Author's notes:

Had an interesting object lesson today. I was discussing the story with a friend in IM and bemoaning how the characters just popped into being. Well, actually, I was preening about how their personalities fleshed themselves out, how I can hear each one's slightly different 'voice' in terms of speech: syntax, grammar, colloquialisms and idioms. Then I was talking about how I had plans for them, but had to be ready to punt the plans if they characters didn't seem to 'write themselves' in that direction.

At that point, I bemoaned their absence of back-stories. We know that Sian and Evander knew each other since they were teens or earlier, how Sian protected Evander in middle school. We don't know much else about them, and nothing about Callan. He plays his cards too close to his vest. He has to have something to hide. I just haven't figured out what, yet.

Or at least, at the start of that IM conversation, I hadn't. Often, when I'm talking with someone, ideas spring forth. I suspect that when I'm alone, I spend too much brain-power in saying to myself, "I can't think my way out of this," more than in actually thinking my way out of this. I guess it's like someone with a flat tire wasting energy and time screaming to the heavens why the tire is flat, instead of actually changing the tire.

When I'm talking to someone else, I have to focus my thoughts on the ideas, the dilemmas. I very well can't say to the other person, "I can't think my way out of this" twenty times, can I? (Those of you who have had to put up with me doing just that, shut it. ;) I love you, but I mean it.)

Long story short, while talking in IM, we (not just me, it was a collective effort) came up with much background for the characters. I suspect I was 'foaming at the mouth' a bit much; my cohort had to reel me in and tell me to not fixate on the back-stories.

Thus, the object lesson: what holds true for future planning also holds true for thinking of histories -- don't get too in love with a particular 'long view.' Be ready to drop-kick a plot arc, either to spring on the characters, or to recount from their histories, if that arc doesn't fit the story or the characters.

I guess, to extend the metaphor of "walking through the forest, guided by a star, but looking at the ground immediately in front of you," this also warns against trying to walk even a straight path while looking back to your origin point.

No matter how straight it looks to you, the further back it is, the more off-course even a fraction of a degree will put you. Or, to apply it directly to writing this story, I'll let the future and the past both tell themselves in time.

Until then, I'm just writing a chapter at a time. Such as now.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



Ressa, Ceili and Sian stopped once they rounded the block. Two coffee-houses offered shelter, so they chose the local one over the nation-wide chain. After ordering, they milled around in the corner, hoping to grab one of the many tables. Many tables, but more patrons, so they waited. Sian eyed the pricey mugs and even pricier blends. "I can't believe people pay for that."

Ceili looked out the window. "You mean to take Power, or for the thrall?"

"Wha..." Sian couldn't finish even that single word.

Ressa hushed Ceili with a soft, but firm look. "Not us, love. Not us. That's why we're companions. I'm Locke's Other. You know what that means, right?"

Sian nodded. Ceili hugged her and said softly, "You've Claimed Callan as much as he's Claimed you. He won't sell or trade you off."

Ressa hugged them both, putting her her head into their huddle. "Trust me. I've been with Locke fifty years so far, and he's never, never ever gave me that vibe."

"Fifty years?" Sian drew back her head to take in Ressa. The girl, 'No, woman,' Sian corrected herself, the woman was slender of face and body, with high cheekbones over her mocha hued skin. Her eyes glowed a soft brown, infusing Sian with warmth, a feeling of care and love. Her hair, the colour of midnight, she straightened and let bob above her shoulder, but the natural curl caused it to cup in on itself just a bit. No lines played across her face, not near the eyes, not near the mouth. Her skin was moist, supple. She looked in her mid-twenties. Thirty, at most, Sian would have guessed.

Ceili grinned. "How old d'you think I am, Sian?"

"Uh... uh, you look mid-thirties?" Sian was being kind. She looked a decade older, and her face bore testament to many, many smiles.

"I won't say how old exactly, but I witnessed Locke Claim Ressa. And I was already with Brank for about as long as Ressa has spent now with her man." Another smile creased her eyes, but Sian saw more beauty in it than anyone else, Lavender included.

"Callan never told you this, love?"

"No... He, uh, Claimed me last night."

"Oh, wonderful" Ceili unhanded Sian and clapped silently, head tilting side to side.

"How may years did he court you before this?"

"Uh," Sian cringed at saying that again, but her mind tried to grasp it all. "Two days?" Her eyes pleaded with the other two women, terrified that she committed some horrible gaffe.

"Who ordered the lattacino?" The barista stayed Sian's embarrassment, but for good or ill she wasn't sure.

===

The silence held until a nearby table freed itself from its occupants. At their insistence, Sian sat first. As she wove between the maze of chairs and people and tables and cups, she caught Ceili's "You didn't," and Ressa's "How else were we going--," the rest lost to a stuttering hiss from the chromed machinery behind the counter.

Sian addressed the cups on the table, not their owners. "I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for, but I feel like I've done or said something terribly wrong."

"Oh, love, don't be silly." Ressa's hand cooled Sian's glowing cheek. "It's not you. Callan's usually so ..."

"Methodical." Ceili offered. "He's usually very composed and, uh, organized. It's just not like him to jump into this."

Sian tried to see herself in the white froth atop the cop. Or see anything. Just not their eyes. "So it was a mistake. He made a mistake with me."

Ceili's hand was warmer, soft but with character. To Sian, it felt like a supple glove, a little thicker than she expected, but welcome in warmth, in texture. "Callan doesn't make mistakes, dear. Or hasn't, not since--oh!"

Only because Ressa's hand was still on Sian's face did she feel the momentary tensing, which she surmised was Ressa somehow interrupting Ceili. She put her hand atop Ressa's slender, almost bony fingers, then gently worked her fingers under and lovingly let them spread over hers as their hands floated down to the wobbly table. "Ressa, Ceili. I am pronouncing it right, right?" She saw the affirming nod, and smiled back. "I know you both have known him for years. And years." She gave a tight, bittersweet smile. "Be honest with me, please. Is this just going to hurt in the end?"

Ressa and Ceili exchanged a weighted glance. After what seemed like an imaginary coin toss, Ceili inhaled. "I've never known Callan to have a companion, an Other. Brank spoke of..." She looked to Ressa, who stared momentarily at her, then composed her face back to her usual pacific smile. Ceili nodded, swallowed. "Brank sometimes spoke of his last Other, Chella. But that was before he and I met."

Ressa nodded. "Locke didn't even say that much. Said that Callan was missing her, hadn't taken another companion since she, uh, died."

Sian whispered. "For over a hundred years."

===

"Looks like they're still holding court. Let's head this way, ladies." Ressa flashed her smile, tipping her head away from the bar.

Ceili tugged on Sian's elbow. She nodded and followed. The warmth of the coffee gave way to dusk's slight chill, exacerbated by a gradual layering of fog, damp and cold.

Ceili saw her shudder. "Sian, want to finish off my Italiano? It's too much for me."

Ressa sat down on a park bench. Between drifts of fog, Sian saw it was a postage stamp of a park, a grassy parking lot with a scattering of young trees and a pair of benches, each paired with an old cast-iron street-lamp.

Sian accepted Ceili's paper tumbler, pried the lid off and breathed in the rich, dark smell. She described a slow, tight circle with the bottom of the cup, luxuriating in the warmth splashing against her fingers, palm and thumb.

"That's not how you do it, love. Here, let me show you."

Without much conscious thought, Sian passed the coffee to Ressa's outstretched hand.

"See, you make a much smaller circle, so it's just barely a dent in the liquid." She smiled at Sian, and Sian was glad they had something to talk about other than Callan, other than her. Their eyes held each other, reassured each other. Ressa continued, but her heart was elsewhere. "Then, if there's a bulge or something looks like it's disturbing the flow--"

Ceili waved her hand between them. "Like that. Ressa, lesson later. En garde, now."