“Enjoyment.” He had no need for scrying mirrors or crystal balls in order to see. He kept them around him out of an appreciation of tradition and a sense of aesthetics. It amused him to see her frown and squint at the tools of power.

There was something he wanted to give her, a small gift. He hadn’t forgotten the fleeting sadness he’d seen in her eyes when she’d told him she didn’t remember her father.

“Would you like to see?”

“See what?”

“To see,” he said gently, and walked to her. “Come.” He took the globe in one hand, her fingers in the other, and drew her back to the center of the room.

“I don’t really think—”

“Kneel.” He nudged her down with him. “Past or future, Mel? Which would you like?”

With a nervous laugh, she settled back on her heels. “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a turban?”

“Use your imagination.” He touched a hand to her cheek. “The past, I think. You prefer taking care of your own future.”

“You got that right, but—”

“Put your hands on the globe, Mel. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid.” She squirmed a little, let out a long breath. “It’s just a piece of glass. It’s weird, that’s all,” she muttered as she took the crystal. Sebastian put his hands under hers and smiled.

“My aunt Bryna, Morgana’s mother, gave me this ball as a christening gift. It was, for me, somewhat like training wheels on a bicycle.”

It was cool in her hands, smooth and as cool as lake water. “I had this ball when I was a kid. A black plastic one. You were supposed to ask it questions, then you could shake it and this writing would float up toward this opening. It usually said something like, answer unclear, try again.”

Again he smiled, finding her nerves endearing. The power was flowing into him, sweet as wine, easy as a spring breeze. This was a simple thing he would show her. “Look inside,” he said, and his voice echoed oddly in the small room. “And see.”

She was compelled to do so. At first she saw only a pretty ball with internal fractures glinting rainbows back at her. Then there were shadows, shadows within shadows, forms shifting, colors bleeding.

“Oh,” she murmured, for the glass was no longer cool, but as warm as a sunbeam.

“Look,” he said again, and it seemed his voice was inside her head. “With your heart.”

She saw her mother first, but young, so young, and brightly pretty, despite the heavy use of eyeliner and a lipstick several shades too pale. It was the laughter in her face that brought the prettiness through the cosmetics. Her hair was blond, shoulder-length, and straight as a pin. She was laughing at a young man in a white uniform, a sailor’s cap perched jauntily on his head.