Merda. She hadn’t given him a moment, she hadn’t even let him give her any advice before she’d offered some – decidedly unfriendly – advice of her own. She’d turned away, and his instinct was to reach out for her, but he didn’t need to be a Seer to know that wouldn’t end well. So he just did his best to keep pace with her, to stay alongside her, as he protested: “Believe me, I wouldn’t say anything if it wasn’t important –”

He exhaled, trying not to let the tension from the explosion in the dream creep back into his shoulders too clearly. “Someone’s going to get hurt if I don’t. You’re going to get hurt – and I know you’ve travelled before, and you’re going to travel again, but don’t. It’s South America, I think, the mountains –” he waved his hands as if he could impart the picture of it by sheer willpower, the fog and the tunnels and the strange markings in the mountains, “and I still need to do more research but,” and if she only trusted one thing, he hoped she would listen to this, “just – don’t leave the country this time. Please.”

And the terrible thing was that he could have done this sensibly or gradually or invited her to do a reading and explained it properly if she had let him be civil about this, but she hadn’t. So now she had to face the raving lunatic approach. Savino was sorry about it, but.

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