Little Andreja was pleasantly surprised to hear the words out of her sister’s mouth: “I’m already one step ahead of you, Andreja. Let’s fly.” They excited her. She had no idea if this was an indication that Meyles didn’t hate her, but she hoped it was. “Where do you want to go? Nightingale, Sabertooth?” she asked. She leapt into the air. Andreja’s eyes didn’t even glance to her mother; she would never be the killer the daughter of the White Lady wanted her to be. She had heard tales of her grandmother all her life, about how she was a conqueror and a warrioress. Later in life, Andreja would use her stories as a cautionary series of tales for her children. She’d weave the memories the way her mother had. Spinning them into one big story. And then, Andreja would tell of Guinevere, how she was the heir to the White Lady’s legacy. She’d warn her children never to stray down that path.
Andreja’s eyes gazed at her sister. “Where should we go?”

“Moi j'veux crever la main sur le coeur!”