2
‘You look like a parti-coloured rain cloud,’ was Zareen’s comment upon my appearance at her door.
She has a little cupboard of a room in the west wing, sort of near the library. It stood empty for over a month while Zareen was off enduring — er, benefiting from — her own, post-mission treatment back at the School of Weird. If I’ve had a tough time of it lately, try talking to Zar. By the end of a certain few, chaotic weeks, she was half out of her wits and I hadn’t seen the whites of her eyes in a while.
She’s better now. I think.
‘I’m grumpy,’ I agreed, plopping down into the only unoccupied chair in Zareen’s tiny little room. I produced a few raindrops in illustration of my point, and they rained with cheerful greyness all over the faded crimson carpet.
‘Let me guess.’ She was lou
