Chapter Fifteen - A Busy Day

"Aaaaaaah!" screamed Gabrielle. It was not a shriek of pain but one of wretched frustration. "Aaaaaaaah!" Gabrielle kicked out against the surrounding walls of mattresses about her bed, attempting to share her agony with the world. The immediate world showed little regard, and the walls of Fort Delacour gave way, collapsing the roof. The next cry was greatly muffled, but no less heartfelt. The cause of her anguish was George's letter. He had come to visit her! George was travelling with Harry, Hermione, and his siblings, but he had come all the way to Delacour Manor to visit her! Without her having to threaten to burn orders! And where, raged Gabrielle as her keen sense of injustice burned, where was I? In a merdique Abraxan stall! Why, thought Gabrielle dramatically, tearing up, was fate so against our love?

While Gabrielle had a good snit well underway, air was still required, so she struggled to push the fallen mattress off of her. The violence vented toward the bedding helped, at least a little. Until, that is, a second thought suggested that not only had she missed George's visit, she had also missed the chance to tour France with him. And, eh, the others. Of course they would have invited her, reasoned Gabrielle. She could translate, she knew many interesting facts about France's magical history, and she knew a lot of their secrets anyway. Admittedly, Hermione spoke French herself and the magical history would have had to be revised, but that would have been a real summer holiday. Knowing what else she had missed made Gabrielle angry again, and she kicked the mattresses as hard as she could until they shifted and she missed. Which meant she kicked the bedpost as hard as she could and, since she was not wearing shoes, that was the end of the kicking. Although, not the end of the screaming.

Defeated by fate, and the bedpost, Gabrielle withdrew. The collapsed bedding that had withstood the onslaught of her rage formed a small cave on the far side of the bed, and Gabrielle hobbled over to it and crawled inside. Everything was so unfair and she wanted no part of any of it. After a short mope, though, Gabrielle eased out of her hiding spot and poked her head under the bed to address her toad. "Can you, eh, find Pepi-Z?" asked Gabrielle. The little bobble often got wedged among the mattresses, and she had not been careful. She returned to her exile only to emerge again to retrieve George's letter, to examine its clues.

There were clues too, Gabrielle was sure of it. There was nothing specifically mentioning the scrying debacle, for example, but George used phrases like 'testing the waters' and 'waiting for the waters to clear'. Was that coincidence, or was he teasing? In previous letters, recalled Gabrielle, that sort of thing was always a reference to quidditch. And George had ended his letter with, "We'll raise a cup for you." That was a peculiar choice, no matter what, but the last four words were ever so slightly darker. He might have just dipped his quill again, which meant it meant nothing. Or...

Or it meant that George did know that she had scryed him, that she was forgiven, and that it was practically an invitation to do it again. A generous interpretation, warned a more cautious thought. George was being subtle, and the twins were not subtle unless there was a prank in the works. Why not just write that he wanted to see her again because he loved her so much and thought of her constantly? This was a thought that was ignored, because generous did not mean the same as incorrect. This greatly improved Gabrielle's mood, and she was sure she was right because George had included, -generous- ly included - if it were possible to be smug to one's self - one of the special boxes. The box was the thinnest she had seen yet, hardly thicker than three or four sheets of parchment folded over. That could not be making the wizards running the Owl Post very happy; they liked packages big, heavy, and costly. Gabrielle wondered if there would be a detailed map of Europe in it. That would be helpful.

A small part of Gabrielle that had rather enjoyed the snit, excepting the bedpost, picked at two problems which would get her right back to the foul temper. The first was that she had none of the Gringotts ink with her. Even if George was daring her to try again, she could not. The second problem was that she had no owl, and no idea where she could find one. That was Stanislaw's doing, accused this bit of Gabrielle's mind, and he would dare to demand her help soon.

The internal goading was not working. The contents of the slim box were too distracting. No magic ink that she could see - how would George know? - but there was another of the sheer, black bodysuits from the PrettyWitches Shield-Wear line. The first one that George had given her at the Burrow had been completely ruined by that insane Bellatrix witch. This one, according to the note in George's hand pinned to it, used that original formulation but included the latest self-sizing charms. It was a very thoughtful gift showing an interest in her well-being, judged Gabrielle, much more so than the tins of Poot Powder. Those were marked 'EXP', which was not immediately helpful. There was a packet labelled 'Slitherin' Sludge (just add water)', something called 'Slippery Slope' in thin glass vials, and a new Skiving Snackbox themed 'Late Night Curry'. A jar of lurid orange glop was marked 'Quidditch Hair, Cannons, Chudley'. It exhorted the buyer to "show your colors you little rotter." A new prank was called Goose-Flesh. Once applied to the victim and given a key phrase, the butt of the joke - Gabrielle groaned and suspected Fred had written that - would feel a pinch wherever the prank had been used each time the phrase came up. It sounded very annoying and obnoxious. Gabrielle expected that the Goose-Gone spray that was also in the box would be very popular. Probably, in fact, a must-have item, for girls at least. One could imagine selling a lot more prank prevention products than actual pranks!

A collection of novelty candles was included in the package. Most were marked 'Merlin's Marvellous Menagerie.' Two were not. One of those did not appear to be a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product at all, and the ebony taper's wrapper had only 'Good Night Candle' on it. The other Gabrielle dropped in surprise as soon as she pulled it out. It was shaped like, like...

What was George thinking? It was what Grandmere's little book always referred to as a Manhood, in wax, a short length of wick sticking out of the, eh - What, wondered Gabrielle, was George thinking? Was she supposed to squeal and blush? She was more mature than that! Oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle with a jolt, was this a, a hint, a suggestion? Testing the waters? Oh mon Dieu! Now she felt a blush come. It looked like Pickle's, eh, pickle. Who, asked a piqued thought, had been the model? Ron? Fred? Oh mon Dieu, George? The enclosed cave was starting to get stuffy. What was she supposed to do with this obscene candle? A quickly banished thought suggested: check it for fit?

Gabrielle, shaking her head to clear the idea thoroughly, realized that she had been holding the anatomic taper for too long. She threw it under the bed, out of sight. Girls in the dorm would giggle about candles and what someone else, always someone else, supposedly did with them. Gabrielle had never believed it, and now she believed, no, knew the rude wax to be Fred's idea of humor.

The next item out of the flat box was a flexible disk, black on one side and white on the other, roughly the size of a dinner plate. A 'Weasleys' Wizard W-Hole', with 'Peel-n-Stick Convenience', read the wrapper. There were two. George's note spellotaped to one said the circle was a discontinued item, and that she should not put it in the handbag, just to be safe. Attached at the bottom was a scroll which, when Gabrielle unrolled it, revealed a meter of flashing warnings and very tiny print. It was, apparent from the multiple repetitions, very important to never touch, in anyway, the sticky side. She had no doubt the product was discontinued, especially when the final warning was a recommendation to buy something else. The dark circle would, according to the dragging scroll, create a six inch deep hole instantly in whatever it was stuck to. That included charmed, cursed, or otherwise spelled items, goblin-forged metals, and, most importantly, one's fingers or hand.

Gabrielle put the 'W-Hole' under the bed also. She had nearly lost the last on the list before, and was not about to risk that again. She wondered why George would send such a dangerous item. From the many potential answers her mind came up with, Gabrielle selected the warming thought that George assumed that she was much more capable than their regular customers. Which may not have been such high regard, considering the amount of Poot Powder she had distributed.

The box disappeared in a puff of smoke as the last item was pulled from it. It was a large metal beetle, which promptly bit her. Gabrielle shook her hand and pulled the thing off of her. It dropped to the ground inert, and Gabrielle sucked at the bleeding puncture. Another, thought Gabrielle sourly, of Fred's contributions. Why was he involved at all? This was between George and herself. Of course, the twins were usually together on things. Perhaps, guessed Gabrielle, this meant that Fred finally saw that George would only be happy with her. Still, it had not been funny. She picked up the now still beetle, carefully avoiding the pincers up front. Gabrielle recognized it; George had had one at the Weasley's. It only took a moment to work out how to move the wing case aside. Beneath was a stylized wing; some of the panes between the interlocking veins glowed dully, forming numbers, next to which was an arrow. It was curious, and reminded Gabrielle of the jagged lines on the telly that Philippe's computator was attached to. What it was, though, was a mystery. The little arrow turned as she did, so it was obvious it was pointing to something, though the numbers did not change at all. Under the other wing was the time, shown in similarly glowing numbers. Gabrielle turned it over and tried to pull apart the legs, something the metal insect did not approve of. It flailed its legs and worked its pincers, so Gabrielle let it drop. She had been hoping for a set of directions.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter sat on the floor, by a window that looked real at first, but was actually just an illusion. What made it such a good illusion was that instead of showing the coast and sea that was so close, it showed a trash-strewn back alley where feral cats hunted. The flat that Fred and Verity had rented was not far from similar muggle flats, but it was far from being a muggle flat. There was, Harry noted, no key for the garden gate. There was no proper gate either, really, just a design on the fence of carved roses and twining, thorny vines. Touch the roses in the right order with a wand and the vines curled away and parted, revealing the small garden and the entrance to the flat. The doorway was simple and tidy like the garden, though the dustbins could use some attention. The flat appeared very spacious inside from the numerous long hallways that led off the central hall, but the couple were limited to four rooms at the back. They were the only human guests. The rest of the flat was used by unseen feline visitors, whose presence was made evident by their pee-based conversations. Fred explained that a house-elf he called Scratches came by at night to feed the cats. A charmed breeze kept it tolerable.

Neither Fred nor Verity were present at the moment. Fred had apparated to and from the apothecary for something to soothe Verity's flaming skin. He had insisted that the treatment begin as soon as possible, which interrupted Verity's distribution of large, and largely ignored, plates of raw vegetables. Harry had not even been aware that one could eat broccoli raw, let alone aubergines. Fred's solicitous concern swayed the blond, and they moved to the bath. Together, something Ginny made note of with a nudge. The walls of the flat were thin enough to make George's Extendable Ear redundant.

"Squidgums, are you sure you're supposed to use that much?"

"Nothing but the best for you, Pookie."

"It's, it's very thick, is all."

"Smells nice, though, right? Herb-ish, French-like?"

"Ooh, yes. It's a lovely scent. But it's getting all, um, sticky."

"This is a Veela trick - no, sorry, make that secret. For the skin. You know how they are."

"This is from Fleur? Why would - Squidgums, you're getting it in my hair!"

"There's skin under your hair too, Pookie."

"Om, mes, mi mummose. Mum -"

"You just lay back and stay still. I'll just go and see if our guests need even more beneficial fiber, and I'll be back with some of the wine from last night, all right? Just blink twice for yes. Good!"

Fred came back into the sitting room looking very pleased. "Get the fat on the fire, will you George? Let's have a proper feed."

"Already melting, Squidgums"

"If you're done with that broccoli, Harry? Oy Ron, hand over that plate of endive."

"This is endive?"

"Might be - it's all green to me," replied Fred.

"What have you done, Fred?" asked Hermione.

"I've punned poorly. No pun-ishment for that, is there?" winked Fred.

"There will be if you don't stop," warned George.

"I meant to Verity. I know you are up to something," accused Hermione.

"As if that's a great whacking insight to the world! I'm still alive, aren't I? Of course I'm up to something. In this case, just a bit of accelerated healing for my fair bride, er, bird," replied Fred. "Now pass those... well, whatever it is in that bowl."

"Fair bride?" repeated Ginny.

"Just a figure of speech!"

"Of - course - it - is," smiled Ginny. She turned to Hermione. "I know what he did, I saw the bag."

"Tempuratsun!" called Fred, aiming his wand at the large bowl he had been dumping vegetables into. A thick stream of batter gushed from the wand. "You can eat almost anything if it's dipped in batter and fried."

"And now," announced George, "for something completely different. It's Fred and George's Frying Circus!" Assorted vegetables leaped into the air and tumbled slowly, before plunging into the hot oil.

"I don't get it," said Ron, while Harry and Hermione laughed.

"Mijjums? Mar moo mare?" hummed Verity from the bath.

"Oh yeah, the wine," said Fred. He found the bottle, paused, and then pulled open a drawer. "And, I think, a funnel."

"What do you think he's done, Ginny?" asked Hermione. She moved over to Ginny, since Ron had moved closer to the cooking. A continuous parade of batter-coated vegetables arced slowly to the pot, while a complimentary procession of golden brown items twirled their way to waiting plates. It was very impressive if one ignored the gentle rain of sloppy batter and scalding oil.

"Remember when we found Gigi in the porridge, when it had hardened up?" asked Ginny.

v - v - v - v - v

"You two are completely pathetic. Really letting our side down," scolded George. The targets of his disgusted pronouncement were his brothers. Fred lay on the ground with a swelling bruise straight across his face that was suspiciously similar to one that a wine bottle might make. Ron was on the ground as well, which was not at all surprising given that Hermione had turned his legs to jelly.

There was nothing but a groan from Fred, but Ron muttered, "Bugger off."

Harry sat on a bench, looking through a day-old Prophet. He was not quite sure what Fred had done, but whatever it had been had resulted in Fred crashing through the bath door completely starkers. That had distracted Ron, who had been trying his hand at conjuring fish sauce from his wand. The red sauce ended up coating Hermione. Likely, thought Harry, it was Ron's attempt to clean the mess with the battered vegetables, especially when she complained about it dripping into her knickers, that brought on the curse. The result of the disquiet was that the wizards were banished to the garden, while the witches cleaned themselves up.

"I can't believe that people are so afraid of muggles," commented Harry. The Prophet quoted a number of wizards and witches commending the Ministry for the sanctuaries.

"It's because folks were around for Grindelwald. He used the muggles and their armies in his war," explained George.

"Oh, right. Hermione mentioned something like that before," remembered Harry. "So, erm, Voldemort is using the muggles? I thought he wanted to kill them all, or, I dunno, enslave them?"

George shrugged. "It's all part of the WASI crowd's thinking. Wizard Alliance for Social Isolation - can't get more isolated than living in a big green bubble. That Chairman bloke might be the one who came up with the sanctuaries. Whether You-Know-Who is behind the muggles or the Chairman, or both, well, I'm a bludger to that one."

"Guess what thriving, well-managed business didn't make it onto the list of official sanctuary suppliers? Just take a bloody guess," griped Fred.

"It lives!" exclaimed George. "Won't matter, I don't think folks'll stay in those for long. Anyway, that's all a matter of influence."

"You've spotted the real snitch on the pitch - tariffs, customs, and fees," declared Fred sourly. "Knew-it-all nets my arse."

"I still can't -feel- my arse," complained Ron.

"Hang onto your bleeding wand then," admonished George.

"So you think the maps weren't from the muggles then?"

"If those maps did come from the muggles, then it was the Yanks who made them," asserted George.

"The Americans?" asked Harry. "Why would they get involved?"

"Not big supporters of magic, the Yank government. They didn't like running into it in the last great muggle war." George started slightly, and pulled the metal beetle out of a pocket. He noted what was under a wing with a smile before stowing it away.

"But there's a magic school there, right? In, erm, Salem?"

"Yeah, and it's full of ex-pats from the rest of the world. Not a lot of magic in America - no one's sure why. Some say it's a curse from the native shamans. Whatever the cause, the only thing worse than being behind the Yanks in something is being ahead of them," said George. "There's a reason they chose Hiroshima."

"What's a 'iroshima?" grunted Ron. He was finding it difficult to turn over without using his legs. Harry would have lifted the curse, but he was getting a little tired of the antics.

"Former Imperial wizard shrine and the Japanese city it was in," said George. "Not much left of the shrine now but a bit of dome. The Yanks blew it up with a bomb."

"A bomb?" doubted Ron.

"Ha, the A-bomb. Like twenty-five -million- Door-Knockers going off all at once. It must have been beautiful, " said Fred sounding wistful.

"Uhh..." Harry had learned about the war, and the atomic bombs, before Hogwarts.

"I meant beautiful except for all the people vaporized."

"Twenty-five million?" asked Ron in awe.

"Muggle bombs come bigger these days too, big enough to flatten Hogwarts," nodded George. "So you can see that the muggles getting involved is a bit of a concern."

"How do you know all this stuff?" wondered Harry. The History of Magic curriculum seemed to ignore muggles almost entirely. It was always goblins and centaurs and all.

"Pour enough wine, whiskey, or tea into an old windbag and let 'em blather. A lot will be utter dung, but you learn to pick out the interesting bits," explained Fred. "Sake works a treat on the Japanese wizards. They'll go through a bottle of the good stuff each, though."

"But, erm, but if the Ministry knows that, and thinks that Voldemort is trying to use the muggles like Grindelwald, then why put everyone together in one place? Especially out in the countryside?" asked Harry. This discussion was making his head ache.

"Well now, Grindelwald -"

v - v - v - v - v

"Well, now. Grindelwald," said the gaunt, adolescent boy standing on the sill outside the bars of the narrow, high window.

The thin, emaciated figure under the blanket stirred, and an even more gaunt, almost skull-like face turned to the window. Dark, sunken eyes squinted against the light. "Ein Geier, oder? Geh weg, ich bin noch nicht tot. [1]" He waved an arm as if to shoo the arrival away.

Lord Voldemort squeezed past the bars, which helpfully stretched out of the way before returning to block passage. He floated down to the bare stone floor of the barren cell. "The Wand, you pathetic old man. Tell me of the Wand." The Dark Lord peered into the eyes of the decrepit wizard who had once set Europe aflame, but could not see more.

Not breaking eye contact, the frail Grindelwald moved to sit up. "I see you now. I thought you would come one day." He smiled, showing that most of his teeth were gone. "You have wasted the effort. I never had it."

"You can not lie to Lord Voldemort!" The Dark Lord increased his efforts trying to find something to hold onto in the great dark eyes. He drew his wand. "Legilimens!"

The wasted shell of the man barely flinched. Lord Voldemort granted the enfeebled wizard a measure of respect for that, and for forcing the use of the spell. It would, resolved the Dark Lord, be his last triumph. The blackness, even now, yielded only slightly, enough to see a face amid the fire and smoke: Dumbledore.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle knew she was in trouble as soon as she stepped dramatically into the room. It was not as dramatic if one knew she had been waiting in the water closet, but Stanislaw's tent was not as large as hers. Or, frankly, as clean; she tried not to touch anything. The wizard with Stanislaw was dangerously old, tall, and bony, with a flowing mane of white hair that looked more vibrant and alive than the rest of him. It was really quite amazing. His jaw dropped when Gabrielle entered, wearing her dress of leaves and a crown of twigs, and he immediately called out "Melusina!" He looked completely unsettled to Gabrielle, and she knew what that meant. Without Stanislaw's hold over her, she would have run.

Instead, she sat with a tiring arm outstretched because the wizard, Herr Whatever Von Something, had taken her hand when Stanislaw had introduced them and had not released it even when they sat down at the small table. It was decidedly awkward. The elder wizard listened attentively, rapturously to her recounting in English, which was their common tongue. Except that Gabrielle did not like thinking of this insane old man, common, and tongue in the same sentence. She did wish she could touch his hair.

"[And zen ze, eh, vampire, he struck his heel on ze floor, and ze tower began to fall]," finished Gabrielle. She gave the old wizard a polite hint by briefly pulling at her hand.

"[A terrible vision for one so pure]," said the wizard. Von Schnittwinkel, that was his name, remembered Gabrielle. Probably. He did not take the hint, but patted her hand to comfort her. "[I promise my life to prevent such to happen again.]"

Gabrielle looked to Stanislaw for help, but her nemesis was looking too pleased to see she that needed some. "[Eh, no, zere is no need. Ze attack, it, eh, happened to someone else, you see? I can only See the past.]"

"[Ja, remarkable ability for such beautiful eyes]," said Von Schnittwinkel dreamily. Gabrielle blushed at the earnest compliment. Awkward was now becoming uncomfortable. She wished she had taken her wand. Too late had she realized that the wand with Grandmere's hair looked enough like the twigs of her crown that she could have hid it there. A well-aimed Compunctio would remind Von Schnitzel, or whatever, of his manners.

Stanislaw did come to her aid, eventually, but not intentionally. The old wizard was just distracted by the bits of debris that Abby's cobbled-together Gleasson apparatus had picked out. Most were charred and misshapen lumps, but there were also spoons and what looked like bone. The two wizards began negotiating in German, Stanislaw lovingly caressing the detritus while Von Senile poked at them dismissively. When Von White-hair brought out a red shard and put it to his eye, something Stanislaw looked annoyed by, Gabrielle was able to take her hand back. She wondered if she could leave; her part seemed to be over.

The shuffling of the ruined pieces of the past uncovered something which caught Gabrielle's eye. "[You found Wyrmbreath!]" she blurted.

The two men turned to her surprised. She plucked out the familiar pink crystal. "Wyrmbreath?" asked both wizards.

"[Eh, zat was the name of ze staff. I did not say? Zis was on top. You can find vampires if you look through it,]" explained Gabrielle. The two men were staring at her. Did they think she was making it up? She held the crystal up to her eye. The old wizard was a blurry pink, but so was Stanislaw, which was a relief. Gabrielle wished that she had her wand and Pepi-Z. What would the zombie puffskein look like?

"[You are certain?]" asked Von Schnittwinkel seriously.

Gabrielle turned back to him. He was still a blurry pink, so she lowered the stone. "[Eh, I zink so. It, eh, fits here. You see? Zis is a piece also.]" Gabrielle smiled reassuringly at the elderly wizard.

"[Three hundred galleons,]" whispered the old wizard in awe.

"What did he say?" asked Stanislaw.

"Three hundred galleons," translated Gabrielle. She moved another piece to where it looked like it might go if she had all the pieces. It was clear who had won that duel, in the tower, in the past.

"Tell him four hundred galleons, and smile at him again," said Stanislaw greedily.

"[Eh, four hundred galleons?]" said Gabrielle uncertainly. She tried her best smile, and wondered if either wizard was really serious. The staff was quite obviously broken.

"[Of course. Ja. Four hundred galleons,]" nodded Von Schnittwinkel, returning a smile that showed he that either smoked too much or drank too much coffee, or both.

Gabrielle was about to repeat that to Stanislaw when he slapped himself on the head and muttered, "It should have been five hundred." She was glad it had not been. That was completely insane.

Gabrielle watched the rest of the transaction complete in exchanges of German, trying not to fidget noticeably. The stems were starting to itch more; poor Monique if clothes of leaves were going to be a big part of her wardrobe. The stems were forgotten when the stacks of galleons were being toted up. Gabrielle was still amazed. There were, based on the ravaged carvings, only four pieces of the ancient staff on the table, not including the stone. How could so little be worth so much?

Stanislaw began carefully collecting the miscellaneous rubble, placing it all carefully into a box. It was, thought Gabrielle, the least he could do. If she was paying that much, she would expect the merchandise to be wrapped in gilded paper. And, frankly, to be given a complimentary broom to ride home on with the box.

"[Now, dear Melusina -]" started the white-maned wizard.

"[No, it is Gabrielle. 'G' is for, eh,]" reminded Gabrielle, before wondering why she was saying it.

"[Of course, forgive an old man,]" said Von Schnittwinkel. He gently took her hand again, and smiled his yellowed smile hopefully. "[I wish to ask a small thing of you.]"

Gabrielle swallowed, his manner worrying her. What could he want from her? He - he could not expect a kiss could he? It was not like she was getting the galleons! Stanislaw should kiss him. "[Eh, what is it?]" she finally asked as the pause grew uncomfortably awkward.

"[Please, I beg you, would you read my palm, before you must return to your forest?]"

Gabrielle wondered, 'my forest'? Did he think her a wandering tree? At least he was polite. She hoped that he did not have an old farm house or rotting castle that he would want to bequeath. "[Eh, I do not have much, eh, practice wizz palm reading,]" she warned.

"[I have faith that you can.]" Herr Von Schnittwinkel turned his palm up for her.

Madame Sombrevoir said that she needed to use the Gift, so Gabrielle began to examine the wrinkled hand. Anyway, what choice did she have? A glance at Stanislaw found him nodding encouragingly; no doubt to make up for his guilt at taking so many galleons.

The old wizard's palm was quite different than any of her classmates'. For one thing, it was larger. The skin was thicker, and very wrinkled as well. The fate line was very different too. Gabrielle traced it with a fingertip several times. The line was ragged, nearly disjointed. That definitely meant something, she was sure of that, if not exactly what that something was. He had to be at least a century old, decided Gabrielle, but without knowing his exact age she could not tell where exactly to begin. She rubbed at a thin white scar at the base of his thumb, and speculated what had made it.

A sharp intake of breath made Gabrielle look up. Herr Von Schnittwinkel was very red in the face, and a sheen of perspiration dampened his brow. She looked at him curiously, brow furrowed. He reddened further, the shining whiteness of his hair contrasting greatly. Gabrielle had the sudden thought that perhaps he had a heart condition. It made reading his palm easier; she only had to look near the end. Which was, given the potential gravity of the situation, perhaps not what she should have been thinking. Though, it did jog Gabrielle's memory, and she remembered what the jaggedness of the fate line meant. She studied his upturned hand again, and counted six near-death episodes, touching each spot as she did.

"[Ah, your eyes can see them, yes? There is no doubt,]" said the bony wizard, his voice an odd squeak before clearing his throat. "[I have fought many duels for the good, and have walked with Death five times. One of those times was even after the war.]"

"[Not, eh, six times?]" returned Gabrielle. She bent her head over his hand to reexamine it, considered it speculatively, then licked a finger and scrubbed at the last of the tangles in the palm crease. Perhaps it was just dirt or a scratch. Herr Von Schnittwinkel made a strangled sort of noise, which made Gabrielle look up again. "[You are, eh, okay?]"

"[I shall not forget this day soon,]" he smiled. "[Nor wash that hand.]"

"[Eh, what?]" If she had just bought a pile of rubble dug out of the ground for four hundred galleons, thought Gabrielle, she would also find it hard to forget, no matter how much she would want to. As for hand-washing, well, it was not dirt. There were six places where the fate line was close to being severed. Definitely. Probably. If Gabrielle angled his palm just the right way, the fine wrinkles near the furthest spot looked a little like a horse's head. A horse's head, but with spikes. Spike, if those were actually supposed to be ears. A horse with a spike? "[Unicorns! You, eh, should avoid unicorns,]" advised Gabrielle, smiling at her own success. "[A unicorn will kill you. Eh, nearly.]" Perhaps, came a second thought, that was not something to say while smiling.

This did not seem to bother Herr Von Schnittwinkel much. He returned her smile with one of his own, and nodded as he praised 'Melusina's' powers. Gabrielle rather hoped that that was the end, as the old wizard had clearly lost his senses. The meeting was crossing the border from weird to creepy. Fortunately Stanislaw was there to push the box into the Von Crazy's hands, which made him release hers. An exchange in German followed. Herr Von Schnittwinkel was definitely demanding something of Stanislaw; probably his galleons back. Gabrielle decided that she did not want to be caught in the middle of a duel, so she stood up also. She could try to slip back into the water closet, but, eeuw. No, Gabrielle realized, she would have to edge around the table to slip closer to the tent's entrance.

There was no need for such a retreat as Stanislaw appeared to acquiesce to the older wizard's demands, though the galleons stayed on the table. Gabrielle suspected that four hundred galleons would buy a lot of agreeableness. Unfortunately, the resolution of the dispute came just as she neared the door. The timing made it seem as though she had moved to bid Von Schnittwinkel adieu, something which greatly pleased him. He kissed her hand and babbled about forests and how she could call upon him to battle as her personal knight. Gabrielle thanked him politely, but pointed out that unicorns lived in forests, so perhaps it was best if she did not. He left crestfallen. As he had bent over to kiss her hand, a gleaming lock of his hair had brushed her hand. It was disappointingly stiff.

His leaving meant that Gabrielle had to stay of course, in case he tried to drag her into that forest. Loud clunking noises drew her attention from the door. Stanislaw was tapping his wand on a heavy wooden chest that was bound in brass. The lid opened suddenly with a resonating thud, and he placed the gold inside. The chest then shut violently at his touch; for a moment, the brass-bound edges looked as if they had teeth. Stanislaw stood up after sliding the chest back into the small wardrobe. "That went very well," he said with a loud clap of his hands. Yes, thought Gabrielle, for you. Four hundred galleons...

"Eh, I should see to Soleil," said Gabrielle. After changing, of course, or getting back to her tent would be very embarrassing if Soleil used her dress as a snack.

"Stay a moment longer, Leibchen," said Stanislaw. He pulled a dark bottle from the depths of the wardrobe. "A drink to celebrate, I think." His short glass was nearly full of the heavy, purple-black liquid; hers, not even half that and topped off with water from his wand.

Gabrielle eyed the beverage suspiciously. "What is it?"

"An aperitif that Festeller - Herr Festeller makes. It is very good."

Gabrielle sniffed her glass. The contents smelled strongly of berries. A sip tasted like blackberries with a hint of cherry, and was sweeter than she expected. Stronger too, even though it was watered down Gabrielle could feel the alcohol burn her throat. There was something besides berries, also, something that made her mind's eye see... fairies. A lot of fairies, near a clear pool in a deep forest. They flitted and spun through the air, colliding with each other, smeared with the dark red juice of the knobbly fruit that was nearly the size of their heads. She could see that the fairies were having trouble staying airborne, and that the ones tumbling to the ground were being, euphemistically, incorrigible. She crept closer, the dizzying cloud of tiny winged creatures drifting along too. Another moment and she was upon the first of the tangled, sleeping bodies, roots slowly curling around limbs and torsos.

Gabrielle pulled the glass from her lips and looked at the small amount remaining in dismay. The something that she was tasting was, was, - mon Dieu!

"Aperitifs, they are meant to be savored," said Stanislaw, shaking his head. "You should not drink it all at once. Now, do we have an agreement?" He held out a leather pouch to Gabrielle.

"Eh, what?" asked Gabrielle. She did not know what he was talking about. She held up the glass accusingly. "This is made from dead fairies."

Stanislaw stared at her for a long moment before replying. "No, it is from the berries of the Leckerbeeren bush. Fairies are most often grilled." He tossed the pouch onto the table in front of her. It jangled in an enticing, familiar way, and Gabrielle forgot about the last of his comment.

"What is this?" she said as she picked the bag up. Gabrielle had a good idea as to what it was.

Stanislaw closed his eyes in a pained expression and sighed heavily. "You were not listening at all?"

1 A vulture, is not it? Go away, I'm not dead yet.