Thank you for the reviews! Anyways, here we go… :)

1: Christine

It was November, but which November? There was snow on the ground so it was not her eleventh, when the leaves stayed green until Christmas; she was sharing a sleeping pallet with her papa in the back of a caravan wagon so it was not her tenth, spent on the beaches of southern France or her fourteenth, back home in Sweden. So, it was her twelfth or thirteenth year, then, a time she tended to exchange in her memories as it is.

Night had fallen and some were asleep, or simply retired together with the subtle lack of fanfare that transmitted a warning to the entire camp. However, most everyone had gathered around the fire, drinking, laughing, dancing – Christine sat at her papa's knee as he weaved a sort of Slavic dance that had everyone pairing off to whirl over the trampled ground. Petr, an impish young man who Christine had known before he was known as Petr and before he was a young man, asked her to dance. Pleading ignorance of the steps, she tried to refuse, but he dragged her out regardless and soon she was spinning along with the rest of them, Petr's laughter rich in her ears, his hold inviting and familiar.

The fire was warm against her blue-booted feet – ah, her thirteenth year, as the shoes were new from that fall – but she was careful not to stray from the light, careful to avoid the corners where shadows could sneak in. She has done so ever since she was six – ignorant, young, and silly enough to wander off alone.

Their dance ended; Petr kissed her hand with an exaggerated grace before handing her to another – she had time to recognize Piemeur's sly grin before another song sent them off. At first, she had been just another outsider, a little girl to gawk and sneer at but otherwise ignore. Then Madame Semele had taken an interest in the girl and her abilities, and taken Christine under her wing. They gypsy magick was nothing like the effortless manipulations of Christine's childhood – the tarot cards and scrying mirrors amused and confused her at first, but she quickly learned they were potent in their own way.

It seemed that with Madame's acceptance came that of others – albeit slowly. By their second year spent traveling on-and-off with the small group of gypsies, with a red scarf covering her blonde curls and a certain flair to her step, she could have easily passed as one of them, in the right light.

She returned to her papa flushed and breathing heavily, ignoring his indulgent smile and teasing to empty the last of her water canteen. Out in the distance, a wolf howled; Christine stopped dead as her blood ran cold. No one had noticed the malice in that sound – except perhaps Madame, rolling over in her sleep – and so life continued on.

Sometimes, she could still see bright, burning eyes in her dreams, luring her away and into the night-darkened forest, promising – oh, she wasn't sure what they had promised – drawing her father and farther in, until a hand beckoned her closer and reached out…

She had no idea what might have happened if Marie, who Christine had previously thought of as nothing more than a stubborn old pony, hadn't grabbed the hood of her cloak, dragging her back and away from the ice-cold grip on her wrist. The figure, with a howling screech, had whirled up into the sky; Marie let go and Christine crumpled to the ground, clutching her forearm and crying silently. Years later, the scar would still chill.

"I suppose it can't be helped now," the pony said softly, soothingly. "Come, girl, your father will be worried."

And so Christine was unceremoniously dropped into the world of magick She had always been aware of it on a subconscious level – her heritage would not have it otherwise – but now she saw the world around her with a new clarity. At the time, it was considered surprisingly mature; later on, when her views did not change with age, they were seen as childish and simple. To Christine, there was not the luxury of black and white, or even gray. She saw the world around her in vivid colour, although it was often rose-tinted, and with constant curiosity.

From that day on, companions were to be found everywhere – the dryads who had taught her of the earth's underlying rhythms; the nyads who had explained the swell of the sea; the centaurs who had shown her the patterns of the stars; the faeries, who smiled sadly and talked to her in the languages of flowers and birds. However, it was her papa who had taught her of music, of the written word, and of unconditional love, and in return he had her total devotion.

It was he that she returned to that November night. While he played, she watched Petr charm Alexandra, a poor girl who fancied herself madly in love with him. Christine had to laugh; in all the years he had been a part of their family in some way or another, she had never seen him without some affair being conducted in the background. At one time, not so long ago, she had hoped it could – would – be her. The thought still made her cringe and giggle.

"I hope you won't abandon me for such a heartbreaker," her papa said lightly, and Christine frowned.

"Never," she swore, pressing her cheek to his warm shoulder.

Christine had once asked Petr – who was more of a dragonfly at the time – why one such as he should look after the daughter of a poor violinist, when there were certainly those who were more deserving of his attention. He had sighed, then, and curled a lock of her hair around his finger as he told her of a promise he had once made to a lady whose mortal life had been taken from her far too soon. For days afterwards, Christine had not been content until she had exhausted his knowledge of her past, her parents' past, and everything in between.

Once its presence was known, the magick lying dormant in her blood would not be ignored. By the month's end, she was performing simple childish charms; by the time a year had passed, she wove magick as easily as breathing. She had only ever confided of her world to one person – a young boy she had spent a summer with on the beaches down south. They had pledged to marry one day, and then she had formed two rings out of a sand dollar. Years later, when it would only fit on her little finger, she would still wear it. That day, she had shown him the wonders of her world, he had kissed her on the cheek and they had been inseparable for the rest of the summer.

Other than the occasional letter, they did not really keep in touch, but Christine always held a hope in her heart that he would remember their promise. When she spoke of him, Petr's eyes flashed and something in him coiled, but in the usual single-mindedness of children, Christine ignored it.

Her papa shifted and creaked to his feet, smiling down at her. "Are you going to stay?" he asked, tucking his violin under his arm. Christine nodded off-handedly, then stopped as her eyes met his. "No," she said suddenly, grabbing his hand with a sudden strength born out of fear. "Let's go."

In the flickering firelight, with the lines etched into his face and the drooping curve of his chin highlighted by the dull glow, for the first time, Christine realized that her father was mortal.