The fel energies were becoming second nature to her. She summoned stronger shadow bolts and had managed the scrying spell anywhere she directed it so she could see what was happening. This was how she discovered her problem with governance. It hadn't yet come up directly, the fact that she was young, not yet of the age of conference when she would be recognized completely as the director of her own affairs. Her "eye" wandered into the corner of a dining room one late evening as her future was being discussed by the adults that now felt qualified to run her life. Her parents documents, letters, her admittance to the arcanum, all were spread out on the table. The head Mistress, Master Thaxeus and several other people she did not recognize where gathered around them, keeping close council.

Cercee fumed. She couldn't hear anything, either, which only frustrated her further. She maneuvered her eye as close as she thought she should, before one of the magisters straightened and looked around, a frown on his face. She dispelled the eye immediately, performed the cleansing ritual she had made her habit, and went strait to her father's study. She skipped the tomes on magic, past his almanacs and atlases and went directly to a small cabinet that looked otherwise unremarkable. She separated a small key from the house ring and mumbled an incantation as she unlocked it, thankful she had paid so close attention to her parents' small secrets. In the cabinet were her parents personal accountings. She had not given them up to anyone yet, finding some ready excuse when asked. Now she needed to know what was in them as regarded her own future. She started to pour over papers. She kicked herself for not looking for it earlier. Surely, she thought, they had left some sort of will. Or perhaps, she thought, they assumed they were invincible. She shook her head. No, they would not have been that unrealistic, not going to war. She found letters from her grandfather, letters requesting they lend their considerable power to the efforts against the encroaching demons, a small swell of pride rose in her chest. she pushed it back as she continued to search. A journal she had never seen, which she tucked aside. Finally, at the back of the cabinet, folded and sealed, she found what she thought might be something useful. It was addressed to her grandfather, the senior Morningray, in her mother's handwriting, but it had never been delivered. She turned it over in her hand. Her Mother and her grandfather had never gotten on well. She looked the letter over as she relocked the cabinet and walked back to the desk. She sliced open the letter and began to read.

She frowned as she read. Two things became clear as she finished. Her mother was far more farseeing than Cercee had given her credit for, and she needed her own advocate.

It did not take long to thoroughly seduce Owwen. He was from a minor noble family, most of whom served as priests out of habit, and had in one form or another for millennia. He was, however, dedicated to the lifestyle, not the philosophy. Cercee found this something she could easily work with. Outwardly observant and inwardly needy, he made a mediocre lover, but an excellent actor in her game of appearances. And he was quite good at playing the benevolent servant of the light when she needed advice on handling her parents affairs. He had no interest in her parent's money, so his confidence in this area was genuine and as he had no interest in getting caught with her, their trysts were few and she continued her pursuits unquestioned and uninterrupted. But as he was a member of the holy order, however lowly, it was unlikely his guardianship of her affairs would be questioned. It was a benevolent act, after all.

Cercee decided, after realizing the limits of the eye spell, that she needed a more permanent minion. She needed something that was under her control, that could watch over her small collection while she was away. A better warder that what her limited knowledge could currently produce. She turned again to her father's notes. She had come across the summoning spell before, his notes called it a "basic" spell, but there seemed to her nothing basic about it. it involved opening a tear in the nether and forcing, though sheer intimidation, show of force, and strength of will, a minor nether creature from its moorings and dragging it into the service of the caster. Any such creature, she knew, would be hostile. She studied the appropriate spells for controlling such summoned creatures and carefully looked over her father's attempts. He had not seemed to find it too difficult to dominate, he had called on one creature many times, even recorded it's name. Noktip.

Noktip, it seemed, was an imp. An ugly creature, both in appearance and bearing. It had proven to be a nuisance to her father, so rude and demanding, that he had abandoned it for other pursuits. It was adept, the notes marked, with fire. Cercee thought perhaps the common ground might prove beneficial. She set about gathering the materials to perform the first summoning. among the notes and tools she had found buried in her father's study was a wand. It was simple, unadorned, black. His notes outlined it as a focus for the ritual, as well as a defensive tool should the imp get out of hand. The initial summoning would require time, concentration and a blood sacrifice. any small creature would do, but it would have to be alive when she started. A rat should suffice, she reasoned. Better not to give the imp more importance in its own mind by providing it a larger offering. She set up the parlor exactly as her father's notes described. The rat was in a small cage in the center of her casting ring, all the furniture pushed to the side, all the curtains drawn. The book was open to the page of the incantation, Cercee had committed it to memory, but would have it ready. Lure the demon with the offering, bind its will to hers and pull it through from the nether, securing its servitude. After that, she could summon and dismiss it at will, with some lesser preparation. Cercee checked her work and checked again. She held her father's wand in her lap, taking a few final deep breaths to clear her mind. She started the incantation, gesturing exactly as the instructions described. She felt the energy gather around her feet, flowing around her and start to chanel itslef into the wand. A faint greenish glow surrounded her. The wand began to vibrate in her fingers. She tightened her grip. The glow began to widen to a circle. The wand started to get hot. She concentrated, but it started to burn her fingers. Glowing glyphs separated out along the circle of light on the floor. The wand flared and Cercee dropped it involuntarily, trying not to disrupt her chant despite her seared skin. Smoke began to circle from the dropped wand. Cercee knew something was wrong. She wasn't sure what, or how it had gone so wrong, but she could see the shadowy form of the smallish imp in the spell circle, it's beady eyes glaring at her, a wicked grin on its face. The rat ran in circles in the small cage, ignored, and smoke continued to pour from the abandoned wand. It coalesced, less like smoke and more like a dark spot in the midst of an already dark room. Suddenly, with a ghoulish cry, the imp skittered across the floor and away from Cercee. She had not finished her incantation and suddenly had no way to control the creature. She stopped chanting and scooped to pick up the still smouldering wand. Before she could spot the imp, a fireball roared across the room, barely sailing over her shoulder and flaring against the far wall. Embers showered over the room, threatening small fires on the carpet and drapes. The dark spot loomed and started to stretch. Tentacles started to reach out from its center like arms. Her attention now divided, Cercee swore and in a yell of anger shouted the command to dispel the imp and cancel the summons at the same time she hurled a shadow bolt from the hand she held the wand in. The imp cursed at her as he was compelled back to the nether, the shadow bolt passing through its semi corpreal body, but the blast had been so unexpectedly strong, Cercee had been thrown off her feet and fell hard against the floor. She scrambled up, stomping on singes and patting out the small fires. She pulled the burning drapes off the wall and threw them toward the amassing darkness. The drapes fell to the floor as if passing through nothing and the dark cloud dispersed as quickly as the imp had. She stomped on the embers to smothered them. It had lasted a mere moment, but the room was in shambles. Cercee took a deep breath and sighed. She looked at her burned hand and at the patches of scorch marks on the walls. This would be hard to explain. Ignoring the pain from the burn, she started to clean up the mess, so no one would be the wiser.

The gardener was trepidatious about leaving the Master in the study when his mistress was not home, but the "tip" he offered eased his concerns considerably and as the last time the Master called, she saw him in the study, it certainly seemed like the best place to entertain a scholar. He excused himself to his duties, assuring the master that he had seen Mistress Cercee leave the house and if she knew he was coming, it was most certainly a short errand. Thaxeus nodded and smiled.
He sat in the comfortable chair and looked around the room. Bailas certainly knew how to surround himself with comfort. He was mildly surprised that the younger mage had accumulated the artifacts, not to mention the wealth, that the room belied. Cercee it seemed had inherited quite a library, for starters. One entire wall was dedicated to a bookcase that rose the full two stories of the room. There where mounted maps, decorative but very old, of the continents before the wars changed the boundaries and territories. Astrological maps, lay line maps. Thaxeus stroked his chin. Collectors and scholars. If the study was only for show, what had the Morningray's found on their expeditions? Would all of that now fall to their daughter? Would she have any idea what to do with any of it?

Thaxeus stood and wandered to the book shelf. Small artifacts sat among the books. He picked up a small puzzle box and turned it over in his hand. The script was ancient, ugly and looked vaguely trollish. Probably a curse, he mused. He reset it. There were quite a few troll artifacts, now that he took a moment to inspect them. He had been in the home decades ago, before his former student had a family. The study had been nearly empty then.

"Forgive me, sir," the gardener interrupted his thought. "I am sorry Mistress Cercee has not returned."

"Not to worry," Master Thaxeus smiled. "Now that I think of it, perhaps I was to meet her tomorrow." He gave the gardener a good natured shrug at his own expense.

"I will see myself out, and my regards to Miss Cercee should she come by after all."

The gardener nodded and went back to his work, Thaxeus took one last look aroyund the room, frowned to himself, and left.

"What happened?" the baker asked, pointing to her bandaged hand. She tried to cover it with gloves and long sleeves, but it really was quite obvious.
Cercee unconsciously slid her hand into the opposite sleeve as she adjusted the basket she carried.

"I burn water," she said glumly.

The baker frowned and shook his head. "If I may," he said pleasantly, "Can you come tomorrow? After noon? perhaps early evening? My wife will teach you to to make something simple? A young lady such as yourself should be at least self sufficient enough to," he glanced at her hand, "boil water."

Cercee dropped her eyes to her hand and flexed it. He made a good point, she needed to be more self sufficient in that regard.

She looked up at him and smiled. "Perhaps tomorrow evening," she said. Then, as an after thought "Have you any more tea?"

He gave her an appraising look, as if he might reproach her for the request. "I do," he finally said, "are you certain you want more?"

She nodded resolutely. He sighed and disappeared again into the basement. He returned with a tiny tin.

"I will see you tomorrow evening?" he asked before handing it to her.

"Tomorrow," she said extending her hand.

He nodded and handed her an order of muffins and bread, the little tin tucked inside.

"I relieved the gardener," Cercee said as she sat across the table from Owwen, sipping tea and reviewing her parents books.

"You did?" he asked, looking up from his calculations. "Why?"

"There is no reason to keep both servants. The garden is small, I can tend it myself," she shrugged.

Owwen considered this as he went back to his work. "It is your choice," he said. "I am concerned that you are here alone so often. It isn't proper for a young lady."

She scowled at him, "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"It has nothing to do with how capable you are," he said. He looked up at her and smiled, "It has to do with what is proper and expected. If you want to be considered a capable adult, there are conventions to follow."

"I do not care for anyone else's conventions," she grumbled.

"I know," he said, "perhaps you should bring the maid on more fully?"

Cercee grinned wickedly at him, "Perhaps you could see your way here more often?"

Owwen didn't blush, but he did return his eyes to the page. "That might be a possible consideration."

"It doesn't make sense if I am at my studies most of the time anyway," she reasoned.

He nodded, folded the books and set his hands on the table. "There, settled for the month," he said. "Your parents taught you well, you seem to be making all the right choices."

She smiled demurely, "If you have time, I could show you what I intend to do with the garden."

He grinned across the table at her, "I think I could make time for that."

"You came." The baker sounded both pleased and surprised as he came to see who was knocking on his rear door.

"I said I would," she nodded.

The baker looked her over. She looked tired, but not overly so. "Have you eaten?" he asked.

"No," she said shortly.

"All the better," he said ushering her in. "No better motivation for a chef than hunger."

Cercee had no idea what she expected when she agreed to learn a little cooking from the baker and his wife, but the warmth of the kitchen and the smell of rolls and breads put her in a mood she hadn't felt in years. Comfortable. She listened to his very simple instructions with the same attention she paid to the magi at the arcanum, until he finally stopped explaining to her what he was about to do and just looked at her and laughed. She started.

"Forgive me miss Cercee, but why don't you relax?" he asked.

"Relax?" she said it as if the idea was foreign. "I did not want to be disrespectful."

He shook his head. "This isn't the arcanum," he grinned, "I can't fail you."

She grinned back.

"What's your favorite meal?" he asked.

"Your breakfast cake," she said.

He laughed, "That's not a meal, its a snack."

She thought, "I like mince pie."

"Hmmm," he said, "a little complicated for a first try. Something in between?"

"Sweet bread," she said.

"Sweet bread," he said, "perfect." He set a kettle on the fire of a very large stove. "And we will start with tea."

It was well into the night when Cercee left the baker's with a smile and a loaf of honeyed bread she had baked herself. she had not seen much of the baker's wife, but as she collected her things to go, the quiet, but clearly confident elf tucked a small bottle wrapped in cloth into her basket. She pat Cercee on the arm before she left.

"Safer than the blood thistle," she smiled. she also put a small jar of salve into the basket. "For the burns."

Cercee looked surprised, but the baker's wife smiled. "Wives know what their husbands do," she smiled. And without more explanation than that, she sent Cercee on her way.