Sometimes I forget where I am.

It’s nice when that happens. I don’t really care for the places I usually am. Most often this happens when I get caught up in my work. Sometimes it happens at the very worst time.

“Aldain!” comes the frantic cry, echoing across realities. It’s dangerous to give away your position like that. She must be truly desperate.

I fade back into the world. On a whim, I leave the realm I have made intact, there to grow and progress in my absence. Taking my cloak from its hook, I begin to walk quickly in the direction of the palace gardens, wrapping my cloak around me as I do. About halfway, I am joined by the woman whose voice called me back here.

“Aldain,” she hisses, falling into step beside me. “Where have you been? You were due in the Mistress’s presence over an hour ago.”

I keep my composure, even after learning how very late I am. Instead, I adopt a stern tone as I speak to her.

“Maguerite, regardless of how late I am, never call across worlds. I would rather I perish for our Mistress’s wrath than we all die by the hands of her rivals.”

“Do you think me a fool? There is a very narrow band of M-space that all of your demirealms reside in. I called only across them. No one will come that you can’t handle.”

We both stop at the huge double doors marking the garden’s entrance, glaring at one another. Maguerite stands a full head shorter than me, but her spirit is as strong as anyone I’ve ever met. Usually this manifests itself as stubbornness, like it is now. She’s in highly formal garb: Her straight black hair is pulled back, held in place with an ornate clip worked in gold and platinum; the black velvet dress with gold and silver trim must be the most expensive one our Mistress has given her. This worries me. Formality calms our Mistress. Formality means our Mistress needs calming.

Finally her green eyes break away from my black ones as she lets out a huff. She opens the door and steps in before me.

“My Lady, Sorcerer Aldain is here, as you requested.”

She curtsies so deep that she nearly falls. I suddenly become cognizant of the fact that my black tunic is one of my older ones. My cloak could use a wash and a press. There are holes in three of the fingers of the glove on my left hand. I am not dressed in such a way as to improve my position.

“Come in, Aldain.” My Lady’s tone of voice does not bode well for my fate.

Now it is my turn to rely on formality. I walk into the garden, straight down the path to the base of the dais upon which is my Mistress’s chair. I fall to one knee and press my forehead to the ground.

“Mistress, though sore unworthy, I can only beg your grace and forgiveness for my tardiness.”

My Mistress is unhappy with me, but I am still one of her favorites. And not easily replaceable. Still, I keep my head to the floor, my arms outstretched. I am frozen in my bow. Had I been watching someone else, it might have been funny.

I am not watching someone else.