* * *
The room holds its breath.
"So, what would be your first order, dear Creator?" Helena's voice is silk threaded with amusement, a question that bears the weight of a dare. She's half-leaning on the ledger table, pen poised like a conductor's baton, and the little spark in her eyes promises mischief. I can't tell whether she expects me to answer honestly.
I set the pen down. The ledger's paper has the faint bite of magic, the scratch of ink still warm. For once I can't hide behind a flourish or a rhetorical flourish. I'd begun writing because writing felt safer than saying things aloud; letters are neat, accountable. Speech is a loose thing — it gets twisted into fate.
Selene's face is all attentive geometry, the kind of attention that makes corners sharpen. She leans forward and clasps her fingers as if she's about to pray to the architecture of my mind. "Think carefully," she says, and it's more a benediction than an instruction. "It will define the axis of what follows."
