A bare, open room, a white leather sofa up against one wall, television up against the other between two bookcases ... A cellphone resting in its cradle, recharging with a faint red light, off to the side of the couch ... nothing else. No - something else, after all.
     A woman, a girl, her long blonde hair worn down with several small braids, crystal beads and silver bells chiming together as she moves, kneels, a tablecloth of items bunched between her knees. She spreads them out, plucking items with a wariness to her motions - committed to her actions she might be, but there is a certain caution nonetheless, as she spreads out the blue bandana marked with a five-pointed star. A black candle goes to three of the points, white on the other two, black on the top-most and bottom-most with white on the left and right.
     The woman cracks open a bottle of Stoli, tugging the edges of her red cloak a little closer around herself, shivering slightly; the room is colder than it ought to be, and she's not heavily dressed underneath it. She leans forward, pouring vodka into a large glass bowl, which gets set into the middle of the star. Picking up a container of coarse margarita salt, she grabs handfuls, strewing it in an uneven circle around the kerchief, then adding sand from a child's pail, marked with seahorses in red and orange on blue plastic. She leans back.
     From the tablecloth, she grabs a handful of black and white feathers, dropping them into a second bowl, which already contains rose petals of a deep, dark red, which are slowly drying to the colour of dried blood. It almost gets a mutter of 'tres goth' out of the woman, but stoically, she suppresses snideness, and works on.
     Taking up a piece of paper, she begins to write, song names and fragments of songs and chords, working from memory, her braids swaying slightly as she concentrates. Once she's exhausted that, she turns the paper over; and now, she writes the information down again all over, only this time, backwards, letter for letter, word for word, mirror-writing. It's folded, and picking up a guitar string in the key of G, the paper's laced tightly shut. Leaning forward intently, she drops the paper into the vodka, watching the ink blur slightly through the paper as it turns transparent. A scrap of lace is similiarly picked up - a garter - and it follows after, into the vodka.
     A matching garter is wrapped wroung her left hand, and she picks up a sharpened knife, nicking her middle finger. Leaning forward, she lets blood drip into the vodka, watching the colour cloud and swirl as it seems to separate from itself. Fiona Arundel, Lady of the Realm, settles back on her haunches, taking a deep breath. Speaking aloud clearly and precisely, there's a hint of embarassed colour to her face.
     "Well, Dei, if this doesn't work, I'm going to feel like a proper idiot. Mind, I already do. London calling, though - remember Drancy? Obviously, things've changed - just a tad. But I figure, leave a message, see if he calls me back, see if it was just a fluke, or ... well. Silly thoughts, really. But I suppose I'm tired of the same four walls, and when they change, they don't really, do they? So ... let's see if you're out there, and if they were right in labelling you a demon prince. Hnh. Just the fellow to bring home to meet the parents... that was a joke, halfway. I'm not in the habit of proposing to a bloke without even having kissed him twice. So - you out there? If so ... I'd appreciate a call back, if you're willing. Here's my current cell number, leave a message, won't you? Ta very much, then."
     Her voice grows quieter, and she adds as an aside, "I feel bloody stupid, sure enough."
     Aloud, again, she recites a cellphone number, and she sits seiza, closing her eyes. Emotion rushes forth to fill a void, and then, Fiona Arundel, known to some as Drancy of no other name, watches candles burn out to blackness.

     Someone has a wish...
     Numbers filter through the Ethereal Realm, singly, not in any apparent order, burning bright blue upon fields of flickering white light. They drift through the air like food in a fishtank.
     Or like feathers drifting in the wind...
     We never get snow in the Ethereal Plain!
     A gauntleted hand reaches outward, catching a falling number in its palm. A wing stretches outward, doing likewise. Number after falling number -- there are scores of the same numbers -- they drift downward slowly where he stands and he takes each one, grabbing each falling number in its order until the pattern begins to repeat. And the numbers keep falling until six candles burn completely out in that Somewhere Else where this ... call originated.
     A blue-faced angel, covered in the falling numbers, his shoulders dusted with them as flakes of falling snow, stands with his fiery standard and his fire-tipped wings. He opens his mouth and out comes his Song, the Song of Transitions, the Transitions of Dreams (and Wishes, too) into...

     Well, well, well...
     Numbers filter though the Ethereal Realm, the shared plain of (im)mortal combatants Blandine and Beleth. The numbers fall singly, not in any apparent order, burning bright magenta upon fields of flickering white light. They drift through the air like food in a fishtank.
     Or like feathers drifting in the wind...
     We get snow all the time in this part of the Realm...
     A hand reaches outward, catching a falling number in its palm. Then another. Number after falling number -- there are scores of the same -- they drift downware slowly where he stands and he takes each one, grabbing numbers until he surmises that the pattern is starting to repeat. The numbers keep falling then suddenly stop, he curious as to why.
     The young man of pale skin and brown-red hair looks up, as if to Heaven, then down to the numbers in his hand. As he stands there, wondering the meaning of it all, a smile starts to grow on his lips and a thought comes to mind.
     No one ever said I couldn't leave for a bit...