Daisy is a mage because she has learned to ignore these things. Closing her eyes, she takes up the bay, scattering the sharp-spined herbs across the duct tape and plastic. Then the green-brown curls of herb, scattered carefully across the same area. Then, finally, the jet stones, which clack and clatter across the shroud beneath her hand. She's whispering a gutteral, inarticulate prayer underneath her breath, choking back sobs.