The carriage bumbled down the rutted dirt path that snaked out from the town. Patter of rain was lessened by the covering of leaves overhead. The lad, who had given his name as Trevor, began to fish out several items from his bag. A silver mirror, a quill, a small pot of ink, a burlap bag. Ivan caught the scent of sulfur from that bag. He recognised the components as that of a basic communication spell. Ivan held out stayed his hand before he began to write the message of their voyage to Dover.<br/>"No," Ivan commanded. Trevor looked up in confusion.<br/>"How else am I to tell Master de Rosini of our arrival?"<br/>"You'll take a trade ship from Portsmouth. The Inquisition can intercept those messages."<br/>"What of you and. . ." Trevor looked bashfully at Teresa sitting there in the carriage, eliciting a scowl from Ivan.<br/>"We'll take another route," answered Ivan, drawing the boy's wandering eyes away from Teresa form. "The main thoroughfares will be watched, as well as the harbours." Ivan added, "Keep your eyes to yourself." They continued in silence for some time, with only the sound of the carriage and the rain between them.<br/><br/>During the years of study, Teresa's body was held in magical suspension, immune to the ravages of time. Ivan grew grey with the mounting pressure; the inexorable march of wearing lines in his face. In appearance she was closer to the lad's age than Ivan's. While Trevor kept his eyes adamantly focused on packing the components away, Ivan's eyes wandered to his beloved. Against the background of grey skies and black bark, she look as though a ray of sunlight had tangled itself in her hair. For a moment Ivan was plunged back into the past, a past where Teresa and he were together, making their way through the country without a destination in mind, basking in the company of one another. A welling of affection gripped him, and he placed his hand on hers, gently squeezing it.