"This you must know!
From one make ten
And two let go,
Take three again,
Then you'll be rich!
The four you fix.
From five and six,
Thus says the witch,
Make seven and eight;
That does the trick.
And nine is one,
And ten is none.
That is the witch's arithmetic"

-Witch's Kitchen, from Faust, by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

God... it was cold. So cold... and wet.

But, as she sat up in the snow and wrapped her arms around herself in a futile attempt to warm up, she supposed it was better than getting impaled.

The snow continued to fall, already starting to fill in the imprint her body had made; fine white flakes drifting in the black night sky. Her breath came out in white puffy clouds, and Lark planted one hand in the stingingly cold snow bank as she struggled to her feet. Her sneakers, once helpful when it came to running or long-distance walking, were soaked through, and her bag was nothing more than a vague snow-covered lump in the snow.

Moving as though her limbs were made of wood, the black-haired girl clambered through the snow and unearthed the backpack, then put it on her shoulders. She had no idea where she was, but she would have to find someplace warm. And soon.

She looked heavenwards, but the snowflakes were indiscernible from the stars. With a sigh of exasperation, she turned around and started her journey up the gently sloping snowscape. It didn't take more than a minute, however, for her to spot a light.

No, scratch one light. There had to be at least six or seven... from a building. A two-storied building. Blue-gray eyes widening, she nearly yelled in happiness and made a mad dash for the faint beacon of hope. The building loomed closer and closer; it was small in appearance, and a bare tree, icicles like ice spears hanging from the branches, was planted in the front yard. Icicles also lined the roof overhang, and the empty flower boxes; frost covered the window glass, but a warm yellow light still shone through, making golden-yellow squares of color in the snow.

But what made her stop short, despite the hot shower and clean clothes the house would provide, was the color of the siding. Purple.

And that tree... she recognized it, the way some of the branches were thin enough to be fairly new growth - from not much longer than a few months ago. The shutters were the same, as was the tree that stretched up to the attic-bedroom's balcony. Even now, she could hear the ocean as it smashed against the cliff walls -- the same cliff that formed the boundaries of the back yard.

Her bag fell from her shoulder, making a small explosion of white, icy, debris.

As if in a trance, she walked forwards, her feet dragging through the snow, and rang the doorbell of her own home. There was complete silence, and she was about to ring it again when the front door opened and a young man, taller than her, dressed in jeans and a white undershirt, and not paying attention as he towel-dried his blond hair, leaned in the doorframe.

"Look, Christmas is over, okay? Leave."

"Hey."

Although his face was hidden under the damp towel, she could see his body go stiff, and the towel slipped, so that his wide green eyes stared at her.

"Frickin' hell, Lark..." Rogerik leaned against the kitchen counter, glass of ice water in hand. Musing over what he had just been told, he noisily crunched the ice cubes from his drink. "And how long did it take for all this to..." He searched for the right word, one hand absently waving in the air. "Happen..?"

Seated at the kitchen table, enrobed, squaw-like, in the fleece blanket that the thief had dug up for her, cross-legged with a steaming mug of hot cocoa gripped in her hands, was Lark. Her hair was still damp from the snow, once a powdering of tiny ice crystals suspended by black wires of hair, now melted into a series of water droplets. She was nearly curled around the hot drink in her hands, and had buried her face in the soft, canary yellow fabric of the blanket.

But, even so, she looked exactly like she had the day she had left.

"One night, not even," was the muffled reply. She scrunched into an even tighter ball, and slowly raised the mug to her lips. "Not wanting to change the subject, but what've you been up to?"

Rogerik sighed, tapping his bare feet on the linoleum floor. "I finished some jobs for Koenma. A few of them were top-gig, but lately they've been getting smaller and smaller. I'm starting to think Reikai is giving up on Givanni. There've been more important issues, really."

At this, the mug was slammed on the kitchen table, and Lark was flailing her arms wildly, enough to yank off the blanket, as she tried to emphasize her words. "More important? Givanni tried to..! The school! T-the big monster-y dead things!" Seeing the look in Rogerik's face, she slowly quieted, but did not become calm, the blanket slowly falling around her knees. The blond sighed, and took a sip of water.

"Since their spirit detective has been missing for a good three months, now, Reikai has to find a replacement for Yusuke."

To tell the truth, he hadn't seen the attack. After so long, without both sisters around to bend the very water to their will, he had entirely forgotten what Lark was able to do. Staring at his now-empty glass, Rogerik watched water drip from his brow and hair onto the kitchen floor. Lark, now standing, where the water had risen as she had, had her fists clenched.

"Three months..." The way she stated it, it was as if the fact hadn't really settled in. As if it was a new word that she was trying to learn; slow and unsteady at first, but her mind was quickly wrapping itself around the term. "Three months..? Is that how long? But... it was only a few hours!"

"Three months, here." He held up three fingers, as if to prove his point, and wiped his face with a dry dishtowel. "There's some other news, too. Rachel moved into her office, to keep better track of the things going on around campus." Rogerik fought back a chuckle as the black-haired girl stared at the French-glass doors that served as the bedroom for the two chaperones of the dorm.

"And some -ahem- new neighbors-" The thief was shoved out of the way as Lark, minus the fleece blanket, stormed by. Arching his back slightly, to avoid his spine from being slammed entirely into the counter's edge, he regained his balance and focused on the younger girl as she sprinted up the staircase. She was used to the normal run of dorm roomies. Once a student graduated, was expelled, or moved to another dorm, their room would soon be filled with another.

Setting the glass down on the counter, he ran up the stairs after her. "Lark, get back here!" With the tantei gone, the purple cottage had gone back to its original purpose: housing some of the more difficult students. The kind that he went out of his way to avoid on a regular basis.

"Shut up, you!"

He whipped around the corner, catching himself as Lark placed one hand on the doorknob of what had been her room, and threw the door open.

All that remained of her old room were the gauzy window curtains. The two beds that had taken up each side of the room, the nightstand, the computer desk and wooden chest that had been at the foot of Holly's bed... it had all been replaced. Now, a bare mattress, Full-sized, was in the middle of the floor, pushed up to the wall opposite the window. Magazines and loose papers were strewn about, constantly moving as the breeze from the open window ebbed and flowed like the tide. A number of posters, ranging from half-naked women to musicians and band members dressed in black with garish piercings, covered the once-blue walls. Propped in the corner, the only physically clean spot in the room, as if it was its own little shrine, was a guitar made of honey-colored wood and red fiberglass, set securely in a stand.

Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Turning on her heel, she slammed the bedroom door that had been hers, once upon a time ago, and kicked open the tantei's old door.

The room had two beds, like hers had, but the walls had been painted black. Obscure symbols, like something that she was sure could only be found in a book worshipping the darker, more chaotic, powers of existence, were scrawled onto the bedroom walls in sickly yellow-green chalk. In the middle of the floor, nine candles formed the tips of a nine-pointed star, drawn out by pouring salt into a design. More candles, too, lined the bookshelves, red wax dribbled down the windowsill, and Lark heard the crunch of something fragile beneath her as she accidentally trod upon a discarded matchbook.

"What is this? What happened?" She rounded on Rogerik as soon as he dared poke his head into the room. He cringed, and carefully entered the room, keeping one eye on the shadowy corners of the room at all times. "New roomies?" He suggested. Then, squatting down, he picked up the half-empty container of salt, shut and rolled away only to bump into a wastebasket, and stared at the label. "Normally, this room is pretty well protected. I guess "guardian spirits" don't like generic-brand table salt."

"I'm serious!" She swiped the salt from Rogerik's hands, and the thief quickly stabilized himself, balancing on the balls of his feet. "Hey, I'm serious, too. You're lucky you didn't get hurt coming in here."

Lark gave him a look, one that reminded the boy of a spider staring down the fly caught in its web, and he braced himself for a kick to the ribs. Instead of the easy blow, however, the floor's vibrations told him she had moved on. Blinking rather widely, he hurriedly stood up. In all the years he had known her, Lark rarely missed the chance to react violently to something that upset her.

Looking back out into the hall, nervous as if some ghoul would come up from behind and attack him, he suddenly saw why Lark had left so quickly. She was fumbling with a pair of keys, trying to fit the slight brass key into the keyhole of the lock on Lyra's door. Quietly, he came up from behind her, and pulled his own key from his jeans' pocket. Turning the door, which swung open, he gestured towards the carpeted staircase. "Go on ahead."

If there was one miracle, one wish that she would have given anything to see, her sister's room was it. The fact that it had been locked was reassuring. If anything could be fixed, then it was bound to start from the gentle girl's own abode.

The paper cranes, brightly colored bits of origami that were strung up to the ceiling in columns, shifted with a faint rustle as she came up the stairs. The same knickknacks hung from the ceiling, the bed still had the same comforter on it, the dolphin rug on the floor at the top of the staircase was untouched. Some things, insignificant details, were different; the beaded curtain that had acted as a barrier between the two rooms of the third floor was knotted and pulled over to one side, replaced by a single bed sheet tacked to the top of the doorframe. The little stack of books on the nightstand was disheveled, and the digital clock was tipped over on its side.

Tiny things, but things that Lark knew her sister would never just leave as was.

"Wha..?"

"I had to use her room as storage, too keep them away from a lot of your stuff. Pretty much all of Yusuke, Kuwabara, Jin, Kurama, and Hiei's things are in that corner over there, by the stereo." And, sure enough, the bags were there, in one jumbled pile. Obviously, when moving, he either hadn't taken much time or care, or he hadn't had much warning beforehand.

"Quueeeeeeek!" Salvatore seemed to come to life with one look at the younger girl, and clambered down from the top perch in his cage. Hopping up to the cage sides, he bobbed his head up and down, making a racket and banging an empty toilet paper roll on the cage floor. The paper on the floor of the cage wasn't as clean as Lyra normally kept it, but it had at least been changed within the past few days.

"I take it my stuff is in the other room?" Lark pointed towards the sheet-covered doorway, getting the nod she expected. "Then who sleeps up here?"

"Well, uh..." The thief sweatdropped, and scratched the back of his head. "Heh, you noticed?"

"There's white hair on the pillows." And indeed there was, as Lark plucked one from the pillowcase and held it accusingly in front of Rogerik's face. "Are you sure you've been using this room only for storage?"

"Hey! What're you getting at! Besides, Salvatore here can vouch for me," he said with mock hurt, flourishing a hand at the lovebird. The peach-faced parrot stared at the hand for a moment, before letting out a garbled growl and sticking his head into the toilet paper tube.

"Real motivating account," she muttered. Lark circled around, taking in the way the moonlight shone through the glass of the balcony doors, how soft the carpet was underfoot; every little bit of information she could. Three months, and the room still seemed as if Lyra had been sleeping in her bed just the night before.

She blinked, and crept down on her hands and knees, looking under the bed. "Rogerik, did you hear that?"

"No... but maybe you should find some other pair of jeans to go rummaging around in."

This time, the blow hit, and he merely cringed as the younger girl's foot struck his shin. Well, he had been asking for that, but still...

Lark continued to pull things out from under the bed, piling them next to her. A boxed paint set, a tin of colored pencils, an unmarked shoebox, a large pad of watercolor paper, various headphone sets and a discman, and, for some reason, a tennis racket also joined the collection (what was up with the tennis racket, he had no idea. As far as he knew, neither sister took up any type of sport). Now she was up to her shoulder, stretching to pull out things from under the bed, when a soft growl made her stop.

It wasn't by any means intimidating, not like when a rattlesnake warned potential predators about its venom, but it came from a nervous animal. Nervousness and aggression could go hand in hand, especially if said animal was under enough stress. Slowly, she withdrew her hand, but the growling little creature followed, fur bristling.

Both humans backed away from the bed, able to see the glowing eyes clearly from the fox's hiding spot; the bottlebrush tail was held stiffly, and small white fangs were bared. At the sight of the tiny fox, however, Rogerik sighed. "I told her not to leave Momi here alone."

"Leave who? Wha?"

The tiny fox slunk back under the bed, fur still standing on-end, as they spoke. It cocked one ear, seeming to listen to something behind it, and Lark saw the tiny wristwatch that was thrown on the headboard shelf. The digital clock on the nightstand changed its red numbers to 11:45, and a faint little jingle sounded from the wristwatch. At the alarm, the fox rushed out, too fast to be dodged or blocked, and jumped up onto Lark's lap before vaulting over her head.

"Ack!" Her arms were thrown up, and she felt slowly growing pain as the fox's claws scraped her arms during it's mad rush. Lark winced, tried to crawl to her feet anyways, but was promptly forced to sit back down on her knees as Rogerik gently grabbed her arms and inspected the raw red lines that were already appearing on her fairly pale skin.

"Momi belongs to the kid who sleeps up here. A pretty uptight furball, too." He raised an eyebrow at the scratches, and curiously poked a particularly red wound. "Don't move; I'll get some band-aids and junk from the bathroom."

"Who names their pet 'Momi?'" But, as the thief had asked, Lark sat still and watched Momi stare at the closed bedroom door at the foot of the stairs, the fox's tail waving gently. Momi yipped, and stood up on her hind legs to scratch at the door, which creaked open as a pale face framed with whitish-silver hair peered into the room. From atop the head, fox ears twitched, and Lark suddenly found herself looking into the golden eyes of the preteen kitsune.

The ears, which seemed too large for the kitsune girl, twitched once again before she disappeared from view.

"Hey, guys! There's a new girl here!" The yell echoed throughout the hall, and Lark sweatdropped. Coming in from the other half of Lyra's bedroom, armed with a box of band-aids, cottonballs, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, Rogerik rolled his eyes.

"Ruin the surprise, why don'cha, Embyr?"

She didn't like these "new kids". No, not at all...

She supposed that Giacomo could be a nice guy -- the aura that he had wasn't cruel or evil, to say the least, which was a definite comparison to his glaring brown eyes. He was slight, scrawny, and even shorter and more fragile-looking than Rogerik, with his dun-brown hair in a bowl cut, and dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt that seemed to big for him. It was the other one, however, that bugged her the most.

Normally, she wouldn't consider herself "aggressive", per say (although everyone else seemed to disagree with her on that fact), but the girl who lounged on the couch in front of her - snapping her gum, blue eyes heavily outlined in dark purple eye shadow, with her cherry-red hair tied in a nest of braids - was a regular Medusa. This gorgon, this beast that had her long pointed nails curled possessively around Rogerik's around arm as he tried to civilly introduce Lark to them, wore nothing much more than was necessary to look "decent". A gauzy half-open blouse, ultra-short and ripped skirt, and chunky high-heeled leather boots that wrapped around her legs until just below the knees.

An antique pocket watch hung around her neck on a shining, new, gold chain. A faint symbol still smoldered on it's cover, as she smirked gleefully.

Her name was Prudence.

Heya! Well, new format-thingy for how I've set up these author notes for chapter 19. Wondering if you guys like the drabbling before or after the chapter. Speaking of which, I should reply to reviewers, but... :ponders: I could do that in my livejournal. The linky-thingy to said livejournal should be in my bio, so check it out if you're wondering why I'm taking so long to update or if I have other fic ideas in mind, folks.

But, you're still all mad at me for "killing" Lark last chappie, aren't you:smirk: