I received your command.

What is there to say but 'Consider it done'?

Only.

I know, this will wait. A few days gone will make little difference.

Only.

No. You command, and I am yours

only

So, what am I to do?

I would far rather be chasing here and there with no time to think of anything beyond your deadline, than sitting here with so little to do but think.

You laugh.

So what have I done? Well, let's see. Today.

Bought The Prophet, milk, tea, biscuits, two potatoes, bread, and a cauliflower. Oh, yes, and butter. 1 galleon. Change.

Returned with parcels. Made tea.

Took tea and Prophet, sat out on steps. Read. Front page: MLE arrest Devonshire grandmother of thirty-seven as smuggling mastermind (cousin mentioned and brother). Wynne-Masters family move into lovely, refurbished New London home; more pictures, page three. St Mungo's report rise in birthrate over past six months (see feature article, Family Fortunes section, within). Within: Commerce (triumphs and trials, various articles).

Rain commenced. Retreated inside. More tea.

Moved stool by window. Watched. Nothing of note.

Continued paper. Keeping the Peace (public house curfews reaffirmed; calm in the camps continues; murder, mayhem investigated in several localities); Family Fortunes ('One Family's Gratitude for Repopulation Rewards Programme'); Social Whirl (parties, weddings, engagements, births, obituaries); Hearth and Home (recipes; housekeeping tips); My Prophet (classified adverts, astrologer's advice). Back page: weather, puzzles, Buckingham Week (a busy schedule ahead for you, I see).

More tea, moved stool to table. Found quill and ink. Worked puzzles. Failed.

12D (7 letters). Alchemist's aid.
43A (14 letters). Transport in Transvaal.
65D (17 letters). Tourists's trouble. (Could be a phrase?)

Lunch: finished leftover bacon barley soup. Watched out window: umbrellas rush by. One red, remainder black.

Out to stationers, where bought ink, parchment, wax, blotter. 2 galleons. Change. Apples from stall. 2 sickles. No change. Met no one promising.

Returned. Tracked in muck. Cleaned floor, shoes.

Room dim and no candles.

Out to local chandlers. Listened to advice. Listened to weather. Listened to gossip. Tutted interestedly at second cousin's second daughter mixed up in dodgy ritual. Returned to advice. Selected beeswax. Standard weight. Alchemist's dozen. 3 galleons. Change.

Returned. Lit candle and cast brightening charm.

Letters. Mother. Mother. Mother. Cousin. School chum. Lover. You laugh.

Twisted firestarters. Laid fire. Lit it.

Letters. Mother. Mother.

Burned.

Mother.

Summoned elf. Sent it with letter to Mother. Rain continued.

Tuned wireless. Sorted clippings. Watched out window until dark.

Made tea. Cauliflower cheese. Toast. Ate. Missed elf.

It's a much better cook than I am.

How am I to accomplish what you've asked? I should chat up the neighbours, I suppose. There's a young woman who pushes a pram up and down the street in the middle of the day (when it is not spitting down rain). When I spoke with her--on Tuesday--she asked if I had children. Then she asked if I worked at nights or was it a day off for me. The conversation was brief. What was I supposed to learn from her? Whatever it was, I did not. Or not yet. Perhaps she will tell me more another time, but I suspect she's not a promising lead. Still, maybe she knows something. Maybe she doesn't even know she knows.

Was I really meant for this line of work?

You're not laughing, are you?

Just letting you know, cousin, that I've arrived here, safe and sound. No lasting effects from the Apparating, though it's taken all afternoon to get my legs back under me.

Pleasure seeing you, though. You may be right about French wines after all. At any rate, a good bottle is an excellent thing indeed.

Also, I'm putting you on notice: when I next earn a reprieve long enough for a visit, I demand a rematch--and this time I'll bring the cards. I should have known that yours would be partial to their mistress.

So. A year. And a new book arrives. A fresh start, a new page?

A longer leash now--and this, the line that ties me to you. This and the coiling, living line that marks your possession of me. Oh, never fear. It is my life line and I cling to it. I am yours. The parts of me that are and the parts that are no more. All yours.

So. I am to range further from you now. After a year of remaking. To do your Will in the world.

To prove myself. Yes, I know. Or fail.
 
 
 
 
That’s what the leash is for.

It is a strange and distracting thing, the giving and taking of life. Almost to an annoying degree, one could propose. I dare say it distracted me for eleven years, and even more acutely these last few weeks when the life in question was my own.

It probably shouldn't concern us living as much as it does, considering the universe is more than a little flip about the whole ordeal.

But He is never flip. His methods are never random. It took a rather sharp reminder for me to realise, finally, that life is the Lord's to give and to take away. The weak may question it, even run from it, but our doubt will never change it. Our doubt or our actions.

I see clearly now. His mercies fall where He wills them to fall. And tonight they have fallen on me.

Most of me, anyway.


Narcissa, would you be a dear and visit me at my mother's? She is still screaming, but I expect the tone to take an affectionate turn within the hour. Followed shortly by at least a week of injured silence. Any time will be fine.