The delicious scent of lunch wafted through the atmosphere like a gust of cold air from an air conditioner. It snaked its way through the manor, wading past furniture and walls, seeping through an open window into the garden below. There, it twisted downwards and spread through the atmosphere, mingling with the scent of the late orange blossoms clinging to the trees. The oncoming winds from the west propelled the scent forward, for anyone to smell.

Anastasia was on the patio swing, gently propelling herself back and forth with one of her feet touching the wooden deck underneath her. The other leg was folded up, curled against her body. As she swayed to and fro in the swing, she ran her eyes over the page she was reading. It was an interesting book, she supposed, with all the secret affairs and murders and arrests. But Anastasia hated the feeling of cliché she sensed from it. Dr. Zhivago may have been an old Russian classic, but it was as predictable as any modern day soap opera.

She was pleased and relieved to smell something delectable and mouthwatering from upstairs. Anastasia heaved herself out of the swing, shoved her feet into the flats she'd so carelessly kicked off earlier. She folded the top corner of the novel and closed it, leaving it on the cushion of the swing as she hurried inside.

She burst through the front door, having to shunt it open from how heavy the wooden thing was, and skittered up the tile steps, grasping the iron rail to propel herself. If she could only get up to the dining room before Mother did. If she could just get a glimpse of the meal before—

Anastasia halted immediately when she saw the tall, glittering, pale woman standing at the top of the steps, wearing an arrogant grin on her face. She had her golden hair neatly pulled back and pinned together with a black jade comb. Her dress was lacey and black and revealing in more ways than one. Her face was made up delicately, only a small amount of glimmering lipstick and eye shadow. Still, her mother shone like a star in the unpolluted night sky. Anastasia grinned up at her, greeting, "Good afternoon, Mother."

Sophie clucked her tongue teasingly, responding coolly, "Trying to sneak in to lunch, are we?"

The daughter sheepishly replied, "Not exactly. I'm just hungry."

Shaking her head, the mother whipped out a wide red cloth from her pocket and chastised, "You know the rules, Anastasia."

Sighing, she trudged the rest of the way up to meet her mother, closing her eyes and waiting. Sophie tied it over the top half of her face, leaving only Anastasia's mouth uncovered.

The girl instantly was thrust into a world and blindness and muted olfactory senses. Breathing through her mouth, she cautiously tip toed her way forward. She heard Sophie's voice, "What do you hear?"

Anastasia focused on the sounds ringing in her ears. She said, "I hear your footsteps…my own…I think a bird outside…"

"What kind of bird?" Came the mother's reply.

The daughter puckered her lips and thought for a moment, listening. Finally, she stated, "Blue jay. Definitely."

"Alright," continued Sophie, "What else?"

Anastasia turned her head and strained her ears to pick up the sound. "I believe….I believe I hear someone shouting on the phone in their backyard," she paused, "Their babysitter just cancelled," she concluded with a smirk.

Sophie nodded in approval, patting her daughter's shoulder. She led her to the dining room and sat her down in a chair.

Anastasia couldn't smell the food or see it, but there was indeed a scent that made her mouth water on its own. Sophie held up a spoonful of something to her mouth and said, "Taste it."

The young girl took the bite and started to chew. She let it roll about around her mouth, savoring it not for its deliciousness, but for its taste. It was…spiced. It was also sweet, in a tantalizing sort of way. She could swear there was a dash of cinnamon in there.

After a few moments of chewing, Anastasia swallowed and declared, "Sweet potatoes baked with cinnamon and extra virgin olive oil. Salt, too."

"Very good," Sophie replied. She gave Anastasia some water, then another spoonful of something else.

The girl smacked her lips together and noted first how hot the food was. She clenched her jaw and waited for the initial pain to pass before making her judgment. It was fleshy and bumpy, a few tiny lumps sitting on her tongue. It wasn't bland but it wasn't extremely flavorful either. Seconds later, the thought occurred to her.

"…Stuffed eggplant," she stated.

"Wonderful," Sophie praised. She untied the cloth from her daughter's face and said, "You may enjoy your lunch now."

"Sweet," Anastasia said, before piling the potatoes and eggplants onto her plate. Sophie sat across from her, keeping her cold brown eyes fixated on her daughter.

Picking at her plate delicately, Sophie asked, "How is your reading coming along?"

Anastasia groaned as she slid her fork into a potato, replying, "Badly. Dr. Zhivago is boring, Crime and Punishment couldn't be less predictable, and Anna Karenina isn't a story, it's a self-help book!"

Sophie swallowed a mouthful of food and responded, "You know why I have you read so many classics, child. It's for your own mental growth and understanding of human nature. Did you learn anything from Fyodor's description of a serial killer?"

Anastasia shrugged. "Only that most of them kill when the instinct intends, not out of sheer hatred for mankind."

"Good," her mother replied before taking a sip of water. "Next month I'll have you read from Black Literature."

A part of Anastasia leapt for joy. African-American novels were always a fresh step away from her native Russian lit. She was hoping for something along the lines of Ai or Langston Hughes.

"Or maybe," Sophie suddenly said, "Maybe we should get you reading more Chinese literature."

A shiver ran down Anastasia's spine. She'd read a few Chinese stories, memorized a few proverbs, but the poetry had shaken her to her core. Mainly because it wasn't poetry her mother had her read, they'd actually been spells. Sophie had an obsession with magic, and tried to raise Anastasia to be a witch. The young girl never liked the idea of being part of the Heylin vs. Xiaolin conflict. Her mother read her stories about famous warlords of the evil kind, and brave monks fighting for justice, all of which Anastasia thought was boring and frankly, unrealistic. All of Sophie's attempts to conjure magic ended in failure, including the time Anastasia tried. When would she learn that magic just wasn't real?

It was absurd, really, to think that such a logical and forefront woman like Sophie could really believe in witches and magical powers and spells. She had raised Anastasia to think like an analyst, reading about the human nature as much as possible to perceive weakness of any kind. She was trained to heighten all of her senses in case a few were impaired. Anastasia was working to be the perfect human being. Sophie was just trying to create a magic-less villain of some sort.

The daughter slammed her fork onto the table, growling, "No!"

"Anastasia, your manners!" Sophie exclaimed, dabbing her lips on a napkin.

"I will not try to learn magic, Mother, it's not worth it!" Anastasia stated angrily, rising from her seat.

Sophie's perfectly plucked brows furrowed and she warned, pointing a slender finger at her offspring, "I didn't raise my daughter to be an ungrateful brat. You will do as I say, and read Chinese spells every day from now on."

"Until what?!" Anastasia cried, waving her hands about, "Until a furry goblin pulls me into a swirling black vortex, never to be seen again? News flash, Mother, it's not happening."

"You will read those spells! Magic does in fact exist and I will prove it to you," Sophie yelled, jerking Anastasia by the arm and pulling her forward. The daughter didn't try to pull away from her vice grip, but shouted, "Where are we going?"

Sophie dug her nails into the girl's skin and replied, "To the basement. We have a visitor."

"Who?"

"Patience, Anastasia," came the annoyed reply.

As she was dragged down to the basement, Anastasia sighed in frustration, thinking that their little "visitor" would be some hack professor of alchemy or astrology, trying to shove the subjects down her throat like her mother tried.

But the sight she witnessed clearly painted a different picture.

He was tall, slender, and dressed nearly all in black. A black leather jacket hung off of him loosely. His hair was unnaturally pale yellow, side-swept and spaghetti straight. His eyes were glaringly red, something Anastasia had never seen on another person. He was wearing a small backpack.

Sophie finally let go of her daughter and said, "Anastasia, this is your cousin, Jack."