Wira was
uneasy. Her husband Hugo had been absent half an hour, and it wasn’t
like him to stay away longer than he said. Especially not this night.
For tonight, after seventeen
years of marriage, Hugo’s father, Good Magician Humfrey, had
finally removed the Spell of Hiding that kept the storks from being
aware of Wira no matter how ardently she summoned them. She was
fifty-five years old chronologically, thirty-three physically, and
her thyme was starting to wilt. If they waited much longer, the
storks would never deliver to her, regardless of any spell. This time
the signal would go out. She knew that Hugo was eager to send that
signal, and so was she.
Where was he? He had gone to
the cellar to fetch a celebratory bottle of Rhed Whine. That should
have taken no more than ten minutes, and he would hardly have
dawdled. Something was wrong.
Wira got off the bed, donned
a nightrobe and slippers, and made her way out of their chamber. She
pattered down the familiar stairs to the ground floor, and thence to
the cellar. She knew every crevice of the castle, of course, and made
no misstep.
But as she reached the
cellar floor, she experienced a faint tinge of uneasiness. Her magic
talent was Sensitivity, and though it normally applied to people,
plants, and animals, it could sometimes attune to situations. This
situation was uncomfortable.
