The maps had been studied, and then studied some more. They had transcribed all of Pellinore’s notes onto places on the map; John-Wayne had had some surprising insights. She forgot, sometimes, that her Kept were usually very bright young men. It was the young, really, especially now that they were younger than her sons.
The bags had been packed, the wagon loaded with everything they might need (within reason. She was learning to pack within reason; that was an interesting lesson), and the crew had been informed where she was going (as much as she knew) and how long she expected to be gone. She’d kissed Gaheris and Howard and hugged everyone else, and now she stood on the front of the wagon, and pulled.
Her power had evolved over the years, from age and experience and near-constant use. Asking it simply, Where is the elder Grigori called The Archive was almost an insult to its nuance.
But that’s what she asked, because that was what she needed at the moment. The Hawthorn Cup itself could not be found with magic, or, at least, not without more information. Her first three tries had found them… well, hawthorn cups. Not quite the same thing at all.
Her power came back with an answer, of course. North. North and Up.
Up? North first, the northern pull was stronger. “We go that way.” She pointed the direction, and Pellinore guided the team of horses down the road.
“What if the Grigori doesn’t want to talk to us?” John-Wayne was far less into this quest than his father; no big surprise there.
“Then we ask very nicely.” Cynara smiled, and noticed that both of the men shuddered.
Well, she supposed, they had reason to know her.
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