Season of the Witch part 15

Using the well that was in the nearby woods, a few heat spells, and lots of soap, Calla was able to take a nice warm bath, as well as wash her filthy clothes.  Then, with her hair still wet and unbrushed, she hurried to make dinner, as it was almost the hour when Baba Yaga would announce that she was hungry.  Calla had not yet done anything to make the witch cross, and she was afraid of what would happen.
Luckily, there was no complaint from Baba Yaga, who (as usual) devoured the roast chicken and potatoes and rolls, eating whatever Calla did not get hold of first.  Mentally the girl was resigning herself to another quiet night, perhaps with a phone call to someone back home, when Baba Yaga suddenly said, “You did not kill the vodyanoy.”


Calla jumped, and after composing herself, admitted, “I did not.”
“Why not?  He could have drowned you.”
“I’m not a killer,” she said quietly.  “Once was enough; I don’t need more blood on my conscience.”
Even without looking up from her plate, she could feel those red eyes staring at her.  She just scooped up a piece of chicken with her fork, and bit into it hungrily.  It really was good chicken; soft and chewy, without that horrid dryness that white meat tends to get.  Calla would not dare to call herself the best cook in the world, but she at least knew how to handle meat.


After another silence, the witch asked, “You enjoy talking with him?”
“Well enough.  He doesn’t know about much besides the pond, but he’s a good enough soul.  Just very lonely.”
Baba Yaga made a bit of a sniff, and continued masticating her own enormous piece of chicken.  Then she swallowed, and spoke again.
“How about that young man whom you talk to sometimes when I’m asleep?  You enjoy talking with him?”
Calla felt her cheeks grow warm.
Of course she knows about him.
“Y-yes.”
The witch smiled widely.
“He’s a very precious young man, then.  Even if you haven’t told him about the blood bond.”
Calla’s shoulders and neck felt warm this time.
“How do you know that?”
Baba Yaga shrugged, and stabbed her fork into a potato.  “I can see into people’s hearts, myshka.  It’s something you will learn too, if Chernobyl does not get the sword and you’re around long enough.”


The heat burned more fiercely; she’d thought she was growing numb to the idea, but hearing it spoken aloud in the witch’s pronounced Russian voice somehow brought all the pain back with a vengeance.  Calla tried to hold it in, but she had to squeeze her eyes shut and take a gulp of water so that she would try not to cry in front of this woman.
Baba Yaga continued, relentless.  “Even if he does win, if you go home and are no longer in my service, what are you planning to do about your young man?  Will you want to bond him with a vurdalak as well?  Or another of the Folk?  Because otherwise, he is going to grow old and die long before you even start to taste old age.”
Calla stared at the old woman’s plate, unable to look at her face.  “I haven’t really found a solution-”
“That is because you’re young and inexperienced!” she snapped.  Then she used a bony finger to reach over and raise the girl’s chin, forcing her to look at her face.  Though not at her eyes; Calla resisted that urge.


Baba Yaga smiled at her, teeth glinting in the light.  “I might be able to help you.”
Internal alarms went off in Calla’s mind.  But she forced her face to go blank, and asked softly, “How?”
Baba Yaga nodded over to the black sunflower.  “Do you know why I keep this?”
Calla said, “I know it possesses some sort of powerful magic.”
She nodded eagerly.  “Yes, yes!  The sort that kings have quested for, and alchemists wasted their lives trying to find!  Each of those seeds grants the one who eats it one hundred more years to live!”
So, sort of a plant version of the Holy Grail.
Calla managed to keep a straight face and not giggle at her internal commentary.
The witch went on, “If your young man were to eat these, there would be no fuss over age difference.  You could be happy with him.”
“What would your price be?” Calla countered.
The reply was succinct: “Become my apprentice.”


While Calla was still trying to digest that, she said, “You would not have to live here.  You could go back to your home in America, and solve your little problems with Chernobyl, assuming he gets back.  But you would come here every so often, and I would teach you what I know.  And every month, if you had learned well and been a good pupil, I would give you one of these seeds to give to your love.”
Slowly the mage sat back in her chair, blinking and searching for the words she wanted.  Finally she settled on, “Why?”
Baba Yaga said, “Be specific.”
“Why do you want an apprentice all of a sudden?  And why me, of all the people in the world?”
The witch shrugged.  “Call it a whim.”  Then she stood up, cramming the last of the chicken into her mouth and gnashing it to shreds with her iron teeth.  “At least consider it, myshka.”


Morgan, if Baba Yaga wanted to make you her apprentice in exchange for a way to make Nathan live longer, what would you say?
Calla tapped out the text message after cleaning up the remains of dinner, and sent it before thinking, Wait.  That might have been a very stupid idea.  I think she is going to freak.
She was right. Morgan’s first text was a question mark, followed by one comprised only of exclamation points. 
What are you doing with Baba Yaga? was the third.
...It’s for a case, Calla replied.
You and Tristan get the strangest cases.
I know.
Let me think about it a minute.


Calla waited anxiously, curled up by the fire, which she had built up a little bit.  It wasn’t necessarily that cold, but it made her feel a bit more secure.
Finally the response came. I don't know that I would now, but that's because of the blood bond. If you had asked a year ago, the answer would have been yes.
Even if it meant he’d have to watch his parents grow old and die while he stayed young for longer than he was supposed to?
That would be his decision to make, not mine.
She nodded slowly, even knowing that her friend couldn’t see her.  Then she leaned her chin in her hand, staring at the fire.
Her phone vibrated.
Are you okay?
Calla typed back, It’s kind of a long story.
I'm listening.
This is a text message.
You know what I mean…
After a hesitant second, she texted back, Tristan has to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless or I’m going to be Baba Yaga’s prisoner.
Wow.
Yeah.
Any way I can help?
I doubt it.  But thanks anyway.


Had she been more secure regarding her emotions, Calla might have jumped to Baba Yaga’s offer with a lot less hesitation.  But she wasn’t.
To the best of her understanding, she loved Lars.  But was it enough to make her want to make him immortal?  After all, they were still in the process of getting to know each other.  And frankly, sometimes she was afraid that he felt more passionately for her than she did for him.  Or, to put it a bit more positively, he depended on her more than she did him.  Probably because she was one of the first people he’d cared about outside his group of homeless children.
Is that really a healthy relationship, then?  Maybe we’ve jumped into this whole thing too quickly...so is it really worth preserving his life for longer, especially because it wouldn’t be fair to Rosie?
Relationships are hard.
I wish Tristan was here, so I could talk to him about this.  He’d know what to do.

Season of the Witch part 9

Calla was not enjoying her time in Baba Yaga’s clutches much.  This wasn’t all that surprising, since the witch had this habit of near-constantly watching her out of at least the corner of her eye, with a deeply hungry expression that made her shiver.  Even when the mage looked away, she could still feel Baba Yaga’s eyes on her.  On the good side, she didn’t necessarily seem to be planning to eat her-Calla doubted she’d have gone to all this trouble for a meal, when there were so many people available in Russia.  No, she seemed to be studying her for some other reason…


Soon after Tristan had gone, the witch asked Calla to do her a favor, and clean up the cottage a little bit.  Even though she was sure Baba Yaga could do it herself with a wave of her hand, Calla didn’t ask questions-she waved her own hand, and the dust swept itself into a neat pile, before she levitated it out the window.  She conjured up water and a cleaning rag, and wiped up all the spills, scrubbing down every dirty surface and making everything shiny.  She was picking up the black sunflower’s petals and preparing to throw them out the window (which was finally without the force field from earlier), when she was interrupted.
“Wait!” Baba Yaga interceded with a wave of her hand, “I can use those later.  Just put them in this jar, would you?”
She held out a glass jar.  Calla put the petals inside, and the old witch quickly transferred it to her cabinet.
“Thank you.  Now go out and weed my garden.”


A small, rebellious part of Calla which had only recently started to grow wanted to protest this treatment, especially since she was not Baba Yaga’s servant (and hopefully would not become such-though it was jumping to conclusions for her to already be thinking like that, since it hadn’t even been a full day since Tristan left).  But, remembering some of the old fairy tales about people being asked to do things for magical beings, and the rewards/punishments that could come about based on their response, she simply went outside to do as she was told.


The garden was a small plot close to the fence, and appeared to be absolutely overgrown with weeds.  Not to mention the unforeseen problem of the house still being maybe fifteen or twenty feet off the ground, and she hadn’t been able to bring her carpet, because she hadn’t even known she’d be going on this little excursion; she also wasn’t sure that she trusted the house enough to ask it to bend for her.  So, for the first time in a long while, she had to use her own energy, and a spell, to lower herself to the ground as gently as possible.  It put quite a bit of strain on her body-she was out of practice, and it made her arms tremble violently from trying to keep the magic of levitation focused for so long.  But eventually, she was lowered to a point where she could safely drop without breaking anything, landing rather gracelessly on the wild grass and taking a moment to catch her breath.


By now it was getting close to evening; Calla suspected that Baba Yaga’s next request would be for her to make dinner, so she decided to do a preemptive strike.  After casting a spell to make the weeds start pulling themselves up and being discarded in a pile, she picked carrots, potatoes, onions, radishes, garlic and parsley, conjuring up a bag and putting the vegetables in it and across her shoulder.  Then, hesitantly, she approached the house.  She wasn’t sure if she could levitate herself up safely, thinking of how much her arms had trembled on the way down, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask Baba Yaga for help.  Something gave her the feeling that the witch was testing her, wanting to see how she’d handle all of these chores…  Even if it meant nearly falling again, she did the same thing Tristan had: tickling the leg, she chanted, “Izbushka, Izbushka, lower your door to me.”
Calla stepped back, just in time for the house to lower itself to its knees and allow her to climb up the steps.  And unlike when Tristan had been with her, it waited until she was safely inside before rising.  Odd.  Maybe she could have asked it the first time.


Baba Yaga was sitting at the table reading a very ancient-looking book when Calla came in.  Without looking up, she said, “If you’re done with the weeds, I would like you to pick me some vegetables for dinner.”
“Will these do?”  Calla stepped forward and laid the bag on the table.  The witch actually jumped, and stared at the food with eyes widened.  Though she knew she shouldn’t, the girl felt a rush of satisfaction.
After a second, Baba Yaga coughed, and said, “Yes, they will do quite nicely.”  After another second, she added, “Well done.  You’ll find some meat in the icebox behind the cabinet that you can use to make stew.”
Before she could stop herself, unsure she wanted to know the answer, Calla asked, “What kind of meat?”
The witch gave her an iron grin.  “Good question.  It’s hard for me to keep track of what they all are in there.  Just use whatever looks good.”


Thankfully, Calla was able to find, via a spell, some meat that was formerly the shoulder of a cow.  She didn’t check to see what the others were, because she really didn’t want to know.  Instead she defrosted it, chopped it and the vegetables into bite-size chunks, added spices, and after browning the meat, turned everything into an enormous stew.  By now it was close to evening, and so it was with great relief that Calla, stomach growling, placed the cauldron next to the table and announced that dinner was served.


It was lucky for Calla that she took the time to dish out a bowl for herself, because Baba Yaga devoured all the rest.  It seemed inconceivable that such a thin old woman could eat so much, but eat it she did.  When she finished, she gave a tremendous belch, and then retired to her private room at the back of the cottage without so much as saying goodnight to Calla.  She didn’t even put a new force field on the door to make sure her collateral wouldn’t try to escape.  Both the witch and the mage knew there was no need; they’d signed a contract in blood, and in the magical world, the consequences of breaking one of those were uncertain, but definitely bad.


Calla ended up conjuring a downy sleeping bag and plump pillow, and after taking off her shoes, curled up next to the dying fire.  The warm embers were rather comforting, especially since, now that she was no longer being kept busy, she had time to think about just what she had gotten herself into.


There was nothing she could really do about this situation except rely on Tristan to come back with the sword, she realized.  She had to hope that he could do it, and that Koschei wouldn’t find and/or kill him (she didn’t have to worry about him chickening out and deserting her; she knew Tristan too well for that).  And though, of course, she had every confidence in his ability to succeed in stealing the treasure and coming back, a part of her thoughts wondered, What if he doesn’t?
If he didn’t come back, for some reason or other, within the next six days...then Calla would be trapped here forever, as a servant to Baba Yaga.  She’d known the risks when signing the contract...but she hadn’t really thought about the consequences of them.


Up to then, Calla hadn’t cried about her circumstances.  She’d been busy doing what she was told, and therefore distracted from any negative emotions.  Even with magic to make it go by faster, being busy helped.  But now she was alone, she was not quite as full as she would have liked, there was nothing left to do, and it was dark, so before long her eyes were feeling hot, and it felt like a hand was squeezing the inside of her throat, and her stomach was churning.  Not wanting Baba Yaga to hear, she hid her face in her pillow, and felt the tears begin to flow in abundance.
Finally, after she-didn’t-know-how-long, Calla flipped her pillow over and fell asleep.  And, due to one of the few good results of her childhood, she fell asleep almost instantly, and very, very soundly, without any dreams.


She was awakened by a buzzing in her pocket.  Groggily pulling her phone out, she saw that there were two interesting things: 1) it was six in the morning here, and 2) Lars was calling.
“H’lo?”
"Calla, are you okay? I haven't heard from you all day. And I went to pick you up for our date just now but Xen said you were gone."
“Date?  What-”  And then she remembered.  The night of dinner and dancing at Club Lusus Naturae that he’d asked her to go on two days ago.  Her stomach lurched guiltily.  “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, I forgot about it! Sorry, Tristan and I got a case yesterday, and things haven’t quite happened the way we thought.”
"That's all right.”  However, he sounded disappointed.  “Where are you?"
“...Believe it or not, we’re in Russia.”
"... Huh. He has jurisdiction there?"
“Our client requested his help.”  She glanced nervously at the witch’s door, in case her voice woke her.  So far, so good.
"Are you allowed to tell me anything else?"
“I don’t know.  But you might not want to know just yet.”
There was a sigh. "Calla, you're involved. I want to know."
I don’t want you to know, though.  I don’t want to have to know that you’re over on a different continent, freaking out just as much as I am.  But it would be wrong to lie about it, so…
“Have you ever heard of Baba Yaga?”


"Oh man, what are you guys doing with her?"
“I’ll take that as a yes.  She’s having Tristan steal something from Koschei the Deathless.”
The line went quiet. After a moment, she could hear him taking a few deep breaths.  Calla flinched, knowing that was a sign of how upset he was.
Finally she said, “He should be back within a week.”  He’d better be.
"Wait, back? Are you alone with her?"
“...Yes.  It was part of the deal.”  Be honest.  “If she doesn’t get the object, Baba Yaga is going to take me instead.”
"What?!?"
“She wants to add me to her collection if Tristan doesn’t succeed in stealing the item.”


More deep breathing ensued.  Hesitantly, Calla said, “I’m sorry, there was no really good way to tell you.”
He sighed. "I know. Thank you for telling me. Is there anything I can do?"
“I don’t think so.  We signed a contract with blood; I can’t break that.  And even if I could, that wouldn’t be right.  It seems like all we can do now is wait for something to happen.”
"Please be careful, Calla. I love you."
“I know.”  She swallowed.  “Tell Rosie hi for me, okay?  And Isaac.  And everyone else.”
"I will."
“And-and I’ll ask Baba Yaga-if things don’t work the way we hope-to let you come visit me.  I’ll do-I’ll buy her raw dragon livers if I have to, or whatever else she might want in exchange.”
"Calla, if things don't work out, I'll just move to Russia to be closer to you. I won't leave you alone there."
She gave a watery chuckle.  “Hopefully you can learn to speak Russian fast.  Or get a universal translator.”
"Either way, doesn't matter to me, so long as I'm near you."


She really should have been used to that by now-his honest and strong feelings for her.  But her cheeks still felt hot, and she smiled widely as she whispered, “Thank you.”
"Believe me, it's my pleasure."
Before she could think of a reply to that, Calla found herself yawning.
"Oh, I woke you up, didn't I? I'm sorry."
“S’okay.  There’s a big time difference between there and here, you didn’t know.”
"Do you want to go back to sleep?"
“Kind of, yeah.  Who knows what she’s going to have me do when she wakes up?”
"All right, dear. Sleep well. I love you so much."
“And I-I’ll send you some photos, if I get a chance.”
"I will too. And remember that if you need anything at all or even if you just want to talk, I'm always willing to talk to you. You can call any time and I promise I'll answer."
“Okay.  See you later.”
"I'll see you soon, Calla. Goodnight."
She hung up, and as she sunk into sleep, realized that, what with the talk with Lars and the big cry she’d had earlier, she felt...somewhat better about this whole thing.

The Case of the Lacerated Assistant

Here is another short story; I hope you like it anyway.

I had noticed for some time that my assistant, Calla Gardiner, had been changing.  Not necessarily in a bad way, but in ways that were certainly strange.  For instance, soon after the incidents in Silver’s Bane, or Why Racism Is Wrong, her senses seemed to improve tenfold, especially her sense of smell.  She also began to like her meat a bit more rare than before, and on cases where we had to chase someone, she was much better at keeping up with me, and once even apprehended a crook before I could.  At first, I just figured maybe she was becoming a better detective, getting stronger physically, and having a slight change in tastes.  Then I began to suspect a magical change of some kind.  But somehow, the reason didn't fully occur to me until the incident in October 2013.

We had been out late on a case.  It may sound vaguely familiar: there had been reports of strange noises and explosions out in the cemetery.  This time Ishida took them seriously (which didn't irritate me.  At all), and asked me and Calla to go check it out.  We went over the fence, found the place where the noises had been heard from-and Calla promptly fainted dead away.  Before any of you start making smart-mouth comments about feminine sensibilities and I have to hurt you, it was because what we found was a very dead, bloody Ghul corpse, and since Calla is extremely hemophobic, her fainting was not her fault.  I had to examine the body myself, and noticed that the wounds were mostly typical of fights between Ghuls: claw marks, bites to the throat-normal.  But there also appeared to be some evidence of spells being thrown at the corpse.  I found a few scraps of magical residue attached to wounds near-and in-the heart, and pocketed them as evidence.  It looked like a mage or alchemist of some kind had been involved; but why and how?  There were no footprints anywhere around besides those of Ghuls, no unique smells, nothing that proved anyone else had been in that cemetery.  The body had been there for at least five hours, which was when I suspected the fight had begun, so it hadn't been dragged or carried there.  This was all very interesting...

When Calla regained consciousness-not too long after fainting-we reported the incident to Ishida as just more Ghul warfare (they kind of have different rules from the rest of the monster race; since they’re not as a rule a part of our society, and fights to the death are the way they keep leadership positions, generally the MCPD doesn't worry about it if one is found dead), and now were perched together on the branch of a tree in Styxburg’s park, sharing a bag of fish and chips before Calla would try to glean some clues from the spells.  She got the fish, and I had most of the chips.  And I thought with a sigh that if the spells meant some new kind of hocus pocus that was more than normal Ghul welfare, then this was probably going to be a long night.

And then, as Calla was reaching into the bag again, I noticed that there was a thick bandage peeking out from under the sleeve of her hoodie.
“What happened there?” I asked, pointing to it.
“Believe it or not, I don’t know,” she replied.  “I just noticed earlier today that I had a cut there, and didn't have time to try to get it healed before we went to the cemetery, so I just put on a Band-Aid and left it.  It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why such a thick bandage?”  Calla was not the type to overestimate damage; she would only use a big Band-Aid for a big cut.  I gently reached over and rolled up her sleeve.  And nearly had a heart attack; that Band-Aid stretched all the way up to her elbow, and part of it had been soaked through at one point, but was now just crusty with dried blood.

“What the heck-you call that-”
“I know, I know!”  Calla flinched.  “Sorry, I’ve just gotten into the habit of downplaying my injuries so I won’t upset Lars.  I admit, it’s very irregular and kind of eerie that it started up so abruptly.  But I didn't want to mention it because we were in a hurry, and I figured we’d worry about it later.”
I took a deep breath through my nose, and exhaled through my mouth.  “Okay.  It’s fine.  Very decent of you.  It’s no big deal that you've suddenly developed a random, big, deep cut on your arm and you didn't want to mention it because you thought I’d think the case was more important.”
“No I didn't.  I just didn't want you to lose your focus.”
I looked over at her.  “Kid...next time that happens, please make me lose my focus.”
“Okay, boss.”

I smiled, a tad grimly.  Then I asked, “Any other mysterious injuries you haven’t been telling me about?”
“Not that I know of.  Care to examine me?”  She held out both arms for inspection.  I, unable to resist the challenge, rolled up her other sleeve too, and began checking her over.  Most of the scars I found were old ones, mementos of her dad (I didn't dare tell her, but if he hadn't died, I would have been more than happy to meet him once; once would be all I needed).  But then, I got a good look at her left hand, and found the nail in the coffin of my suspicion.  There was a small, pale scar along the side of her index finger.

“Do you remember how you got that?”  I pointed at it.
“Uh...no, but I don’t keep track of my scars.  There are many I’d prefer not to remember.”  She frowned.  “What does this one have to do with my sudden need for bandages at all times?”
“Kid, remember when we had to save Morgan?”
“That’s kind of hard to forget.”  Then she traced my line of thought, and I saw that the metaphorical sun was coming up.  She remembered, clearly, how beforehand we’d been attacked by a pack of Ghuls, and it was only when she shared thoughts with their leader and helped heal an injury that we were allowed to get into the prison where she was being kept...an injury that resulted in a lot of blood...
“When you pulled the spike out of the Ghul’s hand, were your hands bleeding at all?”
“No, I’m sure of it!  I do remember getting a scratch on my hand from the wood, but I hadn't thought it was enough to actually cut it open.”  Realization confirmed the situation.  “This means what I think it means, doesn't it?”
“E-yup.  Congratulations, Calla Gardiner, you are probably the only person in this century-or ever, come to think of it-to have instigated a blood bond with a Ghul.”

This revelation was naturally very alarming.  But it did explain a lot.  The question was, was it necessary to do anything about it?  After all, since her bondmate was the leader of a pack of fae known for being feral, primal flesh-eaters who constantly fight each other for pleasure or dominance, there was a distinct element of danger in Calla’s being tied to him until death.  Especially when it led to her getting random injuries.  There was no way to permanently dissolve a blood bond, to my knowledge; but perhaps we could catch the Ghul, and keep him somewhere he’d be less likely to get hurt.  Especially if it appeared that he had recently been in a bit of a nasty scrape.  But when I suggested this to Calla, she didn't instantly jump at the chance.  Instead she said, “I think we should just leave him alone.  He belongs with his pack; it would kill him to be taken away from them.  Besides, if my guess is correct, he’s the one responsible for that corpse in the cemetery, and all the spells attached.”

Author’s Note: Regarding blood bonds, when a fae and another species share blood, it means that if one of them has an injury of some kind, depending on depth and distance between them, the other will have it too, or at least feel the pain of it.  It also means that they start to share some magical abilities, if they have any.  Not all of them, but just enough to help them keep up with each other.  And if one dies, the other will too at that same instant.  But they can try to save each other, by sharing energy and weird, awesome stuff like that.  Nobody completely knows how this works, except that it’s very ancient magic.  It’s not to be taken lightly, or to be formed just on a whim.

Since I had come to this same conclusion soon after realizing what the cuts on Calla meant, I winced.  “Just what the world needs.  A Ghul with magical powers.”
“I don’t think he’d use them for anything besides defending himself or his people.  He doesn't think about things the same way as most monsters; he doesn't have goals besides watching over the welfare of the pack.”
“Couldn't that translate over time to wanting to better their situation from living on the streets and eating roadkill?”
“I don’t think so.  Sharky likes his life as it is, and while he might use his powers to keep others from trying to usurp his position or threaten the pack, he isn't going to try for anything bigger. He’s reasonable enough to see that that would be suicide.”
I raised an eyebrow.  “Sharky?”
Calla blushed.  “It just seemed...appropriate for him.  His teeth...they remind me of a shark exhibit I saw once on a field trip.”
“That’s reasonable enough.  You don’t even want to try to tell him?”
“I think he’s probably figured it out for himself by now.  He’s got enough intelligence to remember what happened that day, and put two and two together to make lots.”
“Point taken.”  I thoughtfully munched a chip.  Suddenly a new point came up in my mind.  “When are you going to tell Lars?”

The kid flinched.  “Good question.”
“You do need to tell him eventually.  Things are getting pretty serious between you two, and if you want to keep a relationship, I think he ought to know that there’s a possibility you’ll outlive him by hundreds of years...or be dead by next week.”
“I know, I know!”  She threw up her hands, wincing as it jostled her injured arm.  I jumped down from the branch, throwing the remains of our fish and chip bag in a convenient trash can.
“Come on, we’d better get that seen to.”
She levitated herself to the ground, and we headed for home.  As we walked, I said, “I won’t push you to tell him yet.  But at some point...”

“Yeah, I know.  There just never seems to be a good opportunity to tell him something like that.”