Look in. It seems bottomless, doesn't? Terrifying in that way. But drop a stone, or better, a torch, and it all comes to light. There is a sure end, as to everything. But be not afraid. It is the journey that matters. Then we may see where we've been, and know where we're going.

Sigh was happy she had been home to receive the letter.

She honestly shouldn't have been surprised when Bibi had sealed her immediately, trapped her in the witches' realm for an undisclosed amount of time. Sigh had bit and she had fought and cussed and screamed but in the end it was for the best. She was afraid of herself, afraid of the madness that had been creeping up on her recently. The harsh, venomous words she had spat, the curses and hexes on the tip of her tongue. The sudden urge to rip and destroy and watch all the little people scurry like ants before her. That wasn't her. That wasn't a Wiccan.

Djinn.

Sigh could tame this part of her. She knew she could. She had to, if she ever wanted to go home again. She had to be kept apart, at least for the time being, kept clear of mind and with no fear of wounding those around her. This realization ended her rebellion immediately. She collapsed on the floor of Mabaa's castle in a puddle of her own tears.

After a few months of her entrapment, of Bibi's consistent lessons and skirmishes with witches Sigh was taken out. Bibi began abandoning her in the most remote parts of the world.

The Amazon.

Siberia.

The Himalayas.

The Savannah.

All a part of her training, the elder witch claimed, a little too pleased with herself, all a part of Sigh learning not just power but control. She had to survive in each situation for five months on her own, which was easier in some ways than others. More than once she had been in pretty life-threatening situations and faced starvation or burning at the stake. It had become clear to her that Bibi meant it when she warned Sigh had to do this on her own. No matter the situation, the witch never lifted a single finger to help her granddaughter. Sigh had to come prepared by her own two hands and survive similarly. Sigh had to learn her place. What the local mana meant for her own brand of magic.

There was a bag full of her journals, her notes from her journeys, what she had learned, somewhere in Mabaa's castle.

Contact with those back home was difficult, and in most cases Madame confessed to never receiving her daughter's letters when she finally got around to writing them. Sigh could only assume it was much the same for her friends back in Death City, if not worse. Bibi's stance on such relations was pretty clear.

And so Sigh was not surprised when she never received responses from them.

It didn't seems right to blame the worm witch tasked with taking the letters. Not if she was ordered to conveniently "lose" them.

Time was of no consequence; it didn't seem to pass in the witch dimension and clocks were hardly available in the Ighbo tribe of Africa. Most of her days were blurs of survival and sleep, brightened when she had the chance to write or learn a new spell. But this was of no concern for her. The mortality of others seemed a distant fact, fading on the horizon like her memories of the American desert and neon lights. But she held on to herself, held onto all that Sigh was. She could not allow herself to become not herself; this whole experience was to stay the same and make sure those around her would not suffer because of it. She learned to scry, to remind herself of what she had left behind. Little images of Forbidden Fantasy and Madam, of Death City.

Death the Kid.

When she was finally allowed to leave the gaze of Mabaa the elder witch had granted her granddaughter the strangest look. Leaning in close, she whispered "Joma Joma Dabarasa. My precious little lion, you have done so well." Perhaps a hug was against protocol. The witches surrounding them stiffened. But Mabaa returned the gesture. Something in Sigh seemed to fall into place. She left content.

Until she recognized it had been five years.

Frankly, she was surprised any of her friends in Death City were still her friends. It was one of the first lessons she learned under Mabaa.

Nothing comes without a price.

Was the cost of her magic her friends?

She had shaken her head; surely not. Right?

Yeah. No way.

Maybe?

Honestly, she had been torn on the issue until Madame had passed her a card sent from a certain scythe wielder in Death City.

Maka remembered her! And that must have meant that Sigh's letters, at least some of them, had been getting through, right? And if letters to Maka arrived, did that mean letters for Kid as well? Did he respond? She leapt upon Madame, startling a defensive attack from the old woman. Madame was in need of a cane after her run in with Djinn, but that didn't mean she was any less quick on her feet. Sigh's black eye did nothing to dim the eagerness in her gaze as she sought information. Aside from the invitation, had she received any mail?

Madame scoffed in irritation but her eyes were laughing as she pulled out a large, woven basket. In it was a number of free mailers, junk mail, bills Sigh had paid years ago, and magazines with cancelled subscriptions. Several letters from Maka and Tsubaki, a few from Kilik and the twins, two from Soul, one from Black Star (it was covered in dirt). Just as she was allowing disappointment to set in, she came upon an envelope boasting the Death Family crest. It was the only one.

Sigh's breathing stuttered a bit, as the post marked date was some time after she had left to live with Mabaa. What could it contain that he had written no more? Her fingers clenched on the letter, eyes darkening. She hadn't been expecting this for a long time, and she most certainly thought it warranted more than one damn letter. There was still romance in her heart from all the books she had read, and though she had heard plenty of times from plenty of people that long distance relationships (or whatever she had with Kid) were difficult and possibly impossible, she had stubbornly held onto hope. Now she chastised herself for not being better prepared because the only person she could blame for the painful shattering in her chest was herself. It wasn't Kid's fault; immortal or not, he was still just a man. And men easily lose patience with that which is not directly in front of them.

The backs of her eyes were just beginning to sting when Madame placed a gentle hand on hers.

"Stop fretting," her characteristic growling was somewhat soothing. "And open it." Sigh looked from the letter to her mother and back again, lips pursed. "Have you?" she asked accusingly, even as her fingers slid smoothly between the lip of the envelope and its body. Madame frowned deeper before breaking into a broad grin. It was like watching a fox smile. Sigh glared harder. "Never mind; that smile tells me everything. How you manage to be both happy and unsettling I'll never understand…" Sigh carefully pulled the solitary piece of paper from the envelope.

Well, no one could ever say Kid wasn't an economist.

Bb says: that concludes my preview for At The Mouth of the Well. I thank you for your time and attention, and I hope to see you all there :)