It was a small cottage, set into the hillside, the sort of comey home amongst nature that he would have never set foot in by choice for a thousand years.  Aviad stopped short, taking a long drag on his cigarette as he studied it.  The garden looked neglected, a mix of crispy dead plants and overgrown patches.  In the afternoon sunlight, he could see a pair of garden gnomes, marching back and forth across a dusty patch.  It hardly looked like the proper abode for a middle-aged witch, let alone the fortress of a necromancer being hunted down by half the Ministry.

He put a hand to the nazar that he wore around his neck — a new addition to his assemblage.  The base was made out of dark blue glass, with white crystal and a bright blue stone for the pupil.

“Are you sure this is the place?” he asked doubtfully.

Something flickered a reassurance that yes, this was certainly the right place.

Sighing, he dropped his cigarette and snubbed it out with the toe of his boot.  He’d wasted his time coming this far.  He opened the flap of his backpack and got to work. 

There were wards, which was a point in his little arafel friend’s favor.  But they weren’t very good ones, which wasn’t.  It took him a few moments to identify them all — rudimentary ones that were probably taught to fifth years at Hogwarts — and then set up an array of stones to break them, with a brightly-lit candle burning in the center.

There was nothing to do but wait until the candle burned itself out.  Heaving another sigh, Aviad lit a second cigarette and crouched down to sit, taking a long drag on it as he waited impatiently for his host to notice that he was here.

She had a visitor.

In the dank, dark cellar, Lorelei lifted the potion vial, smiling. These were hers. Pretty vials all lined up, ready to impart strength to some, courage in others, and drain the life out of an unhappy few. She'd sell these potions, trade them for favors. She'd make a collection again. On the wall opposite the potions lab, empty frames hung. Future homes for pentrals. Pretty pentrals all lined up, ready to impart strength to some, courage in others, and drain the life out of an unhappy few.

She wore a plain gray robe that no longer suited her. A healthy flush had settled on her cheeks. Her red hair fell thick and curly. Unicorn blood lit her up, quieted the pentral's voice in her mind, and made her hands feel like hers again.

Above her, the floor boards creaked and groaned, a steady dance. Leander's pacing. The unicorn blood had made him stronger, but had not yet saved his mind. At times she wanted to kill him, to end his pathetic life. Be merciful. She could be merciful. But she wasn't done trying yet. She had legilimens to stalk, then kidnap, then force into healing Leander. Then kill. Then pentral?

Then a new house. A new place to settle. A bigger, better home. She hated this house. It hated her too, snagging at her cloak with rusted nails, driving splinters into her toes, souring the water, stifling the air with a musty damp even in November. It reminded her too much of the neglected house she'd grown up in, where she'd sat in dirt and grime and listened to the noise of her neighbors fighting outside. This house had once been loved. It held the echoes of young parents and young children. The neighbors were far, and the doors closed properly. But it reeked of their presence still, an invasion she couldn't escape. The other day she'd found a toy rattling behind the radiator. A scroll, rolled tight in a flimsy case. She'd opened the scroll to find a little bird drawn on it, and a little maze, and a little worm at the end of it, and little ghosts that popped up in the maze and said boo, and silly little garden gnomes, and cawing crows, and the forming of wobbly letters. WE...? WR...?

She didn't care to know about the children who had once lived here and played their sad little games. She'd burned the scroll and the case in the fireplace, and welcomed the reek.

The cellar door opened. Lore turned at the pitter patter of sad little feet on the steps. She eyed the house elf, who stood there with one hand clasped over her mouth, the other hand balled up hitting her arm.

"What?" Lore snapped, striding over to grab her. Above, the floorboards had settled.

"What is it?" Lorelei shook the elf. "Tell me."

The house elf opened her mouth, and then the wards fell.

The wards fell off the cottage. She felt them drop, bringing a chill in the air. Lorelei froze. Her wards were gone! As the elf opened her mouth again, she moved.

She snagged a green bottle from the row of pretty bottles and pocketed it. She whirled and smacked the house elf across the mouth. "You stay down here and keep yourself and Leander hidden," she hissed. "Do not make a sound. Hear me? Shut up and stay hidden."

She glared into the house elf's wretched face. "Remember, I will hurt you worse than you could ever hurt yourself."

She didn't need this particular house elf. She could find another one. A creature more subdued, a creature that didn't hate her with every breath it took. But the hate in this creature's eyes filled her up much like the unicorn blood did. It brought a flush to her cheeks, a glow.

The house elf nodded, bobbing her head while Lorelei ran up the steps of the cellar. She heard the windchime just outside the front door jingling in the breeze. The chime had no wards, but it was made out of enchanted metal. That metal was magically linked to a round mirror hanging over the fireplace mantle. Lore glanced at the mirror. It reflected a lone man outside. Lorelei grabbed Leander's arm and pulled him away from the fireplace.

"Go downstairs. Now," she whispered.

He licked his lips, his face haggard. "A light. A light outside. A flickering light."

"Shut up. In the cellar, now. Stay hidden."

"But the light. The flame. Iona-"

"I don't want to hear that name," she warned, deathly soft. She moved close. She pushed him toward the cellar door. Gave him another push. "Go."

He turned, he did what she said. He always did, her brother. She thought about killing him, but she needed him to get better. She needed better wards.

Lore gazed into the mirror above the fireplace, studying the man crouched near an unlit candle on the ground. He held a lit cigarette. Had the Ministry found her? Why would they give her time to scurry away after dismantling her wards?

Could he be a competitor, a criminal, a wix passing by? He hadn't touched either of the two greenhouses, where she'd been toiling day after day.

Her gaze skittered around the living room and kitchen, heart pounding. She was not leaving her brother behind, or what she'd built since August. No, she was going to kill the guest, then make a pentral, then...

No. She'd ask. She'd find out what he wanted first. Leander would do that. She needed Leander.

Clutching her wand in one hand and the green potion in the other, Lore crept to the shuttered window that let in all the gaps and drafts. She put her back to the wall next to the window and watched the mirror. A faint thread of cigarette smoke wafted into the house. Her house. It reeked, and it wasn't hers. Her lip curled.

"If any ash touches the garden, you'll be joining it," Lorelei called, flicking her wand to project her voice through the crack in the shutters.

She glanced at the bottle, warm in her hand. The green liquid danced.

"Who are you, and where are your manners?" Her voice sounded sweet but with a wrong note in there, a wrong chime.

With one last, long-suffering gasp, the flame on the candle wick burned itself out, taking the wards on the cottage with it.  Aviad was well into his third cigarette by then, idly studying the run-down building in front of him.  Not the most stylish place to hide out from the Ministry, but then, fugitives couldn't be choosers.  The witch and wizard lurking inside this house likely had more in common with Cinaed Tawse than any of them would want to admit.

Now, with the wards gone, he shifted position slightly, his gaze locked on the house.  If this necromancer was worth her wand, she'd know as well.  How long would it take her to notice him?  Silently, he began to count.

One minute and sixteen seconds later, a voice rang out sweetly.  "If any ash touches the garden, you'll be joining it."

Aviad paused and glanced down at his cigarette, then at the edge of the garden, and then looked back at the cigarette.  Tempting.  But the voice from the cottage went on.

"Who are you, and where are your manners?"

"Oh?" he asked, sounding surprised.  "Was that rude?  I have to admit, British manners are still a little mysterious to me.  Here, I thought you all liked it when someone knocked, yeh?" 

The amulet felt like it was humming, buzzing anxiously against his chest.  Aviad ignored it as he straightened, rising back to his feet.  He had gotten this far by occasionally playing with fire, and even if it led to the odd burn, at least it advanced the plot.

"My name is Aviad," he informed the speaking cottage, flicking his cigarette away.  "I have come to seek counsel with you, Lorelei Hunt."

Lore stared hard at the enchanted mirror above the fireplace, not appreciating this wizard's bullshit and immediately suspicious of any foreign, outside influence. The reflection in the mirror showed a young-ish man, standing confidently. But the details of his face and outfit were hazy.

She glanced at the green bottle in her hand, weighing it. Someone should pay for this intrusion, for making her feel like nothing and nowhere was safe. The stranger could have burnt down the house or stormed in after removing her wards. He might still, if she kept talking at him from within it.

Though she hated this house and this house hated her, it was hers. She'd bought it under a muggle's identity. She owned it. Hers. She kept a collection of potions in the cellar. Hers. Her brother and the house elf were down there now. Hers. Plants and flowers blossomed in the greenhouses. Hers. This shitty land, this shoddy floor. Hers.

Lorelei Hunt. Her name. Hers.

Her face twitched, rippling with anger and unease. Aviad, no last name. A-vee-id, not from around here.

She moved to the front door, slipping the potion into one easily accessible pocket and keeping a grip on her wand. She flung the door open, letting it bang against a planter that had seen better days. Her eyes glanced him over. Tall. Lean. She glanced all around him.

"Homenum Revelio," she arced her wand over the surrounding land, but revealed nothing. He appeared alone.

Lorelei lowered her arm, keeping an eye on him as she shut the door and descended the porch steps. Aviad had a young-old face. The kind that looked young but had seen shit. He wore an amulet or two and stood in a stone circle. Ritualistic.

Once she was close enough, she swept her foot out and scattered a few of the stones.

"Sounds to me like you're seeking to be silenced."

Her gaze matched her tone, hard and unflinching. Her face was young-old, reflecting the older and corrupted soul within. She had seen shit. She'd caused most of the shit she'd seen.

"Who gave you my name?"

She rested a hand on her hip, close to the potion in her pocket. She raised her wand a few inches. Her feet flexed in her shoes, itching for a fight.

The voice from the cottage went silent, and still he waited.  Aviad sighed, examining the sky and wishing that he hadn't been so preemptive about putting his cigarette out.  A moment later, the door to the cottage banged open, and a woman stepped onto the porch.

Aviad stayed where he was, one eyebrow cocked, as this strange necromancer-witch took her time examining him.  He wondered, for a split second, if he'd been too bold in announcing himself here.  Usually, finding one's way to a mage's center of power was taken as an impressive feat, a worthy reason to enter into a dialogue.  But this particular magical user clearly did not want -- had not expected -- to be found.  Even as she cast her revealing spell, and he felt the magic swoop over him, there was something...almost vulnerable about her.  She wasn't strong and mighty in her fury, rising up to crush him because he'd annoyed her with his pettiness.  This caution, the paranoia, almost made her seem like she was scared.

But still he waited, ever calm and patient.  Lorelei Hunt descended the steps, and walked closer to him, and still he waited patiently.  Against his chest, the nazar was humming so violently that it was heating up, creating a burning sensation against his skin.  Aviad put a firm hand over it, doing his best to ignore it as he focused on the woman.  Up close, there was still something...odd about her.  Something dull and faded, like he was looking at her through fogged glass, or peering at her across a room shrouded with smoke.  It was almost the same sensation that he got when a spirit wasn't quite manifesting itself, but he could just catch a glimpse of out of the corner of his eye.

Lorelei Hunt walked closer to the edge of his stone circle.  Then, in a move that nearly tried his endless patience, she kicked her foot out, scattering a few of the stones.  There was a silent, hissing sensation, as if the air had just been let out of an invisible, noiseless balloon.

Lorelei Hunt's eyes were cold, and they were fixed on him now.  She raised her wand, stood on the balls of her feet.  "Who gave you my name?"

Aviad stood still, hand still on the charm around his neck.  He was patient.  He'd pocketed his wand earlier.  For all intents and purposes, he was unarmed.  The mage arched an eyebrow, giving Lorelei Hunt a patient smile.

"The dead," he replied simply.  "And although I am a little disappointed that they did not tell you mine, I will try not to hold it against them.  We cannot all be as accomplished as you."

Lorelei's mouth smiled but her gaze remained flat, unmoved by his flattery-mockery. Aviad knew her name, he knew where she lived, and he knew she could raise the dead, so to speak. She didn't like any of this knowing. She didn't like surprises, least of all from those who claimed to hear ghosts.

And yet the wizard made no move to meet her fighting stance. He hadn't flinched at her wand-waving or the disruption of his stone circle. He stood there and smiled in that cocky way of knowing things. Perhaps he had a good reason to be confident, or he overvalued his worth. Beneath the jingling of the wind chime on the porch, the air hummed, a warm undercurrent to the November chill.

He was clutching an amulet against his chest.

A weakness or a weapon.

Good. Her weakness hid in the cellar, and she carried two weapons. She lowered one of them, but kept her hand on her hip, close to her pocket.

"The dead are more concerned with their own names, Aviad. Their own stories. They remember who has helped them or hurt them. They remember the dark and miss the light. You just need to offer them one or the other."

Pentrals hated the dark and silence, where she'd trapped them for so many years. They longed for light and warmth, to feel alive again. A light flickered in Lore's eyes, the pentral in her mind glancing out. Her tone had changed too, more like the lighter voice that had called to him from within the house.

"You're new to the area, but typically a guest comes bearing gifts."

She glanced dismissively at the burnt out candle, the stones, the little pile of cigarette butts. Lorelei turned and lifted her wand at the cottage, gesturing with quick, impatient strokes to rebuild one of her wards.

"A guest seeking things should have something to offer."

She gestured a few more times with her wand. She paused, turning her head to look first at the amulet Aviad wore, then at his face.

"What have you brought me, in exchange for my counsel?"

Her mouth smiled again. Her hand stilled in the air. The latticework spell shimmered over the house, waiting for her to tie it off.

The dead, the dead.  He liked them more than the living sometimes. 

Lorelei Hunt, with her hard eyes and cold manner despite the occasional sweetness in her voice, seemed like she understood the dead better than most.  Spirits all wanted something; that was why they hadn't passed on.  Sometimes, when it was easy to give it to them, he obliged.  The most selfish, desperate desires in life -- fear of losing something or someone dear to them, fear of being forgotten, fear of moving on -- were what kept them bound to the realm of the living, trapped like an echo to go through the same motions again and again.  When they received respite, more often than not, they moved on.

(Tzippori was different, of course. He suspected that Tzippori had stayed so long because it was intrigued by him in some strange way, and because he wasn't yet ready to let his skeletal familiar pass on.)

But the wispy spirit that had come to him in Diagon Alley had been different.  It was still the echo of someone once living: it had shared flashes of its lonely life with him, the faintest, fleeting memories of what it had once had.  But it had been bound and kept bundled away from death not by its own accord.  Someone else had kept it from passing on, had selfishly trapped it and anchored it to life.  Had threatened it; imprisoned it.  Forced it to enter a sort of chrysalis, until it had emerged as a fleeting shadow of itself.

He had come here to seek power.  Surely, any sorcerer who could pervert death so would know about other dark things, like breaking the stench of curses that wormed their way into one's soul.  But as he looked into the cold, greedy eyes of Lorelei Hunt, wrapped tightly in another's spirit, Aviad wondered for the first time in a long while if he had made the wrong decision.

She was focused on his amulet now, and he could sense the spirit's distress within it.  Aviad gave her a half-smile, dropping his hand from the nazar even though the glass was now burning hot.  The list of dark marks attached to his name might be long, but he wouldn't turn his new little friend over to a monster.

"A way to get back what you have lost," he replied.  "But you will have to invite me in if you would like to see."

Have to! Lorelei let out a long laugh, sharp at the edges. Her hand moved an involuntary inch and caused the wards to flicker. What confidence! He needed something, and yet he dangled a vague promise in front of her, his neck burning for all to see.

She would not let a stranger into the house. Not when her brother was a stairway away.

She had certainly never let any fellow criminals into the lakehouse. No, they'd stood on the island in the center of the lake, waiting through cold and heat and rain for her to appear. They'd conduct business, and leave. She'd only allowed victims into the house. Did he want to be a victim, or a minion?

Taking her time, she finished off the wards on her cottage. He could think what he liked. Of course, she hungered to be seen, to be heard. She remembered who helped and hurt her. She craved the light, craved attention. But on a very individual basis, she lacked feeling.

To one side of the cottage, several yards away, stood a pair of greenhouses. Even from the outside, they both looked in much better shape than the cottage. Lorelei glanced back at Aviad, tilted her head in the direction of the first greenhouse, and walked on over to it. She waved her wand to unlock the door, then opened it, gesturing in invitation.

The warm air within brushed against her skin and made it itch. The plants hanging from hooks and arranged on counters blossomed and flourished. In the corner, there was a small table and a few chairs, riddled with nicks and dents. Lorelei rarely sat at it. She'd noticed once, and ignored, a pair of initials carved into the side of the table:

    W.W. & L.W.

She pocketed her wand and eyed the amulet Aviad wore, curious if it still burned brightly when trapped under glass.

His host led the way not to the cottage but around the side, to two khamamiot[1] that would have been perfectly in place on a kibbutz back home.  Against his chest, he could feel the anxious fluttering of the arafel spirit, still scalding hot and worried about what he had gotten them both into.  Aviad did his best to ignore it, only flicking at it once when Lorelei Hunt wasn't looking as she waved her wand to unlock the door.

The air inside the small building was hot and humid.  He'd already been too warm, but now Aviad's forehead immediately broke into beads of sweat.  Swallowing, he wiped them away with the back of his hand, following the sorceress further inside.  Perhaps it would have been better to perform the trick that he'd come to show her outside, rather than insisting on an invitation in.

But it was too late now, and his sails were locked into the course that he'd chosen.  Silently, Aviad made a beeline for the table, and began to search his pockets for the tools of his trade.

There was an art to summoning when it came to spirits.  The easiest way to go about the task was if one knew the spirit's life-name; that was the surest way to get its attention and draw it to a place.  In kabbalistic lore, it was said that the ancient mages knew how to summon all kinds of divine creatures, dybbuks, and demons by memorizing their names.  Bits of old memories worked just as well in a pinch: broken strands of hair, scraps of old clothing, a beloved necklace or possession. 

Using blood worked too, but that always struck him as too crude.  Blood was for hexes, not for summoning.

He laid out the supplies that he needed:  a mirror laid flat upon the table, a bright orange candle set upon it, a marble, and a glass jar.  It took a moment to get the jar and the marble balanced just right, so that the jar was sitting over the candle and the smooth glass ball was wedged underneath to keep it from sitting fully flat on the mirror.  Then he drew his wand, murmured the words of the spell, and set the candle alight.

"So," he said, flashing the sorceress a bright smile as he stepped back.  Now they would wait: for as long as her patience and his constitution allowed them, or until the candle burned itself out.  Already, it felt like the heat of this place was growing oppressive, making it hard to think or breathe.  "How are you liking your new home, Lorelei Hunt?  I hear that you have already come to visit us in Knockturn, so it seems that at least, you are getting out and about."

1.	Hebrew for "greenhouse"

While Aviad set up his candle display, Lorelei dragged one of the chairs out a few feet away from the table and took a seat. Paying no heed to the sweat on his brow, she flicked her wand at her own cloak to cast a cooling charm, then settled back again.

A hint of interest and curiosity lit her eyes as she looked over the deceptively simple arrangement. The jar, the candle, the marble and the foliage above reflected off the mirror. Sometimes the slower, more careful methods worked better. She knew that well from Leander, so for now, she'd wait and see what he could do.

Would he summon a soul, a spirit, a mere will-o'-wisp? If he summoned something darker, like a dementor, would he abandon his task? Could he defend himself?

Lore crossed her legs and tapped her wand against her knee. Watching. Waiting. Dementors didn't frighten her as much as they should, and the ward on the cellar in the cottage still held, which was all that mattered. She yawned, then smiled slowly at his grin.

Likely, Aviad had gotten this far in life on his good looks and a fair amount of charm. The sunlight glinting through the glass panes of the greenhouse highlighted a touch of gauntness in his face. Lorelei lifted her chin to the sun's warmth, confident in the healthy flush that the unicorn blood had given her.

"Do I like it out here? I'd like to burn the whole farm down and the meddlesome muggle neighbors with it," she clucked her tongue, mildly irritated at his constant use of her full name and more alarmed at the speed with which news had traveled in dingy little Knockturn.

"For now though, it serves a purpose. I can't complain about the wide open spaces, just the baggage of the house. I'm constantly tripping over the last owner's possessions."

Her smile had dimmed to a faint curving of her mouth, unable to resist the urge to make exaggerated (mostly) claims that might provoke a reaction. 

Meanwhile, she made plans to find Hermes later and seal his mouth shut. Aviad's use of 'us' gave her pause. 'Us' could mean Hermes, or Tawse, or Aviad's ghostly friends, or even Grimshaw's mysterious keeper.

"As for Knockturn, I had to see how it's changed for myself."

Lorelei glanced at him with almost as much interest as she'd looked at the ritual arrangement. "How do you find the neighborhood association, Aviad? Does it provide you with ample opportunity for growth?"

She mimicked Tawse's middle manager style of speaking, curious if Aviad would give anything away. He adorned himself in tattoos, in amulets, with ritual paraphernalia, and he'd left Knockturn, his local haunt, to find her. He didn't seem the type to work alone.

What was with all of these British mages and their grudge against Muggles?  Aviad clucked his tongue at the talk of burning, although he didn’t give any hint to the context of his gesture.  No wonder Tawse had liked this one — they probably had bonded over their desire to enslave Mugglekind, burn down their monuments, and then spend the rest of the day kicking puppies.

He chuckled at the mention of KABANA — after two years lurking around the Wizarding Blood Alliance on and off, he’d had time to learn about Tawse’s odd hobbies.

“Been a bit quiet recently, to be honest, but we have some big things planned for the near future.”  The mage flashed Lorelei Hunt a quick smile. “Bonfire celebrations.  Surprise parties for our favorite neighbors.  You know.”

The planning for December’s surprise was quietly coming together.  They still frustratingly had no word of what happened to their missing volunteer, although Aviad suspected that he’d either volunteered himself on the run out of London or into a Ministry holding cell.  Luckily, Tawse had taken precautions with all of the direwolf recruits to ensure that nothing would be spilled.

Wax was starting to drip from the candle, but there was still no sign of anything spirit-ish.  Aviad glanced at it for a moment, and then looked back at the sorceress.

“It sounds like you’ve caught the eye of the new management, though, Lorelei Hunt,” he said nicely.  “Cinaed Tawse sends his regards.”

Aviad maintained his composure and didn't seem truly bothered by her macabre talk. A point in his favor, though of course talk was talk and the real test was if he'd be able to stomach the horrors she inflicted on muggles and wixes and squibs alike. Mostly wixes and squibs these days. No one could say she was discriminatory.

This all depended on whether he could actually summon anything useful, and if she decided to work with him, and if he were a minion or an ally, and all those pesky details, of course.

She smiled, satisfied that she'd been right about his connections.

"I look forward to catching a whiff of whoever is getting roasted this time."

Lorelei's expression flattened for a moment at the idea of catching someone's eye. It didn't faze her. It would either work out or it wouldn't. She let out a breath slowly and lifted one shoulder, noting that he talked like someone who looked up to the new management.

"You are very quick to divulge full names, as if I don't know my own or as if I need a reminder of who Tawse is."

She spoke with an air of detached curiosity.

"What should I call you?" She paused, considering. "Aviad candlemaker," she gestured at the table where the candle flickered and the wax dripped.

"Hm. Aviad ward breaker sounds slightly more impressive. Aviad lucky I only scattered the stones."

She straightened a little in her seat, injecting enthusiasm into her tone, "Aviad soul catcher!"

A slight smile curved her mouth. She glanced up at the glass, and around, and up again at the sky, and settled back into her chair and affected disappointment.

"We'll see for that one. Have you sought counsel from Tawse too?" Lore asked without pause. "You are far from home."

Another drip of wax began to run down the candle.  Aviad kept an eye on it, careful not to jolt the table.  This was the trickiest part of working with spirits -- one might be able to predict if they'd cooperate, but when was often a mystery.

And now Lorelei Hunt was expressing her unhappiness that he hadn't shared his surname.  Aviad flashed her a quick smile, clearly amused.  It wasn't as if his full name was a secret, exactly -- Tawse and plenty of his comrades in Knockturn Alley knew it -- but names were important, particularly when one dabbled in summoning.  He didn't like give it out unless he had to.

"Aviad Winning-the-Hearts-of-British-Witches?" he suggested helpfully, giving her a wink.

Far from home.  Yes, he certainly was.  That was something he never forgot, although sometimes it seemed as if everyone around him did.

He shrugged, prodding at the edge of the table -- there were initials carved there in Latin script.  W.W. and L.W.  He couldn't help but wonder what had happened to their owners.

"Tawse and I share similar interests," he said after a beat.  "He has...concerns about the current order of things.  With a little encouragement, he has proven eager to step into the fray."  He glanced at the sorceress, flashing her a quick smirk.  "Not to mention, home is where the heart is, yeh?"

She grinned at his play on words, though her eyes remained devoid of feeling. Aviad no last name. She'd find out.

He sat there at the table, comfortable after their tense meet and greet, a mouse curled up in the paw of a lion. Should she have done more than scatter the stones? Perhaps, if his charm turned to cheek. Lorelei had time. She was curious to see where this would go, and for the moment, curiosity was safer for him than her boredom or paranoia.

Concerns. She snorted. Tawse acted like he'd happily leap into the fray if it meant disrupting the Ministry's plans. Aviad acted more like he'd make little hops into danger while clutching at his amulet. He didn't tell her much, but at least he was talking.

"Home is where we make our garden graveyards grow."

She looked out past the walls of glass and into the rundown fields. Someday.

"He must appreciate your dedication. To the correct order of things, to the disorder of life and death. Hogwarts doesn't teach candle tricks like yours."

She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to tell her more.

Candle tricks.  The mage flashed her a smirk.  British magic was all about waving wands and shouting.  There was no art to it, no patience.  They'd taught those sorts of spells at Beit Gaddol as well, but he'd always preferred the lazier sort of magic.  Ritual casting, with its careful preparations followed by long periods of waiting (and preferably napping), had always been a little bit more his speed.

The amulet around his neck flared suddenly with warmth, and he felt the twinge of the little arafel's voice in his head.  Blinking, he glanced up, catching sight of something out of the corner of his eye pressing against the nearest glass.

He pointed his wand at the door of the khamama and sent a gust of wind to blow it open.

"I would say that life is much more disorderly than death," he remarked, keeping a careful eye on the door.  He thought he saw something flit inside, but it was too fleeting to be certain.  "Death is much simpler.  The dead are driven by their most basic desires."  He cracked a grin.  "The dying, too.  At least when they get close enough to the edge."

Suddenly, something invisible darted past them towards the glass jar.  The glass marble shot into its center, letting the jar fall flat on the mirror with a click.  With a woosh, the flame on the orange candle winked out, and the small, round marble began to glow.

Aviad smiled.  He examined the set-up for a moment, and then reached to lift the jar.  He picked up the marble carefully, studying it as he pinched it between two fingers, and then tossed it up once and caught it. 

Smiling more broadly, he extended his hand to Lorelei Hunt.  The marble rested in the center of his palm.  Inside the translucent sphere, something smokey swirled and danced furiously, as if trying to break free of its new glass prison.

"One spirit returned," he said helpfully.  "Would you like me to try and catch you another?"