward to take it from Rosie. She dropped onto her bed with a bounce and placed the bag down beside it. A brisk but polite note from Mr. Fellwinder spelled out his thanks and his hope that she would find the items as she had described. With a roll of her eyes, she balled up the note and tossed it over her shoulder before pulling out the first of the two boxes.

"What is it?"

Serena's gaze lifted from the long narrow box to the waiting girl and motioned her in closer, giving her the expressed permission to enter that she had been hoping for. "It's to be a gift. Would you like to see?"

Rosie nodded firmly. Serena flipped open the lid of the box revealing a silver necklace and pendant holding a pale pink pearl in its grasp. She held up the necklace by each end of the lobster claws and drapped it over the girl's neck, fastening it in the back. Two quick strides took her to the mirror over the vanity and Rosie fingered the pearl carefully. "Wow."

"I found that pearl during my travels. I had it set into that necklace just for you."

"For me?" Rosie spun on her heels to face Serena as Serena dug the second box out of the bag.

"Yes, of course." Her tone was so matter-of-fact that Rosie didn't dare question it. Instead, she crept closer to get a look at what was in the second box. Upon flipping it open, Serena pulled out one of the cufflinks within to reveal a dark, stormy black pearl set in ornately carved silver. Rosie giggled in surprise and her bright eyes jumped from the black pearls to Serena's face.

The argument had started over his old cufflinks. Well, certainly not over them but it was what Serena had chosen to blame. She did not hate them due to some misplaced jealousy because a former love had given them to him. It was the failure that they seemed to represent for him. It was a failure that he seemed doggedly determined to hold over his own head but she, foolishly or courageously depending on who's point of view one was choosing to take, was refusing to allow it to darken her future as well. He could not have expected her to listen. After all, when had she ever?

"You found these pearls while you were traveling too?"

Pulled back into the moment by the bouncing girl beside her, Serena flipped shut the lid on the box containing the new cufflinks and offered a nod. "I did indeed. Can you wait just a minute to deliver this to Rumors Mill for me? I have appointments to get to. I am sure Arcelia will have lemonade on hand and maybe some sort of cake."

Rosie grinned and nodded her consent to the errand. Serena leaned over her desk, scratching out a note in a loose, hurried script.

I have heard your warning and I am choosing to ignore it.
I understand that I am diving in at my own risk.

- Serena

The note was folded and presented to the girl with the box. She wasted no time in dashing back out of the room. Her feet thundered down the stairs and the door was slammed shut. The noise drew such an exasperated sigh from Mrs. Ballard that Serena could hear it all the way upstairs. With a laugh of amusement, she drew the strap of her bag over her chest and left the room for an afternoon heavy with appointments.

I never really thought I was capable of experiencing emotions in the manner in which most people seem capable of experiencing them. True passion seemed just out of my reach. It was something I had read about in books and listened to people speak of but it remained illusive to me. I would stare at a masterpiece for hours on end, wondering what about it provoked people. My emotions remained a shallow tranquil pool.

My anger would be fleeting. I was never really offended. However, I was never really happy either. In my old community -- the collection of card sharks and con artists I used to call friends -- I was famous for my poker face. I looked down upon people who wore their emotions on their sleeves and told people the truth when they were asked in polite conversation how they were doing. Now I think I'm realizing that, in part, my ability to control my expressions and body language was so superb because I simply did not allow myself to experience emotion. It was bottled up and tossed to the side -- unimportant and forgotten.

Something has awoken in me, though. I feel like I've thrown away the veil and I'm seeing things in the same bright, vivid colors that everyone else does. And it's overwhelming. I have never hated before. Yet, now I hate Mason. I cannot say it to Tucker but I really wish he would just kill him. I hurt for Eva. What she will go through when she learns the truth will be crushing. I feel guilty about betraying Rena and I mourn the loss of our friendship. I worry for Darcy's sudden darkness and I rejoice in Kazzy's good news.

And I think, finally, I am trusting. Tucker and Jolyon know my secrets (for the most part, of course) and they both would work and do work tirelessly to keep me well protected. Thus, despite the threat of Proposition 37 and the ticking time bomb of the sea witch's curse hanging over my head, I feel safer and more alive than I have in years.

****

Although, the days were still warm and the sun still cut a relatively high path across the sky, the semblance of fall was beginning to descend upon the city. The chill had set in gradually. It had actually taken several days for her to notice that she felt colder than she should. She would be dressed a layer warmer than those around her. Children would be playing barefoot in the lawns while her teeth chattered uncontrollably. It was the same that she had felt the year before when she had disappeared without a word. She had not even muttered a farewell to Sam or Tucker or Alain. She had simply gone out to sea one afternoon for a swim and had not come back for half a year.

The urge to migrate was welling up right in the pit of her. It twisted her stomach and caused her bones to ache and it frightened her deeply. For if the sea witch's potion had made her fully human once more as it should have, why did she still have the mermaid urge to migrate?

Her own concerns were pushed from her head as she took Jolyon's arm upon stepping out of the Inn. If she was weighed down with fear there would be no way to convince him not to be concerned. "Everything's going to be okay. I know you and Sam are going to be able to figure this out. I am not going to die of a chill."

His hand moved to rest over her arm that linked with his. "I desperately hope not. It is the worrying discomfort you have, that is all. I want you happy, Serena, not miserable. But unless you have a notion to kill me with a knife made of cuttlefish bones, or mix your blood with sap and drink it, I will have to keep pressing on for a solution."

"Kill you with a knife of cuttlefish bones? Does it have to be you or can it be anybody? I'm sure there's someone I would rather RhyDin were without." The tone of her voice remained upbeat despite the deadly intent beneath. Mason. Yes, Mason would do quite nicely. If she could solve that issue and her own all in one death, everything would work out perfectly.

A flush rose along his neck, and he hoped desperately it was hidden by shadows. With a clearing of his throat, he stated candidly, adopting a scholarly air, "According to the compatible legends, it would need to be one deeply cared for, thus the sacrifice. I may not be a suitable choice for many reasons."

She gave a soft laugh as her fingers twisted into his sleeve -- half for warmth and half because of the reminder that nothing of this magnitude came without sacrifice. They would find an answer but what was that solution going to cost her? "I cannot lose you. Who would make sure that I got my weekly lectures and remained on the straight and narrow?"

With a snicker, he shook his head. "Is that what I am good for? Well, then if that is my purpose, to lecture you, then I shall continue to do so. You seem happy enough in the bearing of it." His hand moved from her arm to rub a knuckle to the center of his brow a moment, then back to pat her arm and rest there once more.

How many times had she caught him doing that now tonight? Trying to dismiss his concerns with cheerful smiles and half-hearted humor was failing. As they approached that low stone wall in front of Mrs. Ballard's, she slowed to a stop before the gate, releasing her hold on him to turn to face him. "Are you sure you're okay? When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?"

A soft smile was given as he shook his head. "I thought I was to lecture you. Not the other way around. I sleep when I must." The air had woken him up, but nothing seem to conquer the headache that had grown slowly and steadily throughout the day. He looked over the house and back to her. "And has business been slowed as you thought it would?"

Business was dead. Pregnant women and new mothers had enough concerns. They did not need the added pressure of taunts from their neighbors or family members for using magical midwives, not when there were capable non-magical midwives eager for the extra money. Her hand rose to touch his shoulder and then fall slowly down the outside of his arm. "Nice try changing the subject. That is not exactly the answer I was hoping for. I don't know what else you're working on but I know that my matter isn't pressing enough to keep you up at nights. Is the other really that urgent?"

"There are now two others, and yes, I believe them all urgent. Time is not a commodity to be wasted. Am I to let one go until I find some weeks later on it has become urgent? Eventually, I admit, other matters will have to take precedent, but until then, I should use the time I have." A hand brushed against his brow. "This is nothing. It will pass, I am sure. Study has never been a cause for an aching head."

Signaling the raising of a white flag in what was quickly appearing to be a losing battle, she took a step in to close the distance between them in a silent request for a hug. "Do you promise that? That it is nothing?"

His arms wrapped about her, and he did not lie. "I promise that I believe it is nothing."

The kiss to the soft dark curls at the top of her head caused her eyes to shut tightly against the world and the hand moved up and down her back to comfort her drew a heavy exhale. In those rare moments when real truth was offered, it came in a breathless whisper. "I can't leave you."

"Shhh," he crooned soft, a slight tightening of his arms about her. "We'll see our way through and do what needs to be done."