Lucia pored over her library of medical texts and journals, looking for even the slightest of clues, anything that could shed some light on one of her more perplexing--and worrying--cases. The patient was dying. If she was unsuccessful and could not find an answer soon, Lucia feared there would be another star in the sky any day. Nothing in her library, whether it be mammoth-sized textbooks, medical journals from the best healers and physicians in all of Western history, or her own substantial notes, proved to be of any use. Whenever she believed to have stumbled onto a lead, her efforts always ended with the same questions she had begun with. Bluntly, she was wasting her time.

Rubbing exhaustion and frustration from her eyes, Lucia leaned back and stretched, slumping in her chair. Her desk was pilled so high with books and papers that she couldn't even see her crossbow, never mind her date book. She knew that both were underneath there somewhere, and there was some chance that she could find them again before the spring, but that chance was slim at best.

Sighing, Lucia resigned to hunt for her crossbow in the evening; she had been without it far too long. An hour without her weapon made her anxious; an afternoon, uneasy; a night, threatened. There had been a time when she had despised weapons of any sort, would do anything, in fact, to avoid them, but her brush with death had taught her, among other things, that she could only rely on herself to ensure her safety. Unfortunately, her powers of sorcery had, in the end, been insufficient to guarantee her continued existence. Only chance, divine intervention, had saved her life.

Rising from her chair, Lucia donned her trench coat and left her study in search of her ever-comfortable bed. Despite her wish to assimilate into the society of Caperow, Lucia persisted in her Eastern style of dress. The choice wasn't in any way a conscious decision--it just seemed the only style which suited her. Everywhere she went, Lucia was dressed in black from head to toe, whether it be her t-shirt, jeans, trench coat, boots, or even her socks and less apparent articles of clothing. Even the natural elements of her appearance, her hair and eyes, supplemented her style. Indeed, only her pale skin and the symbol on her shirt--the traditional crimson pentacle of a healer--offered any deviation, any hint of colour. She had often considered giving into the urge to conform, but no look could ever seem to please her.

Plodding through the house, Lucia eventually found Annabelle, her colleague, in the kitchen brewing some coffee. Years ago, Annabelle had been the only competent healer in the entire duchy, and certainly one of the best physicians. Following the passing of her parents, Lucia had decided to dedicate herself to medicine, quickly surpassing Annabelle's skills in healing. Concluding that her services would be of greater benefit elsewhere, Annabelle had gracefully ceded her position and had made plans to leave for Source, but Lucia, not entirely comfortable with the unfair arrangement, quickly convinced Annabelle to stay and instruct her, to teach her to be a physician as well as a healer.

This way, they also avoided any ill will by sharing the position until they were both ready to part company. Lucia also liked to believe they made an excellent team together, combining not only their collective knowledge of both aspects of medicine, but also balancing Annabelle's caution and experience with Lucia's enthusiasm and creativity.

Poking her head into the kitchen, Lucia advised Annabelle that she would be resting for a few hours, and that she should hold down the fort. Climbing the stairs to the upper floor laboriously, moaning theatrically each time her boots struck the steps, Lucia ambled in the direction of her bedroom, eager to forget her problems for a time and hopefully subdue her growing headache.

Before she could get much farther than a couple of paces from the staircase, however, Lucia heard Annabelle calling up to her urgently. Frowning, she descended the steps two at a time and headed for the kitchen, where Annabelle was moving back and forth, gathering blankets. She pointed to the window vaguely as she dashed to the common room to, Lucia saw, make certain the fire was burning strongly.

"What's the matter?" she called as she looked for herself. The answer was immediately obvious: a person, from all appearances a woman, lay prone on the ground before the house, motionless and encrusted with snow. Springing instantly to action, Lucia scooped up half of the precarious pile Annabelle had amassed and bolted outside, leaving the door ajar.

Sprinting over to the fallen woman, Lucia skittered to a halt before her and somehow found the strength, through fatigue and a splitting headache, to lift her limp form off the ground. Stripping off the woman's fur coat and wrapping the heaviest of the blankets around her, Lucia noticed that she was not at all dressed in the local fashion, and her hair was certainly a spectacle. Although her charge made no attempt to help, Lucia was aware that she was conscious--soft moans and sobs escaped her mouth.

By this time, Annabelle was beside her, ready to move their patient. They wrapped her in more blankets and attempted to carry her across to the open door. It was then that Lucia noticed her face and realised exactly who it was she carried in her arms. The shock nearly caused her to collapse.

Lucia stood frozen as her mouth worked uselessly, silence alone issuing from it. What was Nubia doing here? Why had she collapsed in the snow? What had happened to her hair? Pushing her questions aside with a firm glare from Annabelle, Lucia shook her head and dragged her sister into the clinic, depositing her onto the couch near the fire. Nubia, focusing up on her sister's face, only closed her eyes and resumed sobbing uncontrollably.

Exhaling slowly, Lucia knelt by her sister, taking Nubia's frigid hands in her own. The cold, uncaring truth she would have to face would be devastating, but whenever possible, Lucia vowed, she would be there for her sister. Somehow, Nubia had learned of the fate of their parents from someone in town. There was nothing that could be done for it now, but, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her home, her sister's fragile, trembling hands cupped between her own for warmth, Lucia promised she would do anything to soften the blow and to make her adjustment to her new life less traumatising.

Despite herself, the sadness of her sister's pain melding with the joy of their reunion, Lucia began to cry.