Ithaca

— Good morning, darling. By the way, this is the last coffee I’m making for you.

Frey so Frey. Wedge drama into any line. To be fair, he’s had good teachers.

— If you were hoping those words would snap me awake, you think far too highly of me…

I cling to the cup, still half-asleep. Inhale. Another. The smell.

— I wasn’t hoping. I’ve known you more than a day. Only the coffee itself will wake you, and for that you’ll have to drink it first.

He sits down on the bed beside me and nips my ear.

— Frey, you ruthless show-off. And—no prophet at all. For this coffee to be the last, I’d have to be killed today, at the very least.

— Well, you are talented…

I sip, little by little. He’s probably laced it with some of his exclusive forest energy tonics. Or his exclusive elemental blood. Or something else. The coffee really does kick in—and judging by the sun over the windowsill, we fell asleep four hours ago, maybe five. Or it’s already the next day—but clearly not. If I dared sleep through a full day the boss would drag me back from the afterlife.

— I’m not getting killed today. Don’t plan to. Too much to do.

— That’s why I woke you. So…

He tries to nip my ear again; I dodge.

— …ruthlessly.

— And for the same reason I’m not going to interrogate you about those eschatological hints of yours. No time. But I won’t forget—don’t doubt it.

I dodge once more and kiss him first.

— And thank you for the coffee, love.

— I’m just lucky this blend hasn’t gone globally popular with billions of connoisseurs.

I take a second to unpack the joke and laugh. Obviously, part of it is that all of Ithaca doesn’t even have a million inhabitants, never mind coffee snobs. Well—technically, a local substitute.

It’s just that all this magic—actually, any magic—only works when it’s personal. Tuned to you and only you. Maybe a handful of people, a couple dozen at most. Magic for “billions of connoisseurs” would be diluted so far it wouldn’t pass for a homeopathic dose.

And “blend,” of course. Blend…

— Help me find where we flung our clothes last night.

— Not a chance. If I do, I won’t be able to resist, I’ll keep you here, and Previa will come tear my head off. And yours.

— She won’t. You’re a folkloric Elemental. Protected.

— Fine, then she’ll only tear yours off. And I’ll cry.

I answer by throwing pants at him.

— Don’t dramatize. I’ll just go meet this Special Envoy, hand him over to Previa, and that’s it, no longer my problem.

Alright, Marta. Lie, but don’t get carried away. It won’t be that simple—you know it. And it’s even good that it won’t be.

— So you won’t be able to make up for this last… screw-up of yours, you’ll be furious, you’ll lash out at people, at me, at sharp objects…

He pulls on his pants. I do the same—both pairs were in that heap.

— Well, sure, that’s exactly how it’ll go, and this coffee will indeed be the last. What’s so bad about that?

— Don’t joke like that. Some jokes, you know…

I kiss his ear again.

— Alright, alright. You’re getting awfully paranoid, don’t you think?

— After we had to piece your soul back together while you were chilling in a cocoon at the clinic? No, you know, I don’t think so…

He stands in front of me, a youthful Greek god of reproach and judgment, bust-up sculpture.

— …Because that is, imagine, exactly how it is!

I lift my hands in surrender.

— Alright, alright. You’re right, and I’m an irresponsible goof. I’ll stop joking and I solemnly swear to mend my ways!

— Don’t believe you.

— Well, to start mending them, at least.

— Marta, I may be a poor prophet, but that means I was wrong on timing, not on principle. And even if you come back here at night and in the morning I brew you something for a good day again, like always—I didn’t mean pre—

I hug him. Panicked child. Well, how else—every single one of Ithaca’s Elementals is still a child.

— Frey, let’s deal with problems as they arise. You wanted to be like humans—well, that’s a very human principle…

Doesn’t look like it got through to him—but there really is no time. I peck his cheek (otherwise we’ll be kissing for an hour) and dash out.

Luckily, the Limen—the Harbor of Souls—is two steps away. Well, not literally two, but close. The Harbor, as is proper, wasn’t just built, it was raised, fitted into the soil; and I still live in a regular house, on the surface.

I can’t afford to be late, but I have time. The Envoy arrives around six; I meet him and then—escort and facilitate. Not my favorite line of work, honestly. Not to mention Envoys from the Metropolis come with enough swagger and authority to cover the whole planet, and who has to solve the real problems that actually crop up? Marta, of course!

Alright, repeating myself: lie, but don’t get carried away. You needed this assignment, truly needed it. Half of Argus would kill to be in your place. Okay, a third. But the one who ended up here—never mind by what fair means or foul—is you. And you, of course, are smart and gorgeous, but honestly—Frey’s right. Botch this job and you’re done; retrain as a terraformer superintendent with no career prospects.

So I stuff my reluctance to be a “gofer-assistant” into… a rag, straighten the plastron at my throat, set my face to competent confidence, and push open the doors of the Limen Psyches.