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Sophie's been sewing every free minute she's had over the past several days.

. . . unfortunately, that hasn't added up to a great number of free minutes. Which is why she's now in Milliways, on a couch in front of the fireplace, maneuvering a needle through several layers of white fabric in order to create a layered skirt. The rest of the skirt is draped over her own, rather plainer blue dress and spread out across some of the rest of the couch.

She'll move it if anyone asks - but for now, she needs the space.

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"I can't say I've heard the same, unfortunately," Sophie says, a little dry, "as you still haven't mentioned your name. Once I have, I'm sure I'll be just as pleased."

Yrael grins. "Pardon me. I am forgetful." A lie, but he's never had any problem with those. "I am Yrael. I am an acquaintance of the man whose heart you hold in thrall."

Sophie, predictably, flushes.

"I'd rather think he chose to gave it to me than that I took it," she mutters, in some embarrassment - Sophie has some bad associations with people who take other people's hearts without permission.

"In any case, pleased to meet you as well, then. How do you know Howl?"

"You can hold someone in thrall with their consent," he smirks. "It actually makes it easier to hold them in thrall that way."

"I met Howl here... a rather long time ago, now. We talked of magic. What I am intrigued him, I think. Then I saw him again not long ago, after he had regained his heart. He was very happy."

Briskly: "Well, anyone would be after getting their heart back, I expect -"

She seizes on the change of subject gladly, mostly because she suspects Yrael of making fun of her and Howl both with this one.

"What are you?"

"The Eighth Bright Shiner," he says, grinningly unhelpful.

"Free Magic."

. . . Bright Shiner?

It seems to work differently in different places -

"- are you a star?" Sophie asks. Just in case.

~~He's so lucky. He's~~ "A star?" Yrael smirks, not mentioning the whole 'albino drawf' thing, from when he was serving the Abhorsen.

"One can oversimplify it into that, if one wishes. The truth is much more complicated. A long story, really."

"I'm always interested to hear interesting stories," Sophie offers. "And if Howl found it interesting, I'm sure it can't be so dull as all that."

. . . which does not at all translate to 'nosy'. Nope.

Yrael looks at her, a white eyebrow raised.

There's no putting her off, is there?

"I think I should just write it down, some day," he mutters.

"The short version goes like this," he gives in, dry, "In the beginning, there was the Free Magic, chaotic and violent with no pattern to it. The Nine strongest of the hundreds of thousands of Free Magic creatures that strove to exist were the Bright Shiners. The Seven eldest Bright Shiners sought to make something out of the chaos, weaving order from it, weaving Life. They wove the Charter, which is the structure upon which the ordered magic of Life is based. The Ninth Bright Shiner strove to destroy the Charter, returning all to its natural state."

"Though both the Seven and the Ninth asked for my help, I aided neither side. I did not have any reason to want to either save or destroy Creation, for I had no hand in it. Also, I could not bring myself to be responsible for the destruction of my Seven elder siblings or the imprisonment of my little brother."

"I was imprisoned for my 'selfishness,' and set to serve a mortal bloodline for all Time, imprisoned in a fixed-flesh shape not of my own. Made into a servant of the Abhorsen line." Yrael tilts his head, raising his chin in a way that makes him look rather stubborn. "I am free now, however."

. . . no wonder he gets along with Howl. Yrael's stated attitude towards Creation is exactly the one, Sophie thinks, that Howl tried for so long to put forth as belonging to himself.

Still, she can sympathize: "It isn't easy," she says, rather wryly, "being trapped in a shape that you oughtn't be. I'm glad you're out of it."

"Oh," Yrael says, grinning suddenly, very bright. "So am I."

"I wasn't nearly as nice, back then. I had no reason to be."

The eyebrows go up again.

"You consider yourself very nice now, then?"

"I did not say that," he says, straightening up suddenly. He sounds very stiff. "I was speaking relatively."

"- all right," Sophie says, looking rather less forbidding, and grins.

"I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page."

(People who assert how nice they are straight off the bat are usually, Sophie thinks, overstating the case.)

"Well," says the cat, sounding uncertain. "What page are you on?"

Whatever she says, he'll be eight pages ahead of her.

"The page I'm on seems to be saying that you're a rather charming, but awfully slithery sort of person - or magical creature; whichever you like," Sophie says.

"Of course our acquaintance has been fairly brief, so I might be misreading."

"I do not slither," the cat says, primly.

"You must be reading a faulty translation. It got the charming part, at the very least."

"Part of being slithery," Sophie says, with equal dignity, "is refusing to admit that you're anything of the kind. I hold to my translation."

"No," the cat says, bumping Sophie's hand to see if she'll give in and scritch. "Were I to be slithery, I would sidestep the accusation rather than flatly deny it. Part of being slithery would have to be bending the truth rather than telling flat-out lies. Or so I've heard."

"I think it's something of a combination, usually - that, and convincing yourself that you aren't lying even if you are," Sophie says, rather thoughtfully, "although of course I don't really know from experience."

. . . the cat seems to want to be scratched.

However, Sophie can't quite reconcile herself to the concept of scratching a near-stranger with whom she's conversing, cat or not. "Would you like me to fetch a backscratcher?" she asks, instead, politely.

The not'cat looks not in the least bit put off. "You have two handily attached to the ends of your arms," he says, helpfully.

"You're also not really a cat," Sophie feels obliged to point out, "and, my apologies, but I really don't think we're well enough acquainted for me to start scratching your head just yet."

It was different with the dog-man.

. . . he was quiet.

"Just because I am not really a cat doesn't mean you shouldn't scritch me. It is polite, you see."

"Maybe in your world. Where I come from it would be considered very rude to scratch someone on the head upon first acquaintance."

"People do it to cats all the time," he half-yowls, "And humans rarely ever look beyond appearances, anyway."

"Yes, but now I know," Sophie says, quite reasonably, "we've already gone beyond appearances, haven't we? So that argument's a bit outdated."

"Most of my friends still scritch me though they know I am not a cat, because it is polite and a good thing. It makes me happy, and makes them happy, as well. Just like scritching a real cat. You have nothing to lose."

Except this argument.

But the argument is all-important . . .

Cheerfully: "And perhaps when we are friends - as I'm sure we will be - I will."

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