Chapter Four - A Bird on the Train is Worth, Eh...
It was dawn on the grounds of the Winterhall Estate, and the light was gray from the lingering mists that had descended on the fields overnight. That lent an air of, Gabrielle supposed, mysticism to the unkempt fields, but the effect was not much of an improvement. The better light of sunset added some life to the old fieldstone of the house, which made it nearly picturesque from certain angles. But only nearly, because those angles also included the sight of the strange little wooden structure that the caretaker had called a 'cludgie' and Mr. Weasley had called a 'privy'. Having had it explained, Gabrielle called it disgusting. Especially if might affect her sensory humours. She would die if she saw any of old Granary Winterhall's past in - that - place.
Gabrielle was up at the early hour because she had not yet recovered from the apprenticeship. Her days then had begun when the various creatures woke and realized that their stomachs were empty and their bowels were full. Now, of course, there were only the Sisters and Sauveret to feed - the Lieutenant had caught at least two more mice in the night. Really, she only had to feed the Sisters because they were still locked up. Sauveret could rely on his hidden caches, if that was not a habit that Gabrielle was trying to break.
The small table bumped along the ground, because it was bulkier than Gabrielle had imagined it would be. It was a sideboard table; half a table, really, since it was a semicircle. The piece was mahogany, with carved details all around the small drawer. Gabrielle knew it was the best of the furniture left by the departed Monsieur Winterhall, because her Maman had looked it over and not had it removed. Gabrielle wondered it she could see, that is, See what made the occasional table worthwhile, but a cautious sniff had revealed nothing. Then again, she had not tried inhaling the older air inside the drawer, or given it a quick lick, because, really, Monsieur Winterhall had not had a happy life. Or a particularly hygienic one.
The reason Gabrielle was carrying the table out to the fields was her mother, and what she had found in the pocket of George's shirt. Gabrielle had found quite a number of things in the magically enhanced inner pocket, not all of which she would keep even if George had said that she could. An instance of such was George's beetle, the counterpart to hers, which Gabrielle assumed, hoped, - prayed - was an oversight on his part. Even if the metal insect was bothersome to use, to not share the paired devices put Gabrielle further from George than ever, even as they would be geographically closer. Thinking of it made her stomach hurt. Especially after yesterday's incident. Gabrielle had not gotten much sleep as she sweated from overheated dreams.
A box, poorly wrapped in shiny gift paper, was why the distance from Maman was required. That is, what was in the box was the cause, and even that was not quite correct. It was what one could do with contents of the box that made necessary the retreat. The Winterhall Estate was hers, but the current rules and allowed behaviors were Maman's. In this instance, the rule in particular had to do with how close Gabrielle could be to an inhabited dwelling if she planned on brewing muggle coffee. Gabrielle could get away with using the furthest room with the biggest windows in the unused wing of Delacour Manor at home, but at this extremely modest farmhouse, the demanded distance meant being well outside.
The table was irritatingly unwieldy without even the worst feather-weight spell to help, so Gabrielle decided that, while she could still see the house, she had carried it far enough. She set the piece down, then adjusted its position several times so that it did not hardly rock at all. A few more adjustments set the half-round table almost level. Unless, unfortunately, if she pushed down on the right side, because then the whole thing tipped. Gabrielle was fairly certain that fields on farms were supposed to be flat, and she rather suspected that the former owner had not been much of a farmer at all.
The state of the work surface was unsatisfactory, so Gabrielle left it to find Sauveret. If there was one thing the squirrel was good at, it was digging small shallow holes. Those would normally be filled with food gathered, given, or stolen, but it would work for the table's legs too. Perhaps, thought Gabrielle, stolen was too harsh a word. Sauveret was simply gathering things he had been told, many times, not to take from places he had been told, many times, not to get into. Which did, unfortunately, make it sound more like stealing.
Gabrielle turned back to the house, and found Sauveret and Lieutenant Mimsey sitting on the window's sill watching her. The window was small and her owl was not so. The lack of a breakfast was made apparent when her first thought after seeing the crowded tableau was 'squirrel in owl aspic'. Her second thought was more pertinent, and was that she ought to let the Lieutenant have some exercise as well.
Gabrielle returned with Sauveret dashing ahead in starts and stops, and with her owl swooping to and fro. The bird really was quite impressive, especially when his huge wings were flared out for a landing. He was less majestic when he hopped from one leg to the other just because he had not crashed. In her hand she held three dead toads by their legs. The Sisters, who could apparently hear quite well but had never learned about mirrors angled in just the right way, were trying for sympathy. Again, as if she had no memory of their previous attempts and had not once spied them quickly arranging themselves on their backs. Besides, thought Gabrielle, one had the crumpled form of Poisseux in its mouth. That was unlikely for a corpse. She was letting them out of confinement early, it was true, but with the hope that the toads would be distracted and just wander off.
Sauveret was useful in many ways, but not, it seemed, as a precision excavator. The borrowed table was stabilized by, and with many, many apologies, tucking the mangled Spellotape body of Poisseux under the poorly supported leg. Gabrielle could tell that the Sisters were upset about that by their low, hunched way of sitting, and by the unhappy glare of the black eyes. They did not attempt a rescue, though, so Gabrielle continued.
Gabrielle went to her magically enhanced handbag and placed on the now steady surface a large ceramic cow. It was quite a bit fatter than a scaled cow, with legs more suited to an elephant, and it was a gleaming white with large black spots. This was the content of the wrapped box, and it was a Cowfee Cow, from the Waterferd company. Their motto, according to the accompanying scroll, was 'Smashing Glassware for the Sophisticated Wizard'. That did not make a lot of sense to Gabrielle. First because it sounded like they were offering the least useful service she could imagine, and second because the other products shown on the card were ceramic animals, plates, and heavy-looking mugs. Those could be called many things, but glassware was not one such description.
The cow, which had a ceramic straw hat molded onto its head, tilted that head expectantly. Gabrielle set out the accessories: a ceramic bucket and food trough. She filled the little bucket with water, which the cow seemed to appreciate and lowered its muzzle to.
Gabrielle pawed through the contents of the handbag, looking for the decorative tin box that held her dwindling supply of coffee beans. These had been hard to obtain during her apprenticeship. Madame Pommejous preferred fresh juices in the morning, while Monsieur Pommejous seemed to only drink small swallows of a blood-red liquid from a copper flask. He also did most of the shopping after closing his own shop, so a chance to go to any market, let alone a muggle one, was very rare.
Gabrielle found the tin, opened it just slightly so all the aroma would not escape, and inhaled deeply. The smell was earthy and wonderful, but brought nothing to mind via her sensory humours. The beans were not from her favorite coffee shop in all of France, which was even a coffee shop since it was technically closed to the public. She had sent a letter, through the muggle Post, to the retired owner requesting a small shipment. Gaston had not replied, but Gabrielle did not know if he had finally shut the place completely, had not known that it was her making the request, or had even not even received the correspondence. She was certain she had put enough stamps on the envelope, though the address had been harder to work out. She wished she could have used her owl. "Monsieur Gaston, Shop that Smells Heavenly, Rue de Sauvaul, Paris" was very clear. The muggle Post needed numbers which, Gabrielle now regretted, she had only managed to guess at.
Wisps of steam were beginning to vent from the horns of the Cowfee Cow, so Gabrielle poured the beans into the small trough. The ceramic bovine immediately began crunching them, which was actually quite funny because it looked like the faux cow was concentrating so hard on the task. The beans had come from a muggle market, a sealed bag among the dozens of other sealed bags neatly arranged on the shelves. The uniform anonymity probably explained the lack of visions. At least, Gabrielle hoped that was the explanation. It would be very disappointing if her dependence on the sensory humours as a guidepost to the Hidden Realm had somehow been corrected before she had found another guidepost. Not for the first time, she wished that she had been able to practice more of the Divination Arts during her sentence as an apprentice. Gabrielle hoped that she did not regret her choices.
A tug in her hair finally gained Gabrielle's attention. Faithful Pepi-Z drew her attention to Sauveret, who was jumping at the Lieutenant. Gabrielle sighed. Could they not see that she was in the middle of something? "(Sauveret! Is that how you ask?)" Gabrielle scolded.
The squirrel flicked his tail and chattered at her before continuing to leap at the back of the owl. Lieutenant Mimsey hopped and leaped as well. If that was the way that Sauveret was asking, then her owl either did not agree to or did not understand the question. Pepi-Z frantically tugged at his tether; she was either in grave danger or he wanted to join in. Based on her previous experiences, as this was a foreign country, Gabrielle quickly looked around. There was nothing that she could see, and no Harry Potter either. That probably meant she was safe, and that the zombie pygmy puffskein wanted to play. She unclipped the red bobble from her hair, and called her owl.
The Lieutenant was a large owl, but even such a bird has to fly, so he was not all that heavy. Gabrielle could have him perch on her outstretched arm, at least for a few minutes. Easily enough time to clip Pepi-Z to a feather on his back, so that he dangled between the huge wings. Her owl spread those huge wings and bobbed.
"(Yes, yes. But, you must be careful. You know this,)" reminded Gabrielle. It was never clear what went on in the owl's head. He would, for example, attack water faucets if they were reflecting sunlight. She could not see how he could win such a battle, or why it had to be fought, but it was certainly clear that he could lose if he accidentally turned the faucet on. The Lieutenant was much better when he was delivering her Post, or when the red bobble was the one doing the thinking. Such as now, since the owl had fluttered from her arm to the waiting Sauveret, allowing the squirrel to climb onto his back. Then the three were airborne, circling the open fields. The Lieutenant really was a magnificent bird. And, he was hers.
Gabrielle felt pride, but also melancholy. The trio's swooping flight reminded her too much of the times she had ridden Soleil. And that reminded her of his limp, lifeless body, a dead prince in a common field of, eh, wheat, possibly. The Abraxan had died - had been killed - trying to protect her from the vicious Granecole. Who might have been possessed or something, which is what Harry Potter seemed to believe. Gabrielle was not going to allow any excuse for Granecole's behavior, except that Hermione also agreed with that theory and she was always right. Except, perhaps, for Ron.
Gabrielle suddenly realized that the ceramic cow had been lowing for some time, and that now its calls were plaintive and urgent. She quickly apologised to the miniature bovine and placed her cup beneath the pink udder. With a relieved moo, frothy brown liquid began to drip from the teats. This, thought Gabrielle, looked like a proper espresso. The Cowfee Cow could also be purchased as a set with a very happy-looking bull, which could be used to make cappuccino. That was strange to Gabrielle at first, since it was cows that gave milk, until she realized what would be used as the frothing wand. Then it was just gross.
The espresso was good, though perhaps not as good as one could get in Paris. Gabrielle now wished she had brought out a chair as well, so she could savour the cup while relaxing. What she really wished was that she could use her wand. Then, she could summon a chair. She might, probably, would still have to pull it through the door, of course, but after that the chair would surely reach her eventually. At least she would not have to carry the piece like a, a-
Like a squib, finished a guilty second thought that was instantly angry she had started the first thought. Especially since Gabrielle now realized that, realistically, the only way she was going to get proper coffee was if Philippe would go to Gaston's shop for her. Papa was busy with the distillery, and Maman disapproved - of coffee, of the shop, of Gaston. Everyone else she could ask would be at Beaux- at their school.
Gabrielle sipped at her cup and worried what Philippe would want in return. Likely galleons. She wondered if he would accept the leks her father had sent, but she knew that her friend would know about muggle currency. The cow lifted its tall and grunted. Oh, thought Gabrielle with a snort, self-cleaning! She decided to show the fat little cow to Bill; it would be funny to watch Fleur struggle to tolerate it. Except, what if it bothered Louis? Perhaps she should not -
"Och, it's only yer fool brew, mah wee mirkyness. Ah thought th' cludgie exploded."
Gabrielle nearly leapt out of her skin. Her gasp of surprise came mid-sip, so she coughed repeatedly after the espresso went down the wrong way.
"'At will lae a stain, nae doubt. Beggin' yer pardon, ay coorse," said the caretaker, pointing at the damp pile of coffee grounds behind the ceramic animal. "Ur ye aw reit thaur? Whit potion hae ye cooked up in yon coo?"
v-v-v-v-v
"Ginny -"
"Shut up, you annoying little git!" barked Ginny. "We are not there. Don't you think the bloody train would bloody stop and the bloody doors would open if we were bloody there?"
Oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle turning back to the window, Ginny is the worst travel companion. Yes, she had asked already, but that had been ages ago, or at least had felt like it. The train had stopped several times already and they had not gotten off. Gabrielle was only inquiring, politely, again, because they had been on the train for forever, and she was beginning to think that the youngest Weasley did not know when they should get off. Gabrielle wished that she had been the one to take the slip of parchment from Hermione.
A whining stomach grumble came from the seat next to Gabrielle. Hunger might just explain almost a tenth of Ginny's mood, thought Gabrielle charitably. The notion did provide a diversion, though, so Gabrielle began rooting in her handbag for provisions. Provisions she was willing to share, that is, in this completely non-emergency situation that was completely not her fault.
The plan had been for Gabrielle, Ginny, and Hermione to take the Knight bus from the Winterhall Estate to the Leaky Cauldron, and from there to proceed to Diagon Alley. Fleur would travel on her own and meet up with Bill first - the direct Floo access to Gringotts was a perk allowed only to immediate family members. Maman liked this plan because there was one less long trip by car, and an opportunity to monopolize her grandson Louis. Papa was torn between his wife and Louis, and the boggart that was likely in a certain shop at 93 Diagon Alley.
Gabrielle did not quite understand why they were not on the Knight bus. The purple vehicle had arrived as expected after Ginny had raised her wand. The three girls had boarded after paying the fee. Gabrielle had wanted a seat on the third level for the best views, but the armchairs were already taken up by a cadre of cloaked wizards with small telescopes set up next to them. Ginny thought they might be goblin-spotters, though Gabrielle had never heard of such. The Knight bus had lurched and shuddered the way Hermione had described. Gabrielle had not anticipated the severe sideways jolt, and had completely crushed an elderly witch's wrapped lunch when she had been pitched from her armchair. For all the jarring, though, the bus had not gotten very far; they were not even off the grounds of the modest Winterhall Estate when it stopped again. The haggard wizard who had taken their fares with all the courtesy of a troll consulted with the ancient wizard at the wheel, and then Gabrielle was told to get off. Which, in her opinion, was a ridiculously harsh penalty for a ruined meal. Especially since the wrapped repast had been a stew, and the greasy stain that soaked into her clothes was, to Gabrielle's mind, punishment enough.
Of course, Ginny and Hermione got off too, but not without a long protest and argument. Ginny had been quite angry, but was positively livid when her fare was not refunded while Gabrielle had all but one sickle returned for "distance traveled." The policy, firmly repeated several times, was that a full ride was determined by "volitionary" exit. Gabrielle thought Ginny would curse the gaunt conductor right there, but she may have thought better of it when the other passengers began to grumble.
Hermione quickly provided a backup plan. The three witches drove to a city called Exeter, where Gabrielle and Ginny got on a completely muggle train headed to London. Hermione had to return the car, and she promised that she would meet them later. Gabrielle really regretted that, since she would obviously choose the amazing Hermione over a surly Ginny. Ginny, Gabrielle decided, should learn to drive also, or Mr. Weasley should enchant his car to come home on its own.
Gabrielle discovered a small, mossy rock in her handbag. That was a surprise, until she realized it had once been some cheese leftover from Albania. It was also disgusting, she was pretty certain that Ginny was not desperate enough to eat it, and there was no obvious places to dispose of the fuzzy lump. Which meant that it had to go back into her handbag because she could not use her wand to vanish it. On the other hand, it never hurt to check the cauldron...
"Are you, eh, hungry?" asked Gabrielle as quickly as she could. It was important to get her question all out before Ginny could snap at her. Again.
"No," lied Ginny. Gabrielle knew it was a lie because of a sound like a distant whinnying. "All right," continued Ginny, "I'm famished. But I don't have any muggle money with me."
"Zis is, eh, some cheese. Eh, zee Roquefort style, eh, zat is."
"Oh, is it? Well, you can start in on it first then. I saw your face when you pulled it out."
"I am not zat hungry," assured Gabrielle.
"No one is," agreed Ginny.
" Oh," perked Gabrielle. "I zink I have ze rock cake from Professor Hagrid." It was older than the cheese, but probably still good.
"I thought the French were a bit pickier when it came to 'zee cuisine'."
"Ze center is, eh, good, if zere is coffee. Or tea," said Gabrielle. "And it is not my stomach zat sounds like zee kneazle in heat."
"We could have a proper tea if we had muggle money, but I was expecting to be at the Leaky Cauldron already," sighed Ginny. "Back at Mum's, if I'm honest."
"I have some, but, eh, not ze pounds," admitted Gabrielle.
"Oh? I've not seen a trolley service, but there could be a buffet car. I'm sure they'll change francs."
Gabrielle frowned as Ginny stood up. She did have francs, some, but it was the leks that she was thinking of again. And, while an offer might have been implied, Gabrielle felt that Ginny was being rude by assuming that she would share. Then again, if Ginny was in a better mood she could ask about their progress again. Perhaps trains really did go faster in France?
v-v-v-v-v
The buffet car was, to Gabrielle, a bit of a disappointment. That might have been due to being a witch, and therefore not possessed of any preconceived notions of how large or small the inside of a space may be from the outside. The rail car was no larger than the others they had passed through, but had metal-framed tables and chairs filling most of the space. There was a counter at the far end, which dispensed, after a fashion, food, after a fashion. Gabrielle sat with Ginny at a table that was well away from the quiet older couple sharing a newspaper and tea, and also the family with the baby who was definitely not as cute as Louis. The chosen table was, however, regrettably close to the counter, and therefore the girl who worked behind the counter. She was not much older than Ginny, with straight dark hair that touched her eyebrows in the front. The makeup on the eyes below those brows was heavy and dark. The attendant was not very friendly, decidedly impatient, and, according to Ginny, "a nasty slag". Gabrielle was quite glad that it was Ginny who had ended up approaching her with the useless pile of leks.
Ginny was not glad to have had the encounter. She was not, Gabrielle could see, glad about many things at the moment. Not about the rubbery bun and equally rubbery meat of her "nuked" hamburger, not about the other triangle of the sandwich Gabrielle had offered. Possibly not even about the mug of tea in front of her, though Gabrielle suspected that it was her own cup of quite serviceable coffee that was the issue. That was just too bad, though. Gabrielle continued to work at the rock cake, which was proving nearly impervious, to avoid eye contact and the inevitable temper. Which, a second thought noted, was a mature act. It occurred to her that the baked nugget may have transfigured itself to actual rock after all.
"He's looking over here again," whispered Ginny in a not-so-quiet way. "You're not supposed to do magic outside of school yet. Especially in front of muggles."
Asking another employee, in a polite manner, about the unusual currency was not magic, thought Gabrielle. She would have said so too, except that it might imply a criticism of Ginny, who was oil to the counter girl's water. "Zere was no magic," replied Gabrielle, ending in a quieter whisper because, well, there were muggles around.
"Hmm, I wonder about that. You were standing too close to him, and you even stooped a little to look up at him," claimed Ginny.
The "him" that was the subject of Ginny's suspicions was Monseur Padilla, who had invited Gabrielle to address him as Birdy. This was Pepi-Z's fault, really, since it was the little bobble that had first alerted her to the rather senior man in the dark blue First Great Western uniform. Birdy had neat gray hair and hazel eyes. He was very nice and, after Gabrielle had explained their difficult circumstances, tried to convince the recalcitrant young woman behind the counter. He was rebuffed as well, but then said that he would take the leks himself, if for nothing else than as souvenirs for his grandchildren. Gabrielle felt a little guilty about only giving him the paper leks, because the coins were more like real money, but he seemed pleased. Birdy seemed very pleased about everything, and made several trips to their table to deliver the mugs and food he purchased. Gabrielle, at least, thanked him repeatedly. The only oddity about the man was the way he mispronounced her name, making it sound a lot like Barbara. Gabrielle now turned and smiled at their elder benefactor, and waved.
"Oh Merlin, he's blushing like a first-year who's opened the wrong broom closet," muttered Ginny.
Gabrielle ignored the ingrate's comment. The last attempt to crush Professor Hagrid's rock cake had cracked a small fissure in the lumpy surface. She shifted the set of pliers, which the amazing knife from Gaston could be folded into, and squeezed with both hands. Tendons stood out on the backs of those hands, which also complained about a decided lack of padding on the occasional handles. Gabrielle could not hold back an un-Veela-like grunt, and her effort resulted in a bang liked a shot, a series of pings, and finally the bright tinkle of shattered glass tumbling to the floor behind the counter.
"All right, which of you lot is messing about?" demanded the girl behind the counter. It was a question, but she was looking directly at the seated witches.
"Absolutely bloody brilliant," hissed Ginny. "Thank Merlin she probably can't see through all that makeup. You're not - oh no, he's coming over."
Gabrielle, who had quickly, and as nonchalantly as possible, shifted the transformed knife to her lap, turned from the counter to the approaching Birdy. She had been staring curiously, and hopefully innocently, toward where the sound of the broken glass had come from. Which is what an innocent person would do, if that person had no idea as to what had caused the commotion and was perhaps hoping to be helpful. At the same time, Gabrielle began prying the crystallized, shell-like layers from the penetrated rock cake, because she also did not want to appear to be too interested in what might be a quite normal and routine happenstance.
"That looks a bit stale, duck," offered Birdy. He placed, with a small flourish, two dishes on the table. One held a rather sad rectangle of cake with sticky white frosting; the other had two lumpy biscuits with a peculiar, cracked surface, like a pottery glaze. Ginny mumbled her thanks for the cake. Gabrielle smiled her thanks, which made her new acquaintance slightly blush again. That was probably just a natural response, a Veela response, because the offered treat was not very appetizing.
"It was, eh, baked at, eh, home," said Gabrielle, indicating the skinned rock cake. Baked was her guess at least. A wand could do many things.
"As were the biscuits," nodded Birdy cheerfully. "This morning, as a point of fact. My Gab- Bab- er, Barbara has taken to baking lately."
"This cake wasn't baked this morning," noted Ginny, though Gabrielle could not help noticing that the redhead licked her fork thoroughly.
"Go ahead, duck, they're quite good."
Gabrielle gave him another smile, because if Professor Hagrid's efforts could taste good even as they were, then there was no reason not to trust the peculiar treats in front of her. She bit into one, and was surprised when the outer crust gave way to a cake-like center. The crust itself was saturated-
Gabrielle squeezed the bulb off the old-fashioned atomizer, and a fine mist of Tia Maria coated the flattened round. She ignored the twinge of arthritis; there was nothing to be done about that. A fine flour and icing sugar mixture was quickly dusted over the still damp dough. Only two more layers to get to the lucky seven. The five hundred pounds and cruise holiday would definitely be hers. The look on Birdy's will be brilliant - he never was one for beaches and sun. Serves the old plod right though, thought Gabrielle, what with forgetting their anniversary after all this time. The worry was over the recipe. The atomizer was her secret technique - and that Margie had almost caught her at it. The results just wouldn't be the - Thwock!
"Here now! That was a bit uncalled for!"
"It's fine; she has a very hard head, you see."
The Past cleared from Gabrielle's eyes and was replaced by the sight of Ginny, wielding the spoon from her tea, and the concerned Birdy. "Eh -"
"She has some, erm, Gypsy blood in her - visions, trances, and all that sort thing," explained Ginny. "A regular mistress of the mirk, you know?" And that, wondered Gabrielle, was supposed to excuse the lunatic's behavior?
"So not a family history of neurological problems?"
"I am, eh, fine," insisted Gabrielle. "Really." She smiled broadly, just in case that helped. Seeing was her unique talent; Fleur could not do it. She brushed crumbs from her front. The biscuits seemed to be gone.
"Mistress of the... murk?" asked Birdy doubtfully.
"It's her, erm, nom de... de... er, ball," fabricated Ginny. "Why else do you think she dresses like that?"
v-v-v-v-v
Gabrielle peered at the palm in her hands. The skin was a little leathery and rough; the fingers were thick. Though she did not read it from Birdy's palm, she was certain that he had not been a train conductor all his life. How old was he? Everyone knew that wizards lived longer than muggles, but that was no real help when it came to guessing a person's age. It just meant that a muggle was less than a century old.
The art of palm reading was all about ratios, and ratios of ratios. The line of Fate was well known, but having a long Fate line did not mean one would have a long life. The apparent length was altered by the distance to the heart line. The liver line and spleen line also adjusted where how far along the lines of Fate one was. The major Additicious lines of love and family, and the minor of work had to be considered as well. The relative spacings, lengths, and thicknesses had to be taken into account. And, of course, one could not read one's own palm.
All of which was something Gabrielle knew from her studies, and not as a matter of practice. Outside of the attempts in Madame Sombrevoir's class, this was only the third time Gabrielle had tried to read a palm. It was not as if the topic came up very often. She quite recalled nothing good coming from the previous attempts, so it was not clear to her why she was studying Birdy's upturned hand, other than Ginny had come to suggest it after Birdy had averred that Gabrielle "looked quite smart" dressed as she was. Of course, that was not difficult if everything she wore was exactly the same color.
"It's, it's not bad, is it?" asked the owner of the palm.
Gabrielle looked up into what seemed to be genuinely concerned eyes. Did he actually believe, wondered Gabrielle, that she could See the future? Not knowing she was a witch, of course. If he knew that then it would be understandable. Instead of answering, however, she asked her own question. "Eh, how many years are you?"
"I was born in '47. Not long after me dad returned from the war." That was said with a wink, but if there was a joke in it, well, she had missed it. Gabrielle considered the palm again. If he was in his sixties then-
No, Gabrielle realised, Birdy was in his fifties. That threw off all of the calculations and estimations she had been trying to make. With growing unease, Gabrielle found herself getting lost in the process. Serious revision would be needed before she started at Hogwarts! She had assumed that the Divination Arts would be a certain Outstanding for her. Now Gabrielle regretted that hubris.
Self-doubt and self-recrimination was not going to help Gabrielle part the mists of the Hidden Realm and let her See - the - future. She definitely could, however, try to See - a - future. That was simple - all one had to do was look to the end of the Fate line. Whatever was there was just a possible ending; that is, if it was not within the Propefata interval. That depended on the distance between the Fate and heart lines and the Sauvage ratio, and whether the ratio held for muggles as well. It was a question that Gabrielle had never even considered. What if it would have been covered in the second year at Beaux- her old school?
The end of Birdy's line of Fate was a tangle of wrinkles. That was typical, but there was a trick. Gabrielle squinted and tipped the compliant palm back and forth to find an angle where most of the creases faded. When she had found the right tilt, her heart almost stopped. The ratio, Gabrielle's second thoughts protested, could not be that different.
"Why," blurted Gabrielle in despair, "did you forget your wedding anniversary?"
"What? I never did!" declared Birdy. "I got you - her a lovely new teapot, with a fancy assortment of posh, foreign teas from around the world."
"No, I, eh, do not zink zat is so," said Gabrielle morosely.
"I'm sorry, duck, but I'm quite sure. Even had it specially wrapped at the little shop at, at - Oh, butter all! I'm a right silly sod. I'll be forgetting me own head next."
"So, she was right?" Ginny's tone was one of surprise.
"You won't be needing yer head if you get the sack," called the counter, eh, slag. "You know we're only five minutes out? Enough of the flirting, you old perv."
"Five minutes?" asked Birdy in surprise. "That can't be right. I'd have gotten a squawk for certain." He pulled from a kind of leather holder beneath his jacket a dark grey rectangular object, covered with buttons, with a finger-sized stub projecting from it. Gabrielle's could tell by his face that there was something wrong with the thing. He turned a tiny knob on its side back and forth, which made an annoying hiss first louder then quieter.
"I should leave that for later, if I were you."
"The squelch must be wonky," said Birdy half to himself. He put the device back into the hidden holder, and addressed Gabrielle. "Sorry, duck. Must run. Oh, don't look so down, I'll, er, I'll... Must run."
Ginny, who had been completely ignored, said of the hurrying Birdy, "Well now, that was awkward." She stood, her chair making a loud scraping noise as it slid on the floor. "And before you ask, again, it's not our stop."
v - v - v - v - v
Gabrielle sat in her seat with her head and shoulders facing the window, watching the blocks of flats pass by through a thin screen of trees. There was nothing in particular that was notable about the dwellings; they were just something to focus on that was not Ginny. A shameless thought also hoped that the posture would be seen as a sign of depression. Ginny had managed to come up with a bar of chocolate, but had eaten half of it herself. The smaller half, yes, but still...
There was better chocolate in France, of course, but, thought Gabrielle, the sublime treats made specially for Maman by the chocolatiers were not going to be found on a plain inter-city train. Gabrielle felt certain that Ginny could get another bar, though she had no idea how the witch had gotten the first without muggle money.
"I don't see that you didn't tell him," began Ginny. Again. "Something like, 'zee peculiar mists that somehow part have revealed zee fute-air and you really should avoid big ships'."
Gabrielle sighed distinctly. Not loudly or dramatically, but in a way to be noticed nonetheless. She did not otherwise reply, and wondered if it would help if she hunched her shoulders with her head down. Except that while the scenery was not interesting, the floor was less so.
"Mistress of the Mirk misses the mark on misfortune of man."
"Eh, what?"
"I was thinking of helping Luna at the Quibbler," shrugged Ginny. "Wouldn't be for much, now, but it's, erm, growing fast."
"Eh, okay," said Gabrielle. Ginny would probably be very good at quibbling. Gabrielle knew not to do that around Maman, even if it would be the difference between something being someone's fault and an unfortunate series of blameless events.
"So why didn't you tell him?" asked Ginny once more. Only this time she was holding another bar of chocolate, the gold foil already peeled back and the sweet fragrance already noticeable.
Gabrielle turned away to the window. Did Ginny think her a child, so easily manipulated by a promise of sweets? Yes, she had to admit, she did want more chocolate. But wanting was not longing, and she had plenty of self-control, which also, it turned out, meant not arguing. Gabrielle heard the snap of the confection being broken, and tried to put the delicious treat from her mind by trying to work out whether they were passing more dwellings each minute than before. If they were, then, logically, they just had to be near London and this endless train trip would finally be over.
"Oy, did you want some or not?" asked Ginny with a nudge.
"Yes!" blurted Gabrielle, and she was immediately embarrassed by her own outburst. It had proved impossible to count both the buildings and the passing seconds at the same time, all while not trying to think of the chocolate.
"Did you think I wasn't going to let you have any?"
Yes, thought Gabrielle, embarrassed further by having assumed the worst of the youngest Weasley. She took the offered piece, the bigger of the two, and the regret grew. A single bite was enough for Gabrielle to realize that this chocolate was very different. The flavor was richer, more intense. It reminded Gabrielle, inexplicably, of giant stone wheels rolling through a creamy dark paste, the sensual ooze - Thwock!
"That's the last of my Honeyduke's, so you're going to enjoy it properly, if you don't mind," declared Ginny. Was that, wondered Gabrielle, a conjured spoon, or did the redhead steal it? "I always carry some; there are still dementors about. Erm, I don't think it will be a problem today, though."
Gabrielle nibbled another sliver of the precious chunk, and sighed. "I, eh, could not know if Monseur -"
"Birdy, to you."
"If, eh, Birdy was in the Propefata interval because he is a, eh..." Gabrielle glanced around before continuing. Getting hit in the head with a spoon had attracted some attention before, completely Ginny's fault, but now the passengers nearby had returned to their books, newspapers, and little glowing rectangles.
"Propefata - that's from the Latin for, erm, near fate? And that has to do with the savage ratio you mentioned before?" queried Ginny.
"Savauge ratio - you must know zis," said Gabrielle reproachfully. Although, perhaps Ginny did not. She might have been the sort of student who slept quietly in the back of Madame Sombrevoire's class, earning only a barely Acceptable mark.
"Nothing about any of that in any of my Divination textbooks," admitted Ginny. "Palm-reading was mostly just predicting gruesome deaths for the students in class that Trelawney didn't like."
Gabrielle looked at Ginny in horror, mouth agape. How could this be at Hogwarts?
"Anyway, you saw his wife trying to win a cruise, and the you saw a big ship, erm, killing him. That's a mortar with its pestle right there," argued Ginny.
"Eh, no, it is not like zat , if it is not, eh, wizzin ze Propefata -"
"Near fate."
"Ze - Propefata - interval. Zat might be a possible fate only. It, eh, could be a different ship. Or, eh, maybe his wife would, eh, kill him if he did not go wizz her."
"So it could be the first cruise, or the fourteenth, and it all depends on his savage ratio?"
Gabrielle ate more of the chocolate. If it helped with dementors then it should help with Ginny, who was obviously baiting her. Could she continue as a professional seer, occasionally professional, if Hogwarts had such a poor program? The borrowed notes had been light on topics of divination. Devoid, in fact. "Also, he left before I could say anyzing." Gabrielle wished she had thought to say that first, so that she still looked forward to Hogwarts.
v - v - v - v - v
"Oy, don't wander off!" barked Ginny. Gabrielle gritted her teeth. She was not a silly little girl, and this was not the Labyrinth under the French ministry.
It was, the station the two witches had disembarked at, Waterloo station. Gabrielle was suspicious of the choice at first, thinking it some sort of slight to her national pride. Then she recalled that it had been Hermione that had directed them there, so it was all right. And, Gabrielle was not just wandering off. She was following the very obvious signs to the exits.
"It's this way," pointed Ginny.
"Eh, no. Ze signs say zis way, you see?" indicated Gabrielle.
"Yes, but we're not going to the exit, are we?"
"We are, eh, not?" This was London, thought Gabrielle. Was it not? She could not imagine another interminable train ride.
"We're taking the Underground for the last bit." Ginny had caught up, and now took Gabrielle's hand. And did not intend to give it back - Gabrielle had tried to pull free. She was nearly dragged along behind Ginny as if it were Maman pulling her away from that which had seemed like a good idea at the time.
There are magical places in the world, and places where magic just seems to fit in well with the rest of mundane reality. These were often the edges; between the wild forest and the tamed fields, between the dark moors and the lighted village, between the angry sea and the meager shelter of the cove. Witches were to be found at the edges, in between the time magic was remembered in stories to the time it was forgotten as real. In that past, wizards sought out, and fought for, magical foci; places where terrible unseen energy curled, places of great fortune or despair. These might be high crags; rocky, windswept plains; or places marked only by standing stones today.
Caves were both an edge and a focal point. Certain caves, that is. Ones with shimmering, undisturbed pools of pale blue water, perhaps, or vast underground cathedrals with interesting minerals. A witch or wizard would not be found in dark, dank tunnels.
Nor, and Gabrielle could feel this in her bones, in bright tunnels covered in white tile, filled with strange metallic shrieks and groans, and smelling... richly... of humanity. Her heart was pounding, and her brow was damp with perspiration. Ginny was definitely dragging her now, and only because there was nothing for her to grab onto with her free hand for an anchor. The last of the chocolate had helped with the first descent into this gleaming netherworld and the treacherous mechanical stairs, but the relief was too short-lived, and now another portal for the damned loomed. The part of Gabrielle that was angry with the redhead for treating her like a child had nothing to say when her inner child came forth. Gabrielle's legs gave out, and she flopped to the floor. Ginny was now literally dragging her.
The older teen noticed rather quickly. "Oh fer Merlin's sake, what happened now?"
"(Do we have to go here? Can't we just walk?)" whined Gabrielle from the ground.
"What? Get up - the floor is filthy!" Ginny gave up pulling painfully on Gabrielle's arm, and instead bent over and lifted with her arms around Gabrielle's chest.
Gabrielle struggled briefly, then went limp. She would be forced to descend to the next level of this purgatory. Why, asked a second thought, was Ginny so strong?
"Stand up, you tetchy - are, are you crying?"
"No," lied Gabrielle, though it was not entirely a lie. The tears were more due to dread and frustration, so did not count fully.
"Blimey, you really are sensitive. You ought to look into getting a healer to rebalance your humours." Ginny was holding Gabrielle upright and cradling her head.
"(Can we - ) Eh, can we not just walk zere? Outside?" asked Gabrielle in a small voice that made prouder parts of her cringe.
"It's three miles by tube, definitely further on foot," explained Ginny. Gabrielle slumped against Ginny's chest in resignation, since what Ginny really meant was, no. "You just need a bit of motivation, yeah? I can't do a charm here, but I can say this: if we don't get there before the shops close up, we'll be doing all of it again tomorrow."
Gabrielle's eyes watered again, and she snuffled loudly. That was not motivation; that was punishment.
"Oh Merlin, here comes another one."
"Eh, what?"
"Excuse me, are you all right, my dear?" The voice was slightly raspy, and belonged to a man of both generous girth and age, with gentle brown eyes and the hint of white hair from under a tweed cap.
"She's fine," answered Ginny over Gabrielle's reply. "First time on the tube, is all. She's French, you see."
"Ah. Just like my Mary, of course; she took a fright on her first trip too. 'Course that was before the war. She didn't mind it at all during the Blitz."
"Eh, what?"