Germaine and I rest up in the room until just before 5:00 pm. At that point, we head downstairs to the hotel lobby. There are at least fifty people already present, milling about in fine clothing. Germaine and I take one look and head right back up to our room.

“They just said that we were going to a winery...” Germaine grumbles, rummaging through a suitcase. “I don’t think I brought enough fancy clothing, damn it.”

“Germaine, we’re going to miss the shuttle.”

“That’s easy for you to say! You can wear the same jacket and pants and just need to change your shirt and tie...”

I roll my eyes. “Forget about the shuttle. I’ll get us there regardless.”

She turns around. “Oh, really?”

“Yep.”

She laughs. “Fine then. You know, the itinerary didn’t say when festivities at the winery would begin. It just said that a shuttle would bring people around 5:00 pm.”

“There must be at least three different shuttles leaving around 5:00 pm,” I conclude. “There’s no way a single shuttle could fit everyone.” I take out my glossY and conduct a search on the location of the winery. The winery is located on the opposite side of the Zimbadi river, which flows from Lake Kaspar into Menocht Bay. It’s about a thirty minute shuttle ride away, I reckon.

“Just pick one of your dresses; we can go shopping for another tomorrow, during the rehearsal dinner.”

“I know, I know...” she grabs a teal dress and runs into the bathroom. She comes out a minute later. “How is it?”

“Perfect.” Germaine is a naturally tall, slender person. The dress is simple, but flattering.

At this point, it's a few minutes past five. There’s a good chance that we could make one of the shuttles still, so Germaine and I hurry down. Like I thought, there’s still a large group of people standing around chatting. A line-of-sorts stretches from the lobby through the door and outside.

“You know,” I murmur. “We could go another way.”

“Oh really? By what, bone wyrm?”

I chuckle. “Nothing so pretentious. Let’s get out of here, first.”

We arrive on the street. I walk with Germaine over to the docks, eventually leading her into some tall grass and a rocky embankment with a “Dangerous – No Trespassing” sign.

“I feel like a naughty child,” she says, giggling as we step on slick rocks. “Where are we going?”

I lead her around to a small protected cove.

“Are those...?”

I nod. “Let’s go down. Don’t struggle.”

Germaine lets out a small scream as I levitate the two of us down. We touch down on the beach, Germaine’s heels immediately sinking into the sand. She kicks them off and pulls up the hem of her shin-length dress. She bends down and peers at a large turtle resting on a rocky outcrop.

“I know you like turtles,” I say, beaming.

“Ian, they’re tortoises, but yes, I like them!”

Tortoises? Really?

“What did you do to me back there, though? It felt like I was a kitten being grabbed by the scruff of the neck. Except rather than localized to my neck, the feeling was everywhere.”

“I grabbed your body,” I say. “And I moved it.”

“I thought decemancers could only move dead things,” she mutters as she walks over to another tortoise.

I scratch my head. “It’s more difficult to move things that are alive, but it’s possible. There’s a thread of death in everything.”

“You know, that’s one of the wisest things you’ve ever said.”

I burst out laughing. “Funny. Very funny.”

I’m suddenly overcome by an acute feeling of loss. No matter how much I want this to be real...it isn’t. This isn’t really Germaine. She won’t remember any of this.

I’m in the loop. I’m not here to have fun: I’m here to escape. Which brings me back to the issue of the moment: what is the point of this layer of the loop? I highly doubt it’s like the school loop layer, forcing me to restrain my practice to evade detection. For that reason, I’m willing to risk taking Germaine on a little adventure.

“Let’s go,” I exclaim, gesturing for Germaine to come over. She comes to my side and gives me an expectant look. I point at the water. “Watch carefully.”

Shells churn up the surface of the water like white and brown bubbles, drifting into the air. I form them into a solid platform complete with a small bone railing. I move the platform over to us and gesture for Germaine to step aboard.

She does so without hesitation, her sandy, bare feet meeting jagged shell. She doesn’t complain, and is soon leaning against the bone railing. As we begin to pick up speed, her hair streams across her face, her high bun starting to get messy and windswept.

“This is amazing,” she says, sighing and leaning even further over, as though trying to dip her fingers into the ocean’s spray. “Just incredible.”

We follow the coastline down until the Zimbadi river. At that point, the winery vineyard is in sight, and I disassemble the platform into shells. Germaine walks beside me, heels held in her hands.

“Let me wash my feet quickly.” She bends down and puts her feet in the river, its languid current stripping them of any sandy grits. She stands up, then saunters over to a stone pathway, high-kicking her feet as she goes as though to dry them. Feet properly dried, she hops in place as she slips one shoe on her left foot, then the right.

Sometimes, it’s easy to doubt that Germaine is actually twenty-five.

I take her arm and lead her through the winery path. Around us lay weeping willow trees, an out-of-place species when compared to nearby palm trees and tropical flowers. But their sinuous branches drape elegantly into a series of shallow pools lining the path leading up to the winery.

We hear the sounds of festivities before we reach the winery’s back gates. Music from a live ensemble plays in the background, while the chatter of at least one-hundred people fills the evening air. It’s nearly 5:45 pm, but the sun is still high in the horizon, and likely won’t set until after seven.

The atmosphere is markedly different from Sylvestri’s decemancer get-together. I give Germaine’s hand a squeeze. “Ready to go in?”

She smirks and rolls her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to meet this half of the family.” Still, she’s the one who takes the first step forward to knock on the unattended gate. It opens shortly after.

An attendant dressed in servile black robes peaks out, holding a platter of shrimp. “Excuse me?” He sounds perplexed. “Can I help you?”

I look to Germaine, then look back.

“We’re here for the party,” she says, smiling. “We took a scenic route up to the winery.”

The server nods slowly in understanding. “Go around to the right and follow the side trail to the main entrance. They’re strict about letting in only those who have been invited, so I’m afraid I can’t let you in here.”

We nod our understanding.

“Thank you,” Germaine says, smiling. The door shuts, and we’re left to find our way to the main entrance. Like the server said, the side path winds up and around the perimeter of the winery. The winery grounds are quite large, but before long we spot a fast-moving line of people before an ornate wrought-iron gate. The two guards heading the queue attend to their glosspads, likely checking off names from a guest list. Germaine and I walk over to the back of the line and wait.

The contingent of five in front of us are involved in a spirited conversation and pay us no mind. However, a few seconds later, a group of three moves into place behind us. It appears to be a family, with two aged parents and an adult son, who looks to be around our age.

“And who is this lovely lady?” the older man behind us says, beaming. Germaine and I turn around. “You look absolutely stunning in that dress.”

The man in question looks quite good himself, a veritable silver fox. His wife, too, is attractive and slender, fitting into a silvery cocktail dress. Their son rolls his eyes, as though trying to mask his embarrassment.

“Hello,” Germaine says, bowing her head slightly. “The name’s Germaine Artemis Dunai.” She gives me a look, as though suggesting that maybe I should introduce myself.

I cough and say, “And I’m Ignatius Julian Dunai.”

“Ah, so siblings,” the woman says, matching her husband’s smile. “And with the Dunai name, though I can’t say I recognize either of you.”

“We’re distant relatives of the bride,” Germaine explains, smiling gently. “And what are your names, if I might ask?”

The woman replies, “I am Rosa Lisandra, and these are Felix Ronaldo and Matteo Vero, surnamed Clavicelli.” She indicates first her husband, then her son.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say politely. “And what is your relationship to the bride?”

Felix replies, “Rosa is a cousin of Marcus Adricaius.”

Germaine and I share a small look of understanding. If Rosa is related to Marcus as a cousin, it’s possible that she is directly related to Father. Of course, she could be a cousin on the other side of Marcus’ family.

“Do you by any chance know a late Demetrius Dunai?” Germaine probes.

Rosa’s face twitches. “Demetrius...why?”

“Just curious,” Germaine says, letting the matter drop. “Or do you know a Julia Verina Dunai?”

“Aunty Julia’s a slut,” Matteo murmurs under his breath, giving us a look.

So we are related directly, I realize. Though from that comment, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.

Rosa gives her son the stink eye. “We’re familiar with Julia. Why?”

“Well,” Germaine says. “She’s our aunt.”

Rosa’s eyes narrow, as though she’s starting to put the pieces together. “Y’jeni, you’re Demetrius’ children, aren’t you?” This statement seems to arouse the interest of the young Clavicelli.

“We are indeed,” Germaine says, still smiling. She shoots me a look, and I realize it’s because I have dropped my own smile. I take in a resigned breath and plaster a polite expression onto my face.

“The two of you seemed to have grown up well,” Felix states, as though trying to diffuse the slight tension.

“Julian recently graduated from Academia Hector at the top of his class,” Germaine says proudly.

“In what field of study?” Felix asks, eyes bright with genuine curiosity. I can tell that he has no idea where his unfortunate question is going. Anyone who knows of the Demetrius scandal would also know the shame of his children. Felix, for better or worse, seems wholly ignorant.

As though sensing my own reticence, Germaine continues unabashed: “Glossy programmatics.”

Felix keeps smiling, but he looks confused, as though waiting for some other answer.

Germaine and I decided to keep my decemancy under wraps, at least for the time being. Outing me now would cause no small stir, and without having a better idea of the purpose of the loop, might be contrary to our ultimate purposes.

I look over at Germaine. “Germaine is a professional artist,” I explain, pivoting the conversation’s focus. “She has a successful studio in Gent City, even though she’s only twenty-five.” Germaine being labeled an artistic prodigy as an adolescent was what shielded her from the bulk of Mother’s ire. Mother’s son, on the other hand, while bright, was no genius, nor was he talented in any of the disciplines appreciated by high society. Utterly disappointing.

“Oh, how excellent!” Felix says, nodding excitedly. Art is something he should be familiar with.

I look off to the side while the parents inquire about Germaine’s artwork and studio. The young Matteo soon fills my vision, his arms crossed against his chest.

“Isn’t this party really something?” he says, smirking. “Over two-hundred attendees to the winery alone. I hear the wedding reception will have over five-hundred in attendance.”

It’s quite the show of wealth, I’ll give him that. “It’s an honor to be invited,” I reply. I don’t particularly want to converse with someone who called Aunt Julia a slut.

“I apologize for my comment earlier,” he says suddenly. “Julia offended my parents a few years back, refused to...help them with an important task. Their resentment has trickled into me over time.”

I cock my head. Why the apology? “And what kind of practitioner are you?” I ask.

“Sun,” he replies. “Before you ask, I’m not an elementalist.”

Unlucky. Not nearly as unlucky as to be born without any affinity, but unlucky all the same. Sun practitioners, while lauded elementalists, flounder outside of combat. I know that those with Sun affinity have some kind of ability to influence plants and light, but that they’re outshone by both Light and Life practitioners.

“Wasn’t going to ask.”

“What’s it like?” he asks suddenly.

“What’s what like?”

“Growing up in this family as a non-practitioner.”

I snort indignantly. “Exactly as you might expect.”

“I guess that’s why I’ve never seen you at any family functions.”

“Name?”

I turn around, startled to find that we’ve reached the top of the line.

“Germaine Artemis, and Ignatius Julian, surnamed Dunai.”

The rightmost guard makes a scrolling motion with his finger, then taps the glosspad screen twice. “Go on in.”