12-17-2007, 11:52 PM
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She had never been inclined to her mother’s art – that curious calling to mend, to soothe sickness and stitch wounds. Her study was the stars, as gently taught by an aging father; with the profession had come well-tendered identity, a word to be repeated in every introduction, a mask to conceal all but eyes like amethyst. A little of that maternal technic had crossed continents with her, but nothing more than a morsel. She knew a little of the lore that lay behind plainer blossoms, and was familiar enough with their olfactory effects – her den had several sprigs (saved from autumn decimation) strung about on every willing root to create a musk of initially poor potency, but one that offered pleasure after exposure. Today that fact would snap and alter; today, she would find Fatin Kali, the Healer, and ask for knowledge. Had she not overheard some chance conversation and the praise contained in it, she might have simply stumbled along the rest of her days without the inspiration to acquire another art. As it was, Luz Cresceno was riding on a whim, with the great hope that it would lend humor to her limping moods. “Heartbreak,” chided some string of good sense, “shouldn’t be easily overcome.” To such thoughts Luz paid little attention and invested less time; she was already scrambling out of her home and towards the Healer’s realm before her head could correct her direction and drive her back to bed, where warmth and pleasant dreams might still be sought. As usual, her arrival was lackluster. No procession of horns. No teeth-gnashing and hair-tearing. Only a silvery she-wolf, pillowcase in tow, with an opal necklace and a suspiciously slim figure for a five-year-old. (Once, she would not have settled for so little.) Her posture indicated but brief hesitation before her voice called out; it was softened by that tricksy quality of snowfall that lends introspection to even moments amid too much company. “And now we wait,” Luz announced, to no audience in particular. Any would do, really. |