Chapter Eleven - Err Soleil

Beaufort Bootbotham, long resigned to the shorter Bootsey, stood with his hands on his hips looking toward the sea. At least that is what he appeared to be doing to those near him. Actually, he was, in fact, staring up at the monumental white tower that seemed to erupt from the top of the chalk cliff itself, something which the muggles did not notice. "Now there's a thing," he said to no one in particular.

Bootsey was dressed in short gray trousers that were a bit too tight, a white linen shirt, and a plaid sweater vest. On his feet were what looked like green wellies; on his head was a handkerchief, tied at the corners. He was a wizard, an auror as well, and this was an approved disguise finely calculated to keep the muggles at a wary distance. Which it mostly did.

"Need some help there, mate?" asked a swarthy man carrying a large black satchel. The material of the bag strained at the handles; whatever was inside was heavy. Bootsey guessed that the contents were those weird, heavy iron implements that muggles needed. There was a lot of repair work going on in the nearby town of Ravenscar, but no such crude tools had put up the tower the man failed to notice.

In any case, conversation with the muggles was best avoided. Bootsey selected one of the approved Ministry phrases, the one that had yet to fail. "I've come to join the morris dancers, squire. D'ya know where they are?"

Success, thought Bootsey, as the man muttered his apologies and hurried off. Now it was time to see about the gleaming white edifice ahead of him. Once he was beyond the buildings and remains of buildings, he would add a charm to make sure he could work in peace. His assignment was to track down this Meekum fellow, and find out why the bleeding idiot had robbed a muggle bank.

Actually, Bootsey could guess why. Muggle lager was piss-water, but they did know their way around spirits. The exchange rate the goblins gave was pure shite, and - there were the muggle banks, now with convenient holes in their walls that led directly to the vaults. It was simply a temptation some could not resist. Not that that would earn the miscreant much sympathy, least not with the current crisis.

The auror came to a sudden stop as he reached the barrier ward. He had expected as much, though he had also expected to detect it before his face did. Meekum's chance for leniency had just evaporated. Bootsey raised his wand and set to work.

Ten minutes of determined prodding later, Bootsey's blood ran cold. That old sod Mad-Eye had told him about wards like this. The looming tower was now looking decidedly ominous. The ward was a Death-Eater ward, keyed to the Dark Mark. He could not get through, and he would not go through in any case without a lot of help.

Still, better not to go back with a cold wand. Reconnoitering would be valuable. Perhaps, hoped Bootsey, he could pick off a straggler for some pointed questions, and get a little of his own back for his stinging nose. He checked his disillusion and began to skirt the magical boundary.

It was as he picked his way along the rocky base of the cliff facing the sea, reached by conjuring an enormous feather to ride, that Bootsey felt eyes upon him. This was disturbing for two reasons. First, he had always gotten high marks for his disillusion in the certification trials. Certainly no muggle would see him. Second, as far as he could sense, there was no one else among the jumbled rocks. Which meant his probable foe was very good, and likely had the drop on him. There was a twinge of regret for the auror bravado that made him eschew the Weasley Shield-Wear. He hurried for the shelter of a large boulder.

No curses flew past, so Bootsey rooted through a surprisingly cavernous pocket for his Thurlow mini-lens. No auror bravado for this; just a smart tool. It was not a patch on the big ones for sensitivity, of course, but it would show nearby magical traces if they were strong enough. It would give away his adversary, and it did, except it was not who, or even what, was expected. The source of the shimmering light, as seen through the optics, was what looked like a bit of scrap metal wedged in the rocks. A bit of scrap metal, with a face.

It was a bronze sculpture of a clown, arms and legs deeply embedded in the surrounding rock, and it was obviously watching him. The cheek of it, leaving it out here where any muggle could find it. This sort of carelessness was happening all too frequently these days, thought Bootsey. He decided to take care of it right now; a bit of initiative shown for the report later. One concentrated Reducto, he decided, would break the magic. The metal figure soundlessly mouthed at him. Run, fool? More ruddy cheek! The auror put his wand to the metal torso and, with a bright flash, tore a hole in the sculpture's chest. The unexpected incandescence from the damaged area startled and blinded him, and he instinctively ducked low.

Which was why he was able to watch the flash of green and hear the rushing sound as the Unforgiveable sailed over. Bootsey stared in shock at the man now standing only feet away. It was Meekum, the bastard. "Meekum!" exclaimed Bootsey. "You bloody idiot! You could have killed me!"

"And I shall," smiled the Dark Lord cruelly. The chalk under the wrong-footed Bootsey liquefied, and the auror sank in.

Desperately, Bootsey struggled in the hardening muck to turn. Apparition meant distance, and distance meant time. Time he needed to reassess the situation. But it was already too late, his attempt only partially succeeded. He had splinched; his legs were locked in the now solid chalk, his torso was a few yards away, and his head and shoulders were a few yards further than that. The sensation of having a whole, functioning body while not being able to know what the other parts did was not pleasant, and more than a little itchy. The only advantage to the current situation, thought Bootsey grimly, was that the Ministry would detect it and at least be able to retrieve his body. He launched a bolt of lightning from his wand, which was damned difficult to do when one was only a head and some arms. Meekum turned it aside with barely a movement of his wand. At least the pasty bastard is breathing hard, thought the doomed auror.

"Fiendfyre," incanted Lord Voldemort. The fire spilled from the wand he held, onto the trapped auror's legs. The agonized shrieks invigorated the Dark Lord. Why, he could almost feel the magic returning to him that killing this parasite freed up. At the same time, the lack of capacity in the current corporeal form disgusted him. The Killing Curse had nearly dropped him to his knees. There was a time when he could easily do three, even four a day. A few waves of his wand was all that was needed to guide the leaping flames to the writhing torso. Lord Voldemort then examined the pierced bronze sculpture. It was inanimate, and Dumbledore had escaped. It was not a concern, the old fool was simply trapped back in the powerlessness of death. Clearly, however, ordinary metal was not going to be suitable for his purposes.

v - v - v - v - v

"Snape," called Lord Voldemort as he landed at the window.

"My Lord," replied Snape deferentially. He set the slivers of bat heart aside, and turned. The Dark Lord was nearly breathless. That probably explained the screams.

"We leave immediately. Bring that which is required for a transfer." Orders given, the Dark Lord stepped into the air and disappeared.

The potions master turned back to the bat hearts. It was a terrible waste of ingredients. Once cut with the dark iron, they would not last, and there was no time to complete the brewing. It was irksome, but not worth his life to defy the Dark Lord. The expectation of a transfer was a surprise, with the Dark Lord's plans becoming more opaque as of late. The former professor began loading the vials of potions that kept his master's husk alive. Snape knew that his current position was little more than a nursemaid, and that if the Dark Lord found a favorable host his position would erode. Why was Potter taking so long? What was the dunderhead doing?

v - v - v - v - v

It was colder than Gabrielle had expected, flying at this altitude. It was certainly colder than a skirt would suffice for. If she caught the Grippe, it would be Maman's fault. And Professor Elevagre's, since he had returned with a Ministry clerk, who signed the quarantine papers and clucked his tongue at the stall's condition. Elevagre stayed long enough to see that she was strapped into his harness. Since two of the straps went around her legs, Gabrielle knew she really should have changed - the straps kept riding up, taking her skirt along.

Gabrielle had never been this high before. It was hard to gain altitude with a broom - with the school's brooms, that is. In the darkness, all she could make out of the world below were the lights of muggle cities and towns. That was only possible when she shimmied up past Soleil's hithers. Otherwise, his wings and broad back blocked the view. Of course, it was warmer there, between his wings, right over the powerful muscles that beat the wings, but she could not stay snuggled against the colt's fur. She had to watch for the green sparks, and to remind Soleil to follow them. Gabrielle suspected that the Abraxan knew to do that without prompting, but was peeved that she had spent some of the day helping Abby.

Gabrielle knew that she had not been much help to the witch, and that Abby had only asked because she thought that Gabrielle was lonely. Still, it was good to have someone to talk with. Really talk with - Poisseux, Pepi-Z, and Soleil almost always just agreed with her. Abby did most of the speaking, and Gabrielle did not share her fascination with the Gleasson apparatus, but it was less boring than complaining to Soleil about Festeller and Stanislaw. Gabrielle learned, for instance, that she was not in southern France, but in southern Italy. She pretended to have misspoken when Abby corrected her, regretting not listening to Festeller at least a little. Gabrielle just wished her finger had not got stuck in one of the brass tubes; it made Abby laugh at her.

The Gleasson apparatus was a device that, at least for a working one, was able to analyze magical traces. It could tell how long ago magic was done, what kind of magic it had been, and even help pin down the core of the wand used. A working apparatus would save a lot of excavation of potential sites. Abby's repaired attempt managed a strange buzzing if a wand was stuck into a sensing tube directly. The dark-haired witch was happy with that result. Prior to that, she could not even be sure if it were on or not.

Gabrielle spotted the green flash well to the right of Soleil's current direction of flight. He did know - she had felt him turn just enough so that he was not too far off-course. Soleil was just spoiled. Gabrielle began the climb up his neck. The harness was really just in the way. She might, a second thought posited, fall because of it. When Gabrielle was able to reach them, she scratched Soleil's ears. There was something about them that always made them look itchy. "I saw the sparks, Soleil. Over in that direction." Gabrielle pointed, then wondered if the animal could even see her arm in the gloom. Monique, remembered Gabrielle, always said that she was too pale and practically glowed in moonlight, which could be cured by getting more sun. Gabrielle decided to think about that when she was nestled in the warmth of the colt's back, out of the cold winds.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle jerked awake, and rolled hastily to her hands and knees. She had fallen asleep while looking at the stars, and if Soleil really did not know to follow the sparks then they would be hopelessly lost. That is, if the rest of the expedition did not somehow notice that the giant flying horse was no longer behind them. Gabrielle's teeth were set to chattering when she started up past the Abraxan's shoulders. The air was colder and damper, and smelled of the sea. The wind went right through her as she scanned the darkness ahead. Gabrielle realized that they were now over water; everything below was black, and she could see muggle lights marking a shoreline. What she did not see were sparks. At least not yet. There was no reason to panic. The cold was really biting now, but she straddled Soleil's powerful neck and struggled higher. Getting lost would mean that she could go home, but it also meant that she couldn't go home. How would she protect Soleil, hide him, from the muggles? There was no reason to panic though. Gabrielle kept her head turning, watching in every direction for the telltale signal. The sparkling trail would show for quite a long way at night. Not so much once dawn came, but there was no reason to panic.

When the motes of bright green finally appeared, they were dead ahead. Further away than before, but very clear. "The-there it i-is!" shouted Gabrielle through her chattering teeth, giddy with relief. There was no reason to panic. She leaned out excitedly to point them out to Soleil, overbalanced, her cold limbs not responding, and slipped from his neck with a cry.

It was a short drop. The tether was only about eight meters long, and her wail ended in a grunt as the leather arrested her fall. Gabrielle dangled and spun in the cold, rushing air just under the Abraxan's huge front hooves.

Soleil's reaction was sudden and violent. He tucked his head down and twisted in a tight circle, trying to grab the tether in his mouth. Although he meant well, the spinning flight whirled Gabrielle around on the other end of the leather rope. That was bad, but what was worse was the definite downward sensation. She was pretty sure having the Abraxan accidentally bite through the safety line would not be good either. That was now three reasons to panic.

"N-no Sol-leil! S-stop!" shouted Gabrielle as she twisted and spun in the buffeting air currents. Not exactly stop, corrected a second thought. Stop meant drop. Stop flying in circles was what was meant, continued the possibly delirious thought. In the panic, time was beginning to slow for Gabrielle, so she had another thought, which was that she really ought to have told Soleil not to bite the tether. Then there was a thought that she was very glad that her professor had made her wear the harness, but she would never tell him. He might wonder what kind of idiot falls off such a huge creature. Perhaps she could get him more bandages, something he could really use. Were those sparks? One would think, added an annoyed thought, that the others might notice that something was at least slightly wrong. Sparks. "Sp-sparks, Soleil!"

It was not much of a command, but it seemed to make more sense to the Abraxan than her first. Soleil wheeled out of his tight spiral, and his great wings started reaching for altitude. Gabrielle had no wings of her own, so when her mount changed direction, she did not. She slammed into the colt with sufficient to leave her breathless, but not, for once, to cause the sickening cracking noises that would occasion a dose of Skele-Gro. Gabrielle's hand found part of the tack, and she clung to there to rest before trying to climb.

And Gabrielle could climb, easier than she herself would have guessed. Moving the metric ton had done for her arms what the metal over-shoes had done for her legs. It was still not easy, and Soleil's concern, and thus veering course, did not make it any less difficult. She smiled reassuringly, if falsely, for him, but it was probably too dark for that to help. Gabrielle struggled onto the animal's back and laid face down in the wonderful warmth. Never mind the smell. She would wear two pairs of denims and three blouses when next she had to fly. It was so cold up above the sea. Glad for the heat bringing her back, Gabrielle dug her fingers into Soleil's thick coat, and started scratching in gratitude.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry stared intently at the apples. There were advantages to travelling with George, and a few drawbacks. The apple on the right definitely looked dodgy, at least if he looked at it with a bit of a squint. That one he would leave for Ron. Harry took the one placed innocently, yet conspicuously, to the fore. It had some smudgy patches on it, but nothing that looked too unusual.

"How is it that you can tell which apple to take, or not to take, but are still completely pants at non-verbal casting?" asked George from the comfort of the chair he had transfigured from the firewood. Harry had thought him dozing.

"I'm not. Not totally," replied Harry defensively. They sat around a small table that was set up outside the tent, which was pitched near the barn on the small farm. It looked like an ordinary farm, until one got too close to what was definitely -not- broccoli. The wizard who owned the land was another supplier for the twins.

"You're worse than Ron, you know. Is that why you skived off your last year?"

"No. I needed, uh, time for, erm, self-directed independent studies," replied Harry. There was also the likely controversy over his blood-soaked picture in the Prophet if he was officially enrolled. He had gone through the whole 'dangerously unstable' thing before. Once was enough.

"Hermione's got you trained well, I see. This - what was it? - self-inflicted independent skiving - were you learning to speak Albanian, by any chance?" asked George. "Might be a handy talent. Or was it something about the reason for this trip?"

Harry took a bite of the apple to think. Dumbledore had told no one else of the horcrux. Harry himself had only told Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. George was in the Order, and a Weasley, but a secret shared was a secret lost. Still, decided Harry, George could do a lot to help. "There's something Voldemort needs there, something that, erm, gives him his power."

George nodded and gave out a low whistle. "So it'll be hidden then. Possibly guarded?"

"No, I don't think it will be." None of the other horcrux had been guarded, except for inferi, since Riddle would not have trusted anybody. They had not been hidden either, really, if you only knew where to look. "There'll be curses, though." Thinking of that made Harry wish he had spent more time with Bill Weasley.

"Oh obviously. You've got to have curses," said George. He broke into a grin as Harry took another bite of his apple, which was quickly spat out. "Oy! Mind those manners!" The Boy-Who-Lived turned red, began sweating, and fanned his tongue which he stuck out.

Harry pulled out his wand, seeking relief. But it was useless, he could not think of a spell to cast, and could not feel his tongue to cast it anyway. George was right, thought Harry. He was pants at non-verbal casting.

"It doesn't always have to be magic. Concentrated Bhut Jolokia peppers, courtesy of one Krishna, or the other," explained George. "Need a bit of help there? Milk's the thing." He drew his wand and produced a gush of milk like a firehose, which blasted the suffering Harry into the wall of the barn.

Harry righted himself and found his glasses. George was rolling on the ground, finding it all profoundly funny. Harry did not say anything, though. The mouthful of milk he had quenched the pepper's burn. He crawled his way back to his wand, and George picked himself off the grass. A couple of swallows, thought Harry, and I'll return the favor.

"Uh oh. There's that Pot-temperament we all know," said George. "Come on, it's all in fun. Hey - I'll tell you a trick to non-verbal casting, how about that?"

"No, I get plenty of that in Hermione's drills. Per-" began Harry.

"Protego!" called George. Harry's bludgeoning spell was turned aside. Harry went to disarm the ex-beater, but found he had no voice. He really was pants at this, and if he ever had to go up against a real opponent without the element of surprise... Well, he had better - Pants, thought Harry. There was one spell that worked: Levicorpus!

George was dragged into the air by his ankle, like he was attached to an invisible rope. He somersaulted to the ground a moment later having cancelled the spell. "That's better. There's hope for you yet," grinned George. A short wand movement caused Harry's wand to fly from his hand. "But you're still a bit of a thin streak. Do, please, pay attention, as I shall now divulge the secret of, nay, the very heart of magic, as revealed to Fred and I by dint of our own long years of devoted study. Oy! I can see that."

Harry had rolled his eyes. The last secret to the twins' success was a map they had found with little more than a lucky dip. On the other hand, Fred and George had passed that on to him, and it had been really useful. The question was whether to go for his wand, or to hear George out.

"That's more like it. You may want to practice your look of wonder once this vital secret is revealed. No, that looks more confused than awed. Never mind, I'll do a glamour when the time comes. And never mind your wand for now.

"Listen, Harry. Do you think there's a spell for that geyser of milk? Oh, sorry. Finite."

"Erm, yes?"

"'Course there is, somewhere, probably. I wouldn't know, I didn't use it," said George.

"Then how did you?"

"Where is the magic, Harry?"

"What?"

"Where does the magic come from?" repeated George.

"Well, I - Hang on, I know this one. There was this bloke, yeah, Barthelemy, right? He thought -"

"Set ol' Barty aside for now. Windy old baggage. Where's the magic? The words, the wand, or the wizard?" quizzed George.

This, thought Harry, was beginning to sound philosophical again. "The wizard, I suppose," answered Harry.

"Right you are, chum. The wand's a stick to a muggle; the incantation mostly gibberish. The wizard casts the spell. So, why the wand?"

Harry knew this one. "It focuses the magic of the spell and helps control it."

"Yeah, basic stuff that. Now, why the incantation?"

"It, um, it... I - I don't know," replied Harry. Spells always had an incantation, thought Harry. Didn't they? But it was wands and wizards that had histories, that were studied. "I mean, how else would you know what spell you were doing?"

"Nearly there. Just saying the words and waving your wand won't make a spell work. You've got to know what is supposed to happen, be able to see how it will happen, before anything will. Happen, that is. You have to have seen the spell, or know the effect, to have any chance of it working. Still on the snitch? Good. The wand focuses the strength of the magic; the incantation focuses your intent." George looked at Harry very much the way Hermione would when she suspected he was not paying attention.

"I see," said Harry, though he wished he could instead see where this was going, or where his wand had gotten to.

"Now here's the thing: if you aren't going to say the incantation aloud, then it doesn't matter which one you use," proclaimed George. He gave Harry an expectant look. "I wouldn't call that wonder. Maybe dumbfounded, bordering on dumb."

"Erm, that was it, was it?"

"Merlin, standards for Chosen Ones really have dropped off, haven't they? Look, Fred and I figure casting has three parts. First you imagine the effect you want, then you use a wand movement to build up potential, and finally you release the magic with the incantation. For non-verbals, just pick the incantation for what would be your best spell. Or whatever feels right - it's all about the moment of release."

Definitely a load of philosophy, decided Harry. "Oh, well, that's smashing. Great tip, really, er, useful."

"Oh shut up, you git," snapped George. He flicked his wand, and sent the missing holly wand back towards Harry. Harry found his arms invisibly restrained, and the wand hit him in the forehead. "Now think of a spell you've only seen; imagine how it would happen, how it would look. Close you eyes and see it happening in your head. Then give it a try with your favorite incantation, but don't say it out loud."

Harry sighed. He decided to give it a go, at least once. A faked second try would give him the element of surprise. Harry closed his eyes, and recalled the swirl of fire that Dumbledore had conjured to drive off the inferi. He imagined the wall of flames trailing his wand, he imagined he could feel the heat. Harry twirled his wand above his head, and thought, "Expelliarmus."

Harry opened his eyes at George's shouted expletive. The older wizard was covered in soot and still smoldering from the remains of his eyebrows. It took a moment for Harry to realize the spell had apparently worked. "It worked?" he asked, just to be sure.

"Do you think?" asked George, patting his face and hair. "What was that?"

"Er, a spell Professor Dumbledore used when the - er, while I was helping him," said Harry, still a little stunned.

"Now how about the same, only with water?" suggested George.

"Water?"

"Yes. The camp is on fire," added George.

Harry closed his eyes and imagined a wall of water spiraling out from him. He tried to feel the wetness, like when he plunged into Hogwarts lake, and -

"Any time you're ready," encouraged George. Harry, the images in his mind dispelled, refocused. "The tent's caught now," noted George.

"Do you mind?" complained Harry. "It's hard to concentrate with you interrupting."

"Is it now? Suppose I was tossing curses your way? Am I supposed to hang about while you meditate?" teased George. "You need to get a bit of yourself into the Tower of your Mind."

"The what?" asked Harry. George's words were strangely familiar - he had come across the same sort of allusion somewhere else, he was sure of it. It was, it was... in the margins of Snape's book!

"Never mind that for now. I'll put out the barn; you save the tent and grass."

v - v - v - v - v

The flight lasted until just before dawn. It was not as interesting after Gabrielle had warmed back up. This was because Soleil would flinch and raise his neck to prevent her from climbing up. Which was, thought Gabrielle, completely ridiculous. She had already slipped from the animal before without injury, and she was still wearing the tether. Soleil, judged Gabrielle, was acting like Aunt Laurel when it came to knives. The Abraxan also apparently no longer needed her help following the rest of the expedition. In fact, he was following so much more closely that Gabrielle could see, in the predawn light, the repeated and nervous head-turning of the rather concerned wizard on the broom.

The destination was a forlorn outcropping of rock, set among other outcroppings which looked pretty much the same, except that the scrubby trees that interspersed the dark rock elsewhere did not intrude here. From the air it looked like a roughly circular scar in the brush, as if there had been a very precise fire. Gabrielle did not like the look of the place. Near the edge of the clearing was - a house. A kind of house, supposed Gabrielle, or a cottage, possibly a cabin. It was very small, made from hewn logs, and it had a thatched roof. The little building seemed to Gabrielle not to be part of the landscape, as if it were temporary.

The mystery of the dwelling would have to wait though. Soleil had needs, and those had to be addressed. First. An unhappy Abraxan was not very likely to bottle up that emotion and sulk. Gabrielle did not want to be blamed for any more broken instruments. Which had not been her fault in the first place.

Gabrielle noticed the problem after swinging down from her perch between Soleil's wings. She was attached to Soleil by the tether, the tether was attached to her by the harness, and the harness was buckled onto Gabrielle by some sort of fastening that she could not see, as it was on her back. Professor Elevagre had overlooked a very important flaw in his design - Gabrielle could not get out of the harness by herself. Since she was at most only eight meters from Soleil, and most of the others in camp would not come within twenty meters of the Abraxan even when he was in the quarantine stall, this was a real dilemma.

The continued connection did not prevent Gabrielle from feeding Soleil, or from getting him water. It just meant that he went where she went and, mostly, she went where he went. She could not lead an Abraxan; they either followed or did not. Soleil, free to wander except for what small resistance dragging Gabrielle provided, greatly delayed setting up the new camp. It was very embarrassing, especially when she was pulled off her feet. The winged horse was very curious about the crated items, and did not seem to care when Gabrielle pointed out that they did not contain his whiskey. She wondered if he was looking for another Gleasson apparatus to stomp.

Gabrielle saw her chance during one of the few times she was able to be the one to choose the direction. She spied Abby hiding on the other side of a rock, and angled toward her. "Abby! Could you, eh, undo this stupid harness?"

"Oh, um, sure, Gigi," replied Abby, not moving from the protection of the rock. "Turn around so I can see it." Gabrielle moved closer before complying. Abby, she noticed, cringed as she drew nearer. Probably the smell. "Oh Merlin. That's fine, right there."

Gabrielle wondered how Abby would be able to reach, but then realized the she was being stupid. Abby was a grown witch, and she would of course use her wand. Soleil started snorting.

"The back is tied, laced, and buckled!" reported Abby. "This won't be so quick." Gabrielle felt the tugs as her new friend began working. Soleil was approaching, walking stiffly with his ears back and his wings spread. Gabrielle recognized this behavior, but found it a little surprising since there were no other Abraxans around. The colt jumped forward, slamming his front hooves hard onto the ground. Gabrielle looked on with more bewilderment than fear; what was he up to? Behind her, Abby's short shriek ended in a bang of disapparation. Gabrielle turned at the noise, then found herself jerked into the air as Soleil lifted her by the harness.

"Soleil!" whined Gabrielle. "This is not the time for being silly." She twisted in the air as the animal turned. She wondered if he was planning on finding some new crates to investigate.

"Dummes kind! Release the end tied to the beast first," shouted a familiar adversary. "Then use the net," added Stanislaw.

Hmmph, thought Gabrielle. As if he knew anything about taking care of Abraxans.

v - v - v - v - v

The tents were put up quickly once Soleil was settled. Gabrielle had detached the other end of the tether, once the colt had put her down. It had taken quite a bit of pleading to convince the animal to do so, and she had had to resort to pretending to cry. That was ridiculous, and really pathetic if she thought about it, but Soleil was easier to handle when he could no longer drag her along to where he wanted to be. A double measure of the whiskey helped as well; afterward he was content to stay in the area that Gabrielle had cordoned off with the netting. At least, he was content if she stayed near. It was going to be a very boring month, sighed Gabrielle, if she had to stay within eyesight of Soleil.

There were advantages, though. Gabrielle did not have to help in setting up the camp, at all. Stanislaw and his minions put up her tent, and then manually assembled, mostly, the pieces that made up Soleil's new stall. The new shelter was much more the proper size, but, in Gabrielle's opinion, it was way too close to her tent. A plot by Stanislaw, no doubt. Gabrielle noticed that the camp was spread along the edge of the clearing, but not evenly. Her tent, Soleil's stall, and the little cottage were definitely on the other side of things. Gabrielle blamed this on Stanislaw as well. She would have to ask Professor Festeller to have her tent moved. That is, when that Stanislaw was not lurking nearby to grouse about galleons.

An opportunity for the request came very quickly. Abby had been sent with the Professor's summons. The young witch finished helping Gabrielle from the harness; Gabrielle had to walk out to her, since Abby was keeping well back from where Soleil relaxed in the bigger stall. This was probably because no stall was home without it getting a few kicks.

Gabrielle entered Festeller's tent on her own, wishing she had had a chance to wash up after spending a night on an Abraxan. The professor might not allow her to move if she smelled too much of Soleil. One got used to the odor, though. Gabrielle did not think the professor was old enough to win over with a smile. At least, not from her.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Delacour, yes, thank you for coming so quickly," said Festeller. On the long table were maps, scrolls, and more bits of curled brass that Gabrielle now recognized were pieces of an Apparatus. This might not, she considered, be the time to make her demand. Stanislaw was not hovering inside, but she and the professor were not alone. An old woman stood to the side with an air of grudging tolerance for those around her, holding a ladle. She was thickly built, slightly stooped, and had thick grey hair gathered into a bun. Her face was dominated by a hooked nose of considerable size, and she wore a plain dress of dull red and an apron. The crone looked, to Gabrielle, like every caricature of an old peasant woman she had ever seen. There is still time to run, noted a second thought. "This is Nona," continued Festeller.

Since he stopped at that Gabrielle felt she had to say something. "Eh, hello. I am, eh, eh, pleased to meet you." Nona had turned her dark eyes to Gabrielle, and it had unsettled her. Gabrielle added a curtsey, because that was often approved of by older people.

"Nona will run the camp. She does not, unfortunately, yes, speak French," explained the Professor. Still time to escape, warned a desperate thought. "She will look after you, yes. You will help her in her tasks." Too late.

While some part of Gabrielle heard Festeller and understood what was happening, the rest of her was too focused on the sharp, disapproving eyes of the old woman. Gabrielle could not look away and, even as her professor continued on about someone named Anthony, she found herself remembering and recalling past events. The day in her Papa's office, when the cursed drawer had sheared off her hand; the concerned look on Madame Chouisse's face as she gathered Gabrielle's broken body from her wall and apparated to the hospital; the relief on Gaston's face when she had responded after the strange landscapes had faded; the smell of a snowy Christmas day with hot chocolate; the swing of the scythe as she harvested the grain. Gabrielle's attention snapped back to the present, and Nona. The look on the old woman's face was much less hard, almost pleased in a dour sort of way. That was something Gabrielle found more disturbing than the earlier scorn. Festeller had stopped speaking, and was looking at Gabrielle expectantly. "Eh, yes?" she tried. No, recommended a second thought, but too late.

"Good, yes. Good. The students - you - will be allowed a visit, yes, to the dig each day. Of course, when you are needed, yes, we will send for you," described Festeller. Then he smiled, as if everything had gone as expected. Gabrielle, feeling that she had missed something, stood there. "You can go with Nona. You are her charge, yes, now," he added.

"What?" asked Gabrielle. That did not sound like just helping at all. And, thought Gabrielle, she had to take care of Soleil too. She was going to explain exactly how much work that was - a metric ton - when an iron grip on her arm pulled her away. "Hey!"

"Ardhur pak fëmijë. Unë kam punë për ju. [1]"

1 Come along, little one. There is work.