The very first thing little Jonquil's voice chirped in my ear was a goading to see the Oracle.

So I went, even though the sun was shining. I went climbing to her dark cave, and just as you might expect of an Oracle, she was expecting me. Me and my malaise.

"I hear you've been pretty poorly of late," she observed. "Please, let me make you some tea."

I felt comforted; I felt uncertain. Little Jonquil kept silent, as the Oracle fussed over the flame and hot water.

"I forget what kind of tea you like. Do you remember the last time you had tea?"

Then she turned back toward me, slowly, menacingly, her face grim. She let dip the kettle, and I was transfixed by the scalding pool that collected on the living floorboards, which quivered. As the spilt water roiled on its own, the trees of the living walls stretched and parted, allowing a single sunshaft to fall where the hot stream already had fallen. The light and the roiling converged in a simmer of shimmering, and I began to see myself reflected there. Or something that reminded me of me.

"Do you remember?"

Reflected backwards, I plummeted into myself. I found myself facing a wretched memory, of a prior time my Twin had fled, and I was left scrabbling and abject, aflame, dragging shards and broken shells down my arms. And they left red rays. I could see them, and the familiar delerium of my fevered eyes. I began to weep at the recollection of those dark days.

The Oracle put down the kettle and broke the spell to come comfort me. "There, there," she whispered, "Don't be afraid. You met a great goddess then. Do you remember?" And so I had.

"And so you shall."