Henri grabbed her hand, as if hoping to ground her to the moment, not wanting her mind to fly away to the things beyond their control this night. Sophie let his hand stay there; she knew he felt better with their palms touching but knew it did nothing for her.

"Not you, Emel. Her." Miora's voice brought Sophie back to the moment better than Henri's hand ever could. Emel looked at her companion, and a smile spread across her face generously.

"Oohhhh I knew you came for a reason, Sophie," Emel said serendipitously. "Go on, don't make her wait."

Sophie walked the few feet toward Miora in the crowded wagon. Looking more closely she saw jars filled with herbs and roots. Yellow candles poured a soft glow over the curved ceiling. Incense burned on the table, emanating the musky smell of sandalwood. It was the sort of space that saw shadows, not just in the walls, but also in the crevices of your heart. Sophie's lungs continued to warn her as she struggled to take a breath. It was the sort of space that made a strong girl much more vulnerable than she'd like to be.

"Sit, girl, and hold out your hands," Miora's hazy voice caused the three of them to lean in to understand. Sophie obeyed.

Her soft, under worked hands, were laid out on the table, palms up. Sophie heard her mother's voice in the back of her head, the daily incantations of prayer and supplication. The daily heeding that Sophie wasn't doing what she should. "Shoulds" were the backdrop of her life. Sophie forever failed to be the girl she was supposed to be. Being here now would cause her mother to cry. She would light a candle to the Saints, begging Sophie to leave these fringe people in the wagon, beg her to be a decent girl.

Pushing the voice away Sophie looked stoically in Miora's eyes. Eyes that saw beyond and between.

"What is it?" Sophie asked curiously. This was new to her; people didn't single her out, unless it was to scold. She only had to think back to the years in the schoolhouse where her hands were slapped with rulers and she washed blackboards while classmates chased one another frivolously in the field. Sophie had a knack for breaking rules. She never understood the secret language required by the ones who played by them.

"Hush, you are thinking too much," Miora purred, as she slowly rolled her head from side to side.

Henri snickered behind her.

"Shut up, Henri," she hissed.

Miora ignored the two friends, and focused on her art.

"Emel, gather my stones."

Emel moved swiftly to a cupboard, opened it, and produced a small yellow, cloth bag. The Boheme girl carried it to them and set it upon a table covering Sophie hadn't noticed it until now. In the center of the tablecloth there was a design with five points, and resembled the silhouette of diamond. The bottom point, centered straight at Sophie.

Before Sophie or Henri had a chance to ask what the stones she requested were for, Miora began to explain.

"I have moonstones around my neck, and they warm when someone is near who needs a reading. Feel this, child," Miora grabbed Sophie's hands from across the table and pressed them to the stone necklace.

Sophie pulled away, immediately, and rubbed her palms together.

"It's on fire," she said, raising her eyebrows at the old woman. Disbelief was written across Sophie's face.

"So it is. Yet you are cold."

Sophie swallowed, discomfort grabbing hold of her. She wanted an adventure tonight, but she didn't understand the power of the travelers she sought.

"Stones have existed longer than you or I. The king your village serves has claimed what was never his. See, the stones were here, buried in the earth's hills, long before man walked on the mountains. Before kings ruled the countryside."

"I know gemstones are old. I'm not sure what that has to do with me, or your hot moonstone," Sophie said.

"You have a connection with the stones, I feel it even now. This yellow bag has twenty-two stones within it, the stones I have mined from the earth myself. These stones were the ones drawn to me, and I to them, and now, they are drawn to you. The shift is in the air, do you feel it?"

Emel's bright eyes flitted about the room, as if she was grasping to find a change in the air. Henri looked nervously at Sophie, keeping his eyes on the girl he came with.

"Sophie, you doing okay? You seem like you've seen a ghost," Henri asked quietly, leaning to her ear. She shook her head quickly, as if thinking longer on his question would cause her to reconsider.

"Does she see ghosts?" Miora asked Henri.

"No, but they would probably be friends. Sophie has always had, how do you say it ... a problem getting along ... with people." Henri smiles at his own joke, the serious tone Miora had didn't affect him.

"A shift?" Sophie asked, bringing the group back to the stones. "What do you mean?"

"The stones connect to us, if we let them. You were called to me tonight, my stones called you. Perhaps that is why our band of travelers is here in the first place. So the stones can speak to you."

Sophie leaned into the table, slightly. Biting her lip, she asked, hesitantly, "What do they say?"

"That is where the reading comes in. I will have you draw five stones from the bag, and you will set them on a corner of this diamond, starting in the lower left, moving clockwise. The stones you draw will tell us a story. The story you need to hear."

"You believe in this, these readings?" Henri asked, Emel. It was clear he did not. Arms crossed and smirking at the table, he looked like he was having fun. It wasn't serious to him; he didn't feel the shift in the air like Miora did. Like Sophie did.

"Of course I do. Miora is the wisest woman I know. She leads our caravans, by telling us the safest routes to travel. She is never wrong. I am lucky to be her protege."

Sophie looked at Henri, knowing he felt this was all a joke, and maybe it was. It was still the thrill they were looking for when they crept in the forest tonight. It was still better than sitting at some meaningless cafe listening to boring people discuss monotonous things.

"After my reading can you do Henri's?" she asked Miora.

"No, my child. I only read when the stones tell me to. Now draw." She said this as if her life depended on it, and by the way she was rubbing the moonstone, perhaps she was.

Emel took her cue and picked up the bag from the table, untied the cord, and held it out to Sophie. Sophie put her hand inside and swirled at the gemstones.

It was difficult to feel for a specific stone. Sophie had few opportunities to hold gems more precious than the jasper in Henri's pocket. She never had gems of her own, why would she without a job? Her mother had a modest savings chest she garnered from her earnings from various jobs. She stored them with the small monthly stipend of gems she received from the king. Compensation for losing her husband, Sophie's papa, in the mines.

Sophie closed her eyes, and clasped her fingers around a stone, drawing it out. Miora's eyes widened at the sight of the gem in Sophie's hand. Sophie didn't know the significance.

"Place the Agate here," Miora pointed to the first point. "The first stone represents the emotions involved in your problem. You drew The Fool."

"And that means...?" Sophie asked, her guard flaring, a Fool couldn't mean anything good.

"Emel, explain," Miora prompted her assistant.

"Umm, well ... The Fool means imbalance, pride, ego ... waste." Emel didn't want to meet Sophie's eyes; she looked at Henri awkwardly instead.

Disclosing her annoyance admitted The Fool was spot on. So she kept her red lips in a straight line and proceeded to dip her hand back in the bag and produce another gem. Miora indicated the corner to place it.

"The second stone indicates obstacles you must face, ones you may not yet be aware of." Miora leaned back with her eyes shut, taking in the moment. "You drew The Chief. The white topaz stone represents captivity and abandonment."

The words hung in the air, and Miora locked eyes with Sophie, looking inside her, as if trying to reach for something.

"Well, that's silly," Sophie stated, blocking the moment from penetrating her. "I am clearly not captive. I came here on my own."

"Draw again," Miora requested.

This time Sophie did it with an exaggerated swell of the stones. She fished loudly, her way to avoid reflecting on Miora's words. She drew a fossilized fern.

"This point represents the foundation of the problem and the fossil is for Rebirth. It could mean childbirth, or some reversal of outcome."

"That means nothing to me. I have no problems with childbirth. I'm not with child and don't want to reverse that," Sophie said, louder than necessary for this small room.

"It's okay, Sophie, no one said that. It's just for fun, remember?" Henri tried to reassure her, but Sophie's eyes were hardened. She wasn't enjoying this game.

"It is not just for fun, boy. Sophie, where were you born?" Miora asked, her voice quieter as she focused on the answer.

"I was born here, and I've always lived here. With my parents, until my papa died, five years ago."

"Actually, you moved here when you were a baby, Sophie," Henri corrected.

"What are you talking about?" Sophie asked.

"No, I just think I've heard my mother tell yours how they moved here when you were a wee babe. Of course you wouldn't remember." Henri smiled not realizing this information was news to Sophie.

"Why wouldn't you tell me that?"

"Tell you what? I thought you'd know. Why would I say, 'By the way, Sophie, you weren't born in this village?'?"

An uncomfortable moment passed, where the two friends looked at one another, and felt a shift. Not the kind Miora felt. Something between them alone, where they realized maybe they had more secrets then they thought.

"Draw again," Miora said, breaking the pause.

The fourth corner represented Sophie's thoughts on the matter. Sophie pulled meteorite from the bag.

"Meteorite is The Star stone. For you it means travel."

"Well, Sophie is planning on leaving for the mines," Henri scoffed.

"Shut it. It was just an idea. It wasn't carved in stone." Sophie didn't like her thoughts thrown back at her, and she certainly didn't like the idea of her plans meshing with this stone reading. A reading she was growing agitated with. She wanted an evening filled with champagne and mockery. Not anything serious.

"Are you going to the mines, child?" Miora asked this pensively.

"I don't know what I'm doing." Sophie licked her lips and pulled the final stone from the bag, setting it on the point facing her.

The gemstone was smooth to touch, but had a sharp edge to it. It was one she recognized. It was in the tresor chest at home, and worth more than all the others her mother had saved. It was a slender piece of amber, warm with yellow tones across the surface, and a trace of darker orange on the perimeter. It calmed Sophie to see something she recognized.

When she looked up and saw Miora's clouded grey eyes become clear, and Emel's hand held to her mouth in shock, she knew she was wrong about the calming properties she thought she saw.

"What is it?" Sophie asked evenly, trying to be like the smooth amber before her.

"The fifth corner represents the final outcome," Emel recited, as though she had worked hard on memorizing the points.

"And amber ... what does it mean?"

Miora hands clutched the moonstone at her neck. She looked at Sophie with trepidation before she answered.

"Death."

Tamsin Provence de Fronteire, Gemmes She woke with a start. The piercing screams of the dark-haired girl with ruby red lips haunted not only at night, but also her naps, apparently. The visions had grown worse as each day she crept closer toward the day of the girl's eighteenth year. The screams called for help. Tamsin tried to ignore them.

In her sleep she constantly replayed the night her life changed nearly eighteen years earlier, She stepped in the queen's chamber with trepidation in her heart. She wasn't to be here, a forbidden soul like all devins-guerisseurs. Sentenced to death if caught like all cunning folk behind her. She was the last of her kind, and she was here anyway.

The king had summoned her.

The wailing from the bed took her breath away. Turning her head toward the cry, she saw the queen. A babe herself not twenty years of age, yet a full belly, distended with the king's heir. Tamsin and the queen were nearly the same age, yet what different lives these two had lived.

The midwife Aimee, who had told the king where to find help, moved toward Tamsin.

With whispers she spoke, and Tamsin absorbed her words, "The queen's in distress. The baby hasn't descended; it's held this way for hours. I'm out of ideas, short of slicing open the queen."

Tamsin nodded her head slowly, knowing she had no choice but to help. She didn't want to be here and she hated Aimee for revealing who she was to the Palace. It was a death sentence. The king would kill her if she didn't try. The king and queen were not known for their generosity. They were known as the most ruthless pair ever to rule Gemmes.

She opened the satchel slung over her strong shoulders. "Give her this potion. She will deliver the babe within minutes." Tamsin handed the small bottle to Aimee and everything changed for Gemmes, and for her.

The day had turned to night while she slept in the chair, and her fire needed rekindling. She stood from her comfortable seat and took a hand full of sticks to the fire to fan the dying flames.

Heading in the kitchen, she started brewing tea for her soon-to-arrive company. She knew they were coming before they knocked on her heavy wooden door. She set her kettle on the stove, after filling three mugs with boiling water in preparation for them. The aroma of anise and mint saturated the air as the leaves expressed their secret smells.

Tamsin loved these visits. Even though she knew Remy could never give her what she wanted, and that Tristan was prone to reckless living, she cared not. They were connected regardless of how Tristan behaved at the Auberge, she easily dismissed his youthful behavior. For she had promised his mother, years before, that she would always keep her eye out for him. Little did she know that her eye would become her heart. She would do anything for Tristan. Anything for Tristan and Remy.

"Tamsin?" Tristan called, after a heavy knock. He swung open the door, not waiting for her to answer. He didn't know much about patience. No one required it of him.

"Come sit, have some tea," Tamsin spoke gently to him, in the motherly way she was used to. Although Tamsin was merely thirty-eight years old to Tristan's eighteen, she knew there was a large divide between the two that a few decades would never cross, no matter how close they were to being a make-shift family. Tamsin had secrets. Tristan was an open book.

"Thank you, my dearie," he leaned over and kissed her cheek. Tristan was a tall and handsome man. His parents would be proud to see him so grown, had they lived to see him past the age of ten.

Thankfully his Uncle Remy was there at the sea that day when the oceans current carried them both away. Tristan's naivety was swept away with them that summer day, turning him into a man with nothing to lose having already lost the most precious thing.

"I'm not alone. Uncle Remy is here." Tristan pointed out the door, and the silhouette of a man Tamsin knew stood behind him.

"I know, Tristan. You forget so quickly that I can see the unseen." Tamsin held out her hand, for Remy, guiding him to the warmth of the living room. He grabbed onto it, as she led him to the chair he always sat in when he was in her home. Over a month had passed since Tamsin had seen Remy, and he didn't look well. "How are you feeling?" Tamsin asked, sitting in another old worn chair by the fire. Her cottage was more than modest; it was meager. Garlic ropes hung from the rafters, jars lined bookshelves with concoctions, spices dried in bundles on an abandoned clothesline over the fire.

Sage burned earlier and the dusty smell lingered in the air. It felt like healing magic. It felt like home.

"Not well. My cough is getting worse. I wanted to stay in the Auberge in the Southern Montage, but Tristan insisted I come to you. He thought it foolish of me to stay unattended."

"That was good of you," Tamsin smiled at Tristan, who carried their steaming mugs.

"The least I can do for this old man," Tristan joked, his half smile pulled up, for just a moment. The way it did every time he tried to hide his fear. He couldn't hide much from Tamsin, she knew him too well.

"He's not so old, only a handful of years older than me. He has lots of life yet. He just needs my remedies more often. Daily, not monthly." Tamsin spoke to these two casually, knowing the real reason they were here.

Clues.

She knew, but she didn't care. For whatever reason she was able to help them in their quest with the simple leadings of her heart. She would have an inkling to where the next stone was located when in Tristan's presence, and his alone. The things she shared, the directions, guided them. She was happy to help; someday she might share in the tresor Remy promised her. Not that she wanted the wealth the gems might offer, she wanted to be there with Remy, with Tristan. The closet thing she had to a family.

Tamsin cared little for the promise of tresor; her aim was to do whatever good she could with her magic. She had already done so much evil.

"We were hoping he might stay here, Tamsin. He is too weak to go with me."