III. Apricot Brandy
Apricot brandy. Flikka swished the amber fluid around in the glass, staring into the broken surface.
Usually, she did not drink; no mage could afford to have their senses muddled. But on this moonless, stormy night, she was making an exception. The transmuter was hunched over a table scarred by knife marks and stained with various liquids that had long since soaked into the wood. Buccaneer was lying at her feet, glum as she.
It isn't going to go away, you know. You're going to have to do something about it.
Buck, just shut up. For once.
No. I'm your familiar, remember? I don't shut up because you say so. Just go into that grove, and find him. He loves you! The dog growled softly to make his point.
If he loved me, he wouldn't have left.
You're missing the point. Buck caught her eyes. That's why he ran away.
Flikka drained the glass. How does running away solve anything?
It doesn't.
Flikka laughed hollowly. Blunt as always, Buck. But you'd have to be insane to go out in this weather. And it's dark. She shivered.
But it was with a certain determination Flikka stood, pulled her cloak more tightly around her and walked out into the night.