The smoke drifted down into the candle’s fire, and Cassandra watched until the blaze quieted. She held a sheet of paper over it, letting the fire etch Warren’s message. She studied his graceful writing, as graceful as the smoke that had carried it.
She picked up fresh paper and a pen, and wrote her response. Her penmanship was nothing like Warren’s; she hadn’t had his schooling. She had learned magic from her mother rather than a tutor. But she could still send smoke.
She held a corner of the paper to the fire, and the smoke curled out the window.