She woke groggily. One eye opened to see that the sun had not yet broken over the horizon. No, she thought, just no. She snuggled deeper into the blankets, nuzzling down into the soft pillow. She closed her eyes. There had been a dream. Something with fluffy kittens, I think. Perhaps I can return to it. That would be much better than getting up. She had just settled into that dozing state of almost sleep when she felt it again.

     A pull. A strong tug towards her desk. Her eyes flew open and glared at the notebook resting on the desk.

     The offending notebook was covered in rich leather and was heavily embossed with a detailed picture of a winged Valkyrie. She considered the notebook. It could be fun. IF I’m paid any attention. No. No, as fun as it could be, all my best ideas are ignored. She was finished with that. With a self-satisfied smile she cuddled deeper into the warm blankets.

     The pull came again.

     “Clearly there is no rest for the wicked,” she muttered as she pushed the heavy blankets away. She chuckled at that and considered how many times she had been cursed and told she was a horrible being.

     She didn’t go to the notebook right away, however. Instead, she walked out onto the balcony of the stone tower and looked out over the churning ocean. The waters below her feet were a deep blue covered in a fine gray mist that blended at the horizon with the gray, thunderhead filled sky.

    “He’s pulling out the big guns, I see,” she said to a fluffy tortoiseshell cat that bounded up onto the balcony railing. “He knows how much I love thunderstorms.” The cat purred and allowed the woman to scratch behind her ears for a moment before she jumped down and ran over to the desk with an insistent meow.

     “Alright, alright,” the woman said. “I’ll look at the damn book.”

     Her heavy oak desk stood against the stone wall. Her bare feet crossed from the cool stone to the soft, dense carpet that covered the interior section of the tower. She rolled the top of the desk back revealing an impressive set of pens and vials of ink in many colors. Beside the desk was a huge trunk. She considered opening the trunk first. It would serve him right to get whatever she gave him rather than what he was requesting since he woke her. There was a distant flash of lightning and a soft peal of thunder. The storm was getting closer.

     “Oh, well played, sir,” she said with a smile.

     She picked up the notebook from the top of the desk and sat down. Her fingers lovingly traced the etched leather. She indulged herself in the memory of his delight when he found a notebook that so clearly illustrated how he envisioned her. He’d bought it without question giving her a secret thrill since it had been quite expensive. She sighed contentedly, and a wide smile crossed her face. After settling herself comfortably into the chair and opened the book to a page marked with a red ribbon.

     His words scrawled across the paper. One day she was going to convince him to write properly. Maybe. She sighed, this one the long-suffering sigh she was far more familiar with, and took a moment to decipher his horrid penmanship. “Interesting,” she murmured.

     A distinct sound filtered through the growing cacophony of the oncoming storm. He was in the shower. “Perfect,” she said with a mischievous smile. She picked up a pen, dipped it the teal ink, and wrote. No, no, that is just a red herring in this story. The real question you should be asking is…

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