WorstDayEver[continued from And the Truth Shall Set You Free.] Troubled after her fateful encounter with Prince Caine, Gillian left the park and found her way back to the Main Concourse. She turned south and headed toward Temple Street. Gillian walked alone, not wanting to find Lt. Maes for an escort back to the university—He would only ply her with questions she didn't want to answer and chide her for talking about the Temple Street incident. But what else could she have done? Not answer the royal's direct questions? Well, she could have not asked about Cybelle. She had no idea that question would garner such a reaction from the prince, otherwise she would have! Gillian shook her head ruefully. At the time she thought Cybelle would serve as a benign change of topic. The girl frowned as she walked down the street. Because she had been anticipating the upcoming meeting with Coteaz, last night was sleepless and horrid. Today she missed her alchemy class because of her interviews with Coteaz and Prince Caine, tonight she had to somehow "observe" during the Dark Hour without getting herself eaten by the shadows, and right now she had to walk all the way back to university when it felt like she was developing a blister on her right heel. This was quickly turning into one of the worst days of her young life, she thought sourly. Further torments ignored Gillian as she made her way through the mountain city. The campus held no upsets for her either, the usual nemeses apparently engaged in other activities. The tower ascent caused the blister to ache a little, but otherwise things appeared to be looking up. Until she began to unlock her chamber door. A wisp of sulfur and burnt hair slipped from under the crack. Inside, the wisp became a stinking cloud. Gillian could see that the open window struggled to draw in fresh air. Ginger stood on the sill coughing, her fur singed in several places. On the stove something caustic and purple bubbled its last. “Oh <cough>. . . you’re <gag>. . . back!” Ginger wheezed. “How was your day?” "WHAT are you DOING?" Gillian shouted. She walked into her room and waved her arms about in a futile attempt to clear the air. Ginger arched her back in feline indignation. “Why do you <cough> always assume <cough> that everything is my fault?” She wet her paw and haughtily cleaned the soot from her nose. “Yes, in this particular case, it’s my fault. <wheeze> But I find it highly prejudicial that you <cough> automatically assume I’m responsible for every minor calamity.” Through the smoke, Gillian saw that her now-blackened alembic had fractured and continued vomiting the last of its sticky contents from its neck onto the stove. Ginger added helpfully, “Funny thing. <cough> Apparently, in the right quantity, somnalius fronds and domica redwort explode. Heh heh <cough> Who knew?” "Oh, Ginger..." Gillian said reproachfully, "Where am I going to find the money to replace this?" Pads in hand, she picked the broken alembic off the stove and placed it on the stone hearth. “Money?! Pah. We live in a university, kitten,” Ginger replied. “We can just steal another alembic from one of the labs. We’ll need a few supplies too.” The cat cocked her head, making a mental note. . . then lost track of the thought and returned to cleaning the purple gunk from her fur. Gillian rolled her eyes as she tossed the pads to the side and plunked down on the floor where the air was clearer. "I walked all the way back from Daggerwatch with a blister on my heel after a most harrowing encounter with Prince Caine, wanting only to talk the matter over with my wise familiar, and my wise familiar has forgotten she has no opposable thumbs!" “Prince Caine?!” Ginger piped up, the explosion now forgotten. “Oh kitten, that’s wonderful news! He’s so dreamy in that Pirate-Ravaging-My-Booty way. I want all the nasty details. Did he luff your sail and come about? Did you raise his jigger-mast and guide his ship into harbor? Please, please tell me, ‘yes.’” "Enough with the nautical metaphors." Gillian turned to face Ginger, her expression bleak. "Seriously, he's interested in my experiences during the Dark Hour. Really interested. Interested enough that he wants me to give him weekly reports about my observations. When I pointed out that me observing would mean me outside could mean me devoured by the shadows, he transitioned into a mining metaphor and likened me to the hapless canary. "Ginger, I don't know what I'm going to do." Ginger hopped off the sill and crawled into her mistress’ lap. She placed her paw over Gillian’s hand. “You will do as he asks. But you will not take unnecessary risks. You’re wise enough to know that the observer does not interact with its subject of study. You will hide. You will sneak. You will run when the time comes.” As she listened, Gillian absently stroked Ginger's back with her other hand. [Ginger's] green eyes narrowed, “And if you cannot run, then you fight. You’re far more powerful than you give yourself credit for, kitten.” "That's not me—it's the Voice that's powerful," Gilian contradicted. "The Voice is Cybelle, isn't it? And you knew this and didn't tell me." Gillian stared hard into Ginger's eyes, willing her to answer truthfully. Ginger looked away, her body stiffening in Gillian’s lap. “Yes,” she said in a whisper. “I sensed her in you when we tied the Three Cords. But. That’s impossible. She died a millennia ago. And I should know. I was there when Fiona killed her.” She stared up at Gillian, “You’ve seen something, haven’t you?” "No, you first," Gillian maintained. "How did she die? And why?" Ginger wrinkled her nose and whiskers before turning her head away. “Very well, kitten,” she said in a low voice. “But once I tell this story, it cannot be untold. You will be marked by it.” She lay her head on Gillian’s hand, deflating. “As with most stories, this one begins with love. It may be argued otherwise, but Royals do possess hearts. Hearts that can yearn for more than power. Cybelle’s heart belonged to Edamiel. And as with all great loves, this one was forbidden and dangerous. Edamiel, you see, was one of the Beryl – the six Sisters of Light. True demons spawned in the depths of the Wake. Edamiel was the Spirit of Emptiness. “As you might suspect, this did not sit well with Cybelle’s father.” Ginger instinctually shivered. “It was Edamiel that taught Cybelle how to control the Wake. And that, in turn, is how my mistress developed the First Tarot. What you know as the Trumps of Power. Together, they brought form to Creation.” Gillian listened avidly as she gently rubbed the back of Ginger's ears. "Why did Fiona kill her? Caine seemed ashamed of it, so my guess is for no heroic reason. Jealousy?" “Of a sort,” Ginger said, calmed by Gillian’s rubbing fingers. “Fiona desired my mistress’ secrets, particularly those regarding the Trumps. No matter how she tried, Fiona could not duplicate the same properties in her own Trump designs. Cybelle refused to be a mentor to her sister. And Dworkin fawned over Cybelle, only increasing the rift between the competitive siblings. “In the end, however, it was Cybelle’s love for Edamiel that undid her.” She pushed her blunt head into Gillian’s hand. “Fiona began to pour honeyed words into Oberon’s ear; telling him of Cybelle’s blind love for the demoness. Of how the lovers conspired to undo all of his great works and bring about a New Age of Chaos to AMber. She played on his distrust, feeding into his pride and suspicions. It wasn’t difficult.” Ginger’s voice cracked with pain as she continued, fighting to get the words out. “And when she’d sown the seeds of mistrust, Fiona lured my mistress into a trap, utilizing Edamiel as the bait. A simple plan really. She bound Edameil and allowed Cybelle to discover how her lover suffered somewhere in Shadow. When Cybelle was near mad with worry, Fiona contacted her utilizing Trump mimicry. Carelessly, my mistress opened the link without thinking. “And Fiona slipped the poisoned blade between her ribs.” Gillian felt a Ginger’s tears wet her hand. “Oberon did nothing to punish Fiona for the murder. If anything, the bastard acted relieved; elated. And so, the family disposed of Cybelle’s memory, burying her in an unmarked tomb. As if she’d never been born.” "Terrible," Gillian remarked, continuing to pet and soothe her familiar. She sought to replace Ginger's traumatic memories with perhaps some happier ones. "What was Cybelle like? Was she kind?" “The Mistress?” Ginger raised her head. “She was like a summer storm. Beautiful and life-giving. And yet, she could be the storm’s fury as well. Wild and destructive. When you were in her presence, you could not help but be in awe of her. And she made you feel blessed. “I loved her.” Ginger tilted her head and chuckled, “Not as much as I love you, kitten. Although, you could do with a little of Cybelle’s wildness, I find your dour nature to be less. . . taxing.” The feline’s chest vibrated with a chuckle, “All we need to do for you is get you laid once in a while. Problem solved.” Gillian snorted. "There are no takers. ANYWAY... Yes, I did see something. Hear something, I mean. Well, feel something, really. It was like the Dark Hour—I felt and heard Cybelle in my head while I was in the park with Prince Caine—yes, I figured out it was Cybelle, no thanks to you!—and there was something about a rock there...longing...a promise...there's a space behind the rock, and it's important to Cybelle. I intend to go back and investigate." Ginger popped her head up at the promise of adventure, “Really? Then what are we doing moping around here? There’s ancient treasure to be dug up!” She leapt from Gillian’s lap to the bed and then began making feline happy-circles, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s GO! I wonder what it could be. I mean, if it is her. . . it could be seriously expensive. I’ll be rich! And then I can just buy you some young stud to curl your toes. "I like this plan." Gillian laid down on the floor and covered her eyes. "I don't think it's something to sell, Ginger. It felt...more secretive. Like something to keep. We'll go back this evening, once it's dark." Ginger’s tail shot up like an exclamation mark, “After dark? Not like midnight dark, right? Because that could be bad. Dangerous even. And I have a serious allergy to danger. It’s hereditary. My family has struggled with it for some time now. Very sad. “But we’re very supportive from afar.” Gillian snorted. [Ginger] sat down on the bed, considering Gillian. Gillian peeked up at her from between her fingers. “Are you sure we can’t sell it?” Monetary gain apparently outweighed the risk to her mistress. "I suppose that decision will have to wait until we see what it actually is," Gillian replied. "No, not midnight-dark. I was thinking just after sunset—that should give us enough time to get there and back before then." “Okay then, we’ll wait.” Ginger said, licking her paw. Lick, lick. “Is it time yet?” she asked hopefully. Gillian covered her eyes again. Gillian’s bare back crushed the blanket of cherry blossoms and cool grass beneath her, staining her naked skin like a tattoo. Her lover’s sharp nails drifted down her belly with sensual promise, igniting tracers of pleasure. Her lips were raw and bloody from kissing, her head drunk on sensation and musk. Needled teeth teased at her throat as she gazed at the night sky, the black expanse alive with stars. She fought to move her arms, only to have her wrists held tightly above her head, helpless beneath a steely grip. A wicked tongue discovered her pulse, teasing it to a dull roar. Fingertips drifted lower, seeking the heat burning there with cruel sloth. Her lover’s weight settled over her body until it became indivisible from her own. She arched and shivered, craving more. “Forever,” Edameil whispered against her skin. And before Gillian could answer, ivory teeth sank into her flesh, invoking new, terrible pleasures. . . A cold breeze tugged at her hair, brutally yanking her from the memory that did and did not belong to her. She found herself standing in the park once more, a familiar rock face standing in front of her. Fragments of memory returned to her. Leaving her dorm room. Walking through the streets of Amber. Retracing her path to the park and then. . . Ginger coughed embarrassedly near her leg, “Uh. Okay. What are you on and where can I get some? Because whoa, girl!” Gillian's hands flew to her mouth. "A memory," she croaked between her fingers, her eyes wide behind her glasses. "Not mine. Hers." Against her better judgment Gillian briefly explored it, her photographic memory bringing the details of sensation and desire back to her, vivid and sharp... She staggered and found herself reaching out to the rock to steady herself. After watching Gillian’s ‘moment,’ Ginger chimed, “Suuuuure, it was, Kitten.” Gillian gave Ginger a look. "It's right here," she whispered to Ginger, shaking her head to clear it. "Quick, is anyone around?" Ginger climbed up onto the rock face and glanced around, her feline eyes flashing in the moonlight. She gave a wry grin, “Nope. We’re alone. So, if you need some quiet time to yourself, go for it. I’ll even turn my back, if you’d like.” "You'd still peek," Gillian predicted. She took a deep breath, intoned the spell Gaia's Voice, and extended her senses into the rock and the space behind it as she lifted the rock away. “Well, yes,” Ginger admitted. She lent Gillian some of her power, expanding the spell’s effect. Gillian’s vision peeled back the rock and stone like an onion, revealing the space she’d seen within the rock face. The box remained there, waiting. When the rock lifted away, a scent of old wood and oil emerged from the hole. And despite her constant nagging, insults, and general poor company. . . Ginger now earned her keep by saving her mistress’ life. Thanks to the expanded spell, Gillian noticed a metallic construct lurking there as well; a scything blade poised to remove an offending hand at the wrist when the box was lifted. A latch to the right would deactivate the trap. . . but she’d still have to place her hand in the blade’s path. Gillian bit her lip. She eased her hand toward the latch, but pulled it back before placing it under the blade. "I don't know if I can do this," she told Ginger. “Well, it isn’t easy for me either, Kitten,” Ginger said in a serious tone. “I’m mean think of my needs! How am I supposed to have my food made just the way I like it if you get all stumpy on me? You sure can be very selfish at times.” She flicked her tail, “But no pain, no gain, right? Just use your bad hand and don’t make any sudden movements. I’m rooting for you, kid.” Ginger helpfully retreated from the range of possible arterial spray. Gillian switched hands, using her left, and slowly eased her hand under the blade to flip the latch. For a heart-stopping moment, Gillian felt resistance; the latch being old and slightly rusty. A soft click and rattle reached her ears as the blade’s springs strained for release. But with a final push, the latch fell into place and deactivated the trap. The box felt warm in her hand, as if the wood had been left in the sun. It came out easily, virtually weightless. The instant it touched the evening air, the rock face growled and shivered. She felt a burst of magic like a soap bubble popping. Their task complete, the stone and metal constructs reverted back to their original shape and form. The opening sealed over, as if it had never been there to begin with. Gillian stared at the place where the opening used to be. "That's interesting... Looked like some sort of transforming spell." Ginger leapt off the rock. “Must have been a conjuration of some kind. You dispelled it by removing the box. Nice trick.” "Thanks, it's nice to be appreciated," Gillian quipped back. Ginger padded forward, ear perked as she caught sight of the delicate wooden box. “Well, you’re not bleeding or screaming, so it looks like we can breathe easier.” "Hunh? Oh, the box!" Gillian kneeled on the ground and set the box in front of her. She reached out and cautiously opened it up. The box opened easily, revealing a small velvet bag. In turn, the bag contained a deck of seventy-two tarot cards. Strangely, only the Major Arcana shared the artistic style, as well as back-pattern; a silver unicorn and crescent moons against a black background. The remaining cards were a mishmash of Celtic, Chinese, Egyptian, and Atlantean designs and stlyes, as if someone had randomly shuffled these cards into the deck. Gillian realized that the Hanged Man, Death, and the four Pentacle court cards were missing from the deck. Ginger grunted, "Well, that's a little anticlimactic." "Perhaps, but these must have some importance for Cybelle to go to all this trouble," Gillian mused, wondering if the major arcana were trumps and how she could confirm it. "I want to think about this for awhile." She returned the cards to the velvet bag and hid them securely in a deep skirt pocket. The box she tucked under her arm. None of the Major Arcana resembled the Royals in the slightest, nor did they possess the chilly sensation attributed to normal Trumps. And yet, when she touched these cards, Gillian felt a weight settle in her fingers, as if the cards were pulling her into them. All she needed to do was reach into them, body and mind, and they would reveal their secrets. Gillian quickly quenched any of _that_ action. "Why does everything want me to give over control of myself?" she grumbled. <Because it’s the nature of the world, girl> The Voice whispered from the corners of her mind. <Everything requires sacrifice.> "Willing or unwilling?" Gillian replied tartly. The Voice chuckled like a chest wound. <Depends on the pact taken, poppet> The Voice fell silent again, curling up in the darkness like a panther. She returned the cards to the velvet bag and hid them securely in a deep skirt pocket. The box she tucked under her arm. Gillian stood and looked around surreptitiously. "Ready to head back home, o faithful familiar?" “All this exertion has put a kink in my paw,” Ginger moaned. “I’m not sure if I can make it there without help.” The feline flumped onto the grass, stricken. Gillian was unmoved. "I can't carry both you and the box. I suppose you'll have to rest here then. Take care when midnight approaches." She turned and started walking back in the direction of Temple Street. Ginger lay there for a moment, her poor, battered body unable to move. But she soon realized that Gillian wasn’t coming back to carry her. She cursed loudly and gimped—with surprising speed—after her mistress. By the time they reach Temple Street, the feline had caught up and resumed her annoying habit of walking between Gillian’s feet. “I can see where your priorities lie,” she said, using her best my-soul-has-been-torn-out-by-your-cruelty voice. “But not with the feline that saved you stumpdom. Oh no. Not I.” Feeling safe now that they were on Temple Street and almost home, Gillian put down the box and picked up Ginger. She hugged her hard. "Save it, furball. If you were really in need, you know I'd be there for you." Ginger snuggled into Gillian’s neck, hiding her face. She sniffled, her voice suddenly anxious. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again! I thought you could be hurt. I tried to be brave. But you could have. . .” She gulped and shivered, pushing the thought away. “You’re my Kitten. You know that, right?” "Yeah, I know that," Gillian crooned back softly as she rubbed Ginger behind the ears. Even though she knew it was going to be awkward, Gillian picked up the box as best she could while still holding her familiar and started again for home. Ginger appeared relieved, happily nudging Gillian’s hand with her head. In time, she slung herself over Gillian’s shoulder like a furred scarf, freeing up the girl’s hands. She continued to hang there bonelessly for most of the walk. She looked for the Temple Street clock as she walked, wondering how much time they had left before midnight. She wanted to take out the cards in the privacy of her room to examine them more closely, but she didn't want them out during the Dark Hour. She wasn't sure why...but it just didn't feel prudent to her. When they passed the Temple Street clock, Gillian saw she had plenty of the evening remaining to her. As she crossed through Salacus Fields – Amber’s bohemian ward — a few street vendors made generous offers for the ornate box. One vodyanoi soup-cook even made her a tempting offer for Ginger – although his motives remained questionable. Afterwards, the feline requested to be let down and kept a suspicious eye on Gillian as they completed their trip to the university. Once back at the tower, they were free to do as they may. Ginger returned to her place by the window, looking out at the gibbous moon. She turned her head, “I may be the cat, but I think it’s you who is more curious at this point. Going to give them a try?” "I don't know about try, but I'm going to at least look at them." Gillian sat down on her bed and pulled the cards out from her pocket. She spread them on the blanket. "There are only 72 cards here," she told Ginger as she started to group them into piles according to art on the back. "The Hanged Man, Death, and the the court cards from the Pentacles suit are missing. Did you ever see...her...use these?" Ginger leapt from the sill to the bed to get a better look at them. She studied the cards for a moment, moving some with her paw. Finally, she shook her head. “These ones? No. I only recall her ever using the Trumps.” Gillian was reluctant to name Cybelle, not wanting to wake her, though the thought suddenly occurred to Gillian that Cybelle's cycle of sleeping and awake might have everything to do with the coming of the Dark Hour, and this was precisely the wrong time to be looking at them. Gillian set her jaw and continued sorting. Cybelle already knew that she had the cards and besides, Gillian was curious about them. "Do you recognize this artwork?" she asked Ginger, indicating the backs of the major arcana. Ginger shook her head again, “The back design is somewhat familiar. Cybelle utilized a version of that design for the first Trumps. I remember she and Dworkin discussed the Unicorn being a necessity. Drawing on its power. “Weird though. The minor arcana aren’t hers. Each one has a different artist. See the different brush strokes and inking styles?” Gillian nodded. "I concur." [She] picked up the sorted piles and spread them out face up, looking for patterns. Other than the major arcana, the other cards were completely randomized, belonging to numerous tarot decks of varying ages and origins. And yet. . . Gillian had the odd impression that the very manner in which she’d piled them on the bed offered some insight. She realized that she’d unconsciously placed the piles in a Horse Shoe spread, dominated by the Twos of each suit. Their presence, tied to the High Priestess, indicated an instinctive knowledge. Crudely interpreted, the cards suggested, “The Hidden shall remain obscured until the viewer asks the right question.” Gillian drew in a sharp breath and sat back. "The usual method of preparing for a reading involves first attuning the deck to the reader's personal energies—like by carrying the deck around for a few weeks, sleeping with it under your pillow, meditating upon the various cards... Apparently we've skipped that step." She paused. "Or maybe the cards recognize their mistress inside of me," she added speculatively. "Ginger, ask a question. Let's try this out." Ginger lay on her belly, tail slashing the air. “Well, I don’t like this one bit, but fine. Use the Star spread will you?” She coughs lightly, whiskers twitching, “How can I help Gillian deal with the Dark Hour?” The girl smiled a bit wryly at the question. "I believe ideally _you_ would shuffle the cards, but since you lack opposable thumbs perhaps me serving as proxy will suffice, due to our link. Concentrate upon your question, as will I." Gillian shuffled the cards and dealt them out in the star spread as Ginger requested. The five cards felt warm as Gillian placed them before her. The results, however, were chilling. The cards were Major Arcana and Tens, a sign of powerful forces at work. The first—what is seen—revealed The World; a representation of a cycle coming to conclusion, the doorway into life after death. The second—what cannot be seen—was The Tower in the reversed position; a denied, unshakable truth. The third card—what could be changed—was the Emperor reversed; the Great Leader trapped by his responsibilities and duties. The fourth—what could not be changed—showed the Ten of Wands reversed; a heavy burden that drains the strength of querent and those around them. And final, the fifth card—what can be expected—was the worst card possible. . . the Ten of Swords. Ginger stared down at the card, green eyes widening as she studied the man shown there and the forest of blades sticking of his back. “Oh sure!” Ginger said, leaping back. “Just ask a question, she says. Let’s try this out, she says. See what you made me do?! We’re screwed! Over-a-barrel-ass-out-no-lubrication-screwed!" Gillian frowned. "The cards don't cause anything to happen—they only remark on it. If something bad is coming up, wouldn't you rather know about it beforehand? Look, I know this can be a dire card," she said, tapping the Ten of Swords, "but let's take a deep breath and try to look at this unemotionally. "Your question was how can you help me deal with the Dark Hour? "The first card represents what is seen and is The World, signifying accomplishment and achievement. Some project or task or cycle completed. A doorway from life to death. It's not exactly clear to me what this is referring to—I'm not finishing anything up, except break is ending and the new term begins in a few days, but that's rather mundane and doesn't have anything to do with the Dark Hour. On the other hand, we've identified Cybelle and found these cards, and that's an achievement of sorts, or a peek into the everafter, since she's supposed to be dead. Perhaps it's referring to the Dark Hour itself, as a doorway or transition from life to death, or life to something else. Regardless, The World is generally considered to be a positive card. "The second card is what is not seen and we have The Tower reversed: drastic change, imprisonment within a set of circumstances, or the sudden realization of a hidden truth. Generally considered negative." Gillian paused and swallowed. "Finding out about Cybelle might fit better here. "The third card represents what can be changed and here we have another reversed card—The Emperor. The Emperor represents structure, order, regulation, power... Someone in authority. Reversed, though, we have the emperor losing force or power, or being somehow restricted. Um...it occurs to me that this could be referring to Cybelle as well. She can't manifest her full power through me because I won't let her. Or it could have a meaning on a grander scale, and refer to Lord Feldane or King Random, though that doesn't feel right to me within the scope of your question. The fourth card represents what cannot be changed—the Ten of Wands: laboring, struggling, encountering resistance. This is a card that indicates the querent has used up all the energy they started with, leaving them drained. When a card is reversed, its energy is not fully developed. It may be in its early stages, or losing power. So, reversed...I would say this indicates that this struggling, this heavy burden--whatever it is—is just beginning." Gillian bit her bottom lip. She didn't have to finish the explanation for the fourth card—it was plain to Ginger that she thought this burden was the Dark Hour itself, and their purpose for being awake during it. She continued on. "Um...the fifth card. Represents the outcome. The Ten of Swords, upright. Ruin, desolation, disruption, sorrow, sudden misfortune, accidents... Things are really as bad as you think they are." Gillian frowned and made a conceding gesture. "All right, it is a dire card. On the positive side, however, we have nowhere to go from there but up." Ginger raised a furry brow, “Oh. Of course. How foolish of me to panic. Everything is roses from here on.” She flicked her tail, “I’d check your slippers for surprises for the next month or so, Kitten. Call them little ‘commentaries’ on the line of happy bullshit that you’re trying to feed me.” Ginger turned her nose away and began muttering to herself. Meanwhile, Gillian’s hand had unconsciously settled on the World card. She felt a tingle upon her fingertips, a cobweb kiss tugging at her skin. As the contact continued, a subtle scent reached her nostrils. Musk and sage, blue skies and rain-blessed earth. Gillian picked up the card and stared at it, intrigued. As Gillian stared at the card, Ginger’s cursing faded, her voice muted by the whisper of wind-swept leaves and grass. The ocean murmured in the distance, seagulls calling to one another as they rode the midday thermals. A sensual voice, sexless and angelic, sang in the distance. Its words were foreign and yet familiar, an amalgamation of all languages known and forgotten. A song of Creation; the World’s song. Longing filled her as she listened to the Voice, an ache that rose from her chest and trickled down her cheeks as tears. So lovely, so beautiful... When Gillian glanced up from the card, she found herself sitting beneath a yew tree. It stood in the middle of a lush field of green, a line of sea-blue on the horizon. Some distance away, the hermaphroditic figure from the World card danced and sang. The sun played over its naked skin, making it shine like gold. Ginger and Gillian’s room were no where to be seen. Gillian let out a startled exclamation and clapped her hands to her mouth. Joyous excitement washed over her—they were trumps!—but was just as quickly replaced with the sobering realization that this was definitely not Amber and she did not know how to get home. So she sat under the yew tree for a number of minutes, fighting down panic that threatened to overwhelm her when she remembered school started in a few days and instead focusing on the gentle breeze blowing strands of loose hair from her face. Familiar and comforting smells ticked her nose: grass, earth, and the salty tang of the ocean. "It will be all right," she said aloud, willing herself to believe it to be true. She reached for her link with Ginger. For the first time in almost a year, Gillian felt an emptiness residing where Ginger usually dwelled. No matter how she tried, the mental link remained dishearteningly broken. Perhaps distance or the qualities of this Shadow prevented such communication. This bothered her more than anything else that had happened that day, even Caine. What if the link was forever severed? What if Ginger had to return to the Wake? What if—?" “You should not be here, Child,” an androgynous voice said. The World-Dancer approached her, unashamed of its strange naked masculine and feminine form. Gillian startled and stared. “You have not completed your journey yet,” it said, its tender smile radiating concern. “Why do you seek to enter a Pact now?” "P-Pact? I don't know what that is. I don't know where this place is. I...I came here through the card." She held the World card up for the Dancer to see. "And now I don't know how to return." The Dancer knelt down, taking Gillian’s card hand in its own, turning it over to exposed her wrist. Its liquid blue eyes briefly touched the card before finding Gillian’s gaze, holding it hypnotically. Gossamer fingertips trailed over Gillian’s wrist like butterfly kisses. “Poor lost lamb. Walks in the Elysian Fields, without a shepherd,” it whispered compassionately. “Knows not it called forth. Poor, poor lamb. Could have summoned my brother and discovered a far darker end.” Gillian’s skin burned with sensation, the very air tingling with electricity and musk and perfume. “Your place is not here, little lamb. But the Quick have not come to us for so very long. So lonely here. Please, you will stay with Shiva for a short while before you return, yes?” The Lands of the Dead. And here she'd thought religion was merely a tool for power hungry old men to keep the superstitious masses in line. She vowed to pay more attention to her catechism. At least the Elysian Fields were at the reward end of things. Shiva, however... Despite the creature's allure, a shiver went down her spine. "I need to get back as soon as possible. People will be worried. Really important, powerful people," she lied. "You are very...beautiful, and you've been very kind...so far...but can you please just show me how I can get back? I live in Amber." Shiva smiled at the praise, a caress of sunlight and youth washing over Gillian’s skin. “You already have your path home, little lamb. In the palm of your hand.” It gently guided Gillian’s free hand to its cheek, closing its eyes blissfully. “Oh, the pleasures I could show you. And the suffering I could save you from. Poor, little lamb, lost in the darkest night. The wolves on all sides. How it hurts my heart.“ It opened its eyes and released Gillian’s hand, only to then take the other one and flipped over the trump. “The Unicorn shall guide you home, Child of Amber. Return to me when your Journey is complete.” "I'll...uh...do that, thank you..." Gillian looked dubiously at the unicorn on the back of the card, wondering how that was going to work. "Why...um...why do you say that I am lost in the darkest night?" Perhaps the phrase was only used figuratively to refer to the condition of life, but it caught Gillian's attention. Shiva stood up and began to back away. “I can smell The Fall upon you, Gillian Talbot,” it said in explanation. It turned its back on her, head lolling on its neck loosely, hands swaying as if caught in a breeze. “Gaia sings to me. And I must dance. Farewell.” It began to dance again, spinning and moving sinuously. "Farewell," Gillian returned in a near whisper, watching Shiva somewhat enviously. ...So peaceful, so free, no obligations except to dance... She sighed and gazed at the back of the World card, concentrating on the unicorn. Almost immediately, the painting began to ripple like quicksilver, being replaced by a picture of her room. A stomach-flipping instant later, Gillian found herself sitting back on her bed. Ginger, who had been pacing anxiously nearby, proved without a shadow of a doubt that cats could levitate as she sprang several feet into the air. “AAAAAHHHHHHH!” Gillian burst out laughing at Ginger's reaction and fell down onto her bed. She gazed up at the ceiling and let the World card slip from her fingers onto the bedspread. "That was the most amazing experience... Ginger, they're trumps. I think." Ginger glared at her, “Oh sure. Laugh at the terrified feline. I think I just lost at least two of my nine lives, you airheaded troll!” She climbed up onto Gillian’s stomach, flexing her claws over the soft skin before she curled up. Curiosity, however, soon dampened her ire. “So, trumps, huh? I didn’t realize simple meatbags like you could use them.” Gillian rubbed behind Ginger's ears. "Meatbags? So complimentary. No, I didn't think we could either. Perhaps it's...you know...in my head." “Not my fault that you’re just a sack o’ meat,” Ginger said, flumping into Gillian’s side. She began to purr like a tiny steam-engine, rolling on the bed as he ears were scratched. “If it is... her... that’d make sense, I guess,” she said. “But it isn’t the Dark Hour yet. Is she becoming more active? Or are you remembering her skills? Ooooo... yeah, that's the spot." "I...don't know," Gillian replied, troubled. "Either affirmative worries me. Caine's interest worries me. School starting in a few weeks worries me. Everything worries me." She turned on her side and wrapped her arm around the orange tabby. "I feel...I feel like I'm caught up in something but I don't know exactly what it is or what the stakes are or who's making the rules...and I hate that, not knowing." “Yeah, it must truly suck being so completely ignorant,” Ginger said empathically. “I don’t know how you live with it.” She grew increasingly limp in Gillian’s arms, gracing her ‘meatbag couch’ with the opportunity to cuddle. “I am proud of you though, Kitten,” she admitted. “You’ve been very proactive of late. A respectable change from your usual head-in-the-sand routine. Of course, all this worry and upset does have one obvious solution.” Ginger grinned, “You need to get laid. Big time.” Gillian picked up her pillow and dumped it on Ginger unceremoniously. |
