Destien did add something to my spell, but nothing that interferes—I suspect he wasn’t confident enough to mess with the complexity of my work without more thorough study, which, frankly, speaks better of his judgment than I would have been comfortable admitting a few days ago.
The tweak he’s added is more like an alert system, so that if I alter the magical structure of the universe again through this anchor—which I’d almost have to—he’ll know.
I ponder, and decide to leave it.
Not without an addition of my own, of course. I’m not Nariel, but I can add a layer of masking so Destien’s spell will only report fluctuations to him under specific conditions: those being, if I want him to.
So he won’t know that I found his spell, but unless he’s stupider than I’ve come to believe, he’ll assume that.
And if I want to get in touch with him directly, I have a way to get his attention.
Destien also might be cleverer than I ever gave him credit for.
But then, he did have to keep up with me for a lot of years.
Two days after everything went down at the shrine, Brook and I have slept untold hours, we have eaten a truly astronomical amount of food to help restore ourselves, and we are still working on that project at a ramen shop with Ayaka in Hiroshima.
It really is basically like a booth—there’s a counter with four stools, and we’re occupying three of them so no other customers can easily fit. With two foreigners in the middle, no one is likely to try for the last spot.
The empty seat at my back feels like an accusation.
The store owner has retreated back behind a kind of fabric divider so we can’t see him—and he can’t hear us—leaving us to this comfort food in a homey spot of warmth and comparative quiet as the city bustles behind us.
All of us are totally out of place here.
Ayaka, because this is a hole-in-the-wall establishment and she’s dressed in an elegant power suit, perched on a stool in stilettos. As sharp as ever, like she’s been cut out of a fashion magazine and pasted with all her edges on a background where she doesn’t fit.
I wonder if she’d ever let herself be seen in a place like this if we hadn’t already stopped to get food while we waited for her train—she’s efficient enough that she wouldn’t ask us to find somewhere else, and she won’t let anyone make her feel out of place anywhere. She’s owned the shop since she glided in.
Brook and I look out of place because we’re obviously foreign, first of all, but also because we haven’t had a chance to go clothes shopping yet. So Brook wears the—laundered, at least—shorts and top I wore to bring magic back in the world. She’s as good as I am at looking breezy in new clothing styles, but these don’t fit her perfectly; as a teenager, she’s still more gangly than I am now in my ripe old mid-20s, having spent much of the last decade hiking around the world. She looks uncontained.
And I wear the same outfit I met Ayaka in before—but instead of the sweater, with Nariel’s way-too-big-for-me and absurdly fine (the ryokan owner gasped when she saw it) kimono jacket over the top.
It smells like him.
It’s not asmellscent, really—I’m sure, because Brook sniffed it as we were digging through our clothes options and declared it clean—it’s magic.
Not a spell, but more like it’s absorbed some of Nariel’s essence. Essence of Nariel? Essential self? Whatever it is, I wearit, and I can practically feel the shadows flickering around me. I’m afraid to wash it in case it fades.
This isn’t what makes me look out of place, though.
It’s that, because of my magic, even to people with no magical senses I stand out. Like a camera has focused on me over a slightly blurred background, with a filter that makes me shine at the center.
If you have magical senses, I actually glow slightly.
Almost like an angel.
I suspect it’s a holdover from how much magic I just channeled at the shrine gate, and it’ll calm down as time passes.
Otherwise, I’ll have to get used to looking slightly larger than life. Otherworldly, even.
I’m definitely not invisible now.
All of us feel like too much for this ramen shop gamely trying to hold us.
Ayaka doesn’t order a bowl of ramen for herself—maybe she can’t slurp without splashing her business suit? Nah, I bet she could—just nibbles edamame and sips a slushie as Brook and I inhale our noodles in between a longer recounting of what went down (I did text Ayaka before now, and also Seamus and Letty) like we haven’t eaten in days. (We have eaten in days.)
“I am sorry,” Ayaka says, “that things didn’t go as planned.”
