Returning now to the story Sally was telling Paracelsus - It started with an unassuming demon (so called for their people’s resemblance to the creature of Paacist canon), with a handsome, kind face not lacking in intelligence, having quite the swarthy tone to it, as well as clipped wings, sitting in an office. A woman sat across from him, looking over paperwork with a discerning, scrutinizing gaze. The year was 1715, still quite a ways away from bohemians being fully integrated into Cartesian society. The man sat straight at attention, for though he was no military man, he knew how important it was that this meeting went well.

  “Well, Mr…” She looked over the paperwork again, “Do you not have a last name?”

  “No, my people don’t separate ourselves like that, ma’am.” He replied respectfully.

  “Well, Django,” The lady corrected herself, “Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t grant your immigration request.”

  “But -”

  “I’m not finished.” She said, a finger raised to silence him, “But, I assume you’ve heard of the skirmish, yes? With the Three Points? Well, regardless, there’s been a recent surplus of orphans in Cartesia, and the government is offering a special path to citizenship for anyone who assumes care for one such child. Is this something you would be interested in?”

  “Yes, of course!” Django smiled at the opportunity, bowing his head in humility, “I always wanted to have a family of my own, anyway.”

  “You will have to report to an officer wherever you live every two weeks, and -” She sorted through the list of children still in need of adoption, “They may, for any or no reason, decide to inspect your living space to ensure suitability for the child. Do you accept these terms? Remember, your citizenship is contingent upon their well-being.”

  “Without hesitation, I accept.” The bohemian responded.

  “Great.” She responded, “Wait outside, after reviewing the other requests, I’ll pair you with your child. Good luck, Django.”

  “Thank you, Madame…” He looked down at her signature on his papers, “Toulouse.”

  —

  “Open up,” Django said. Sally was just one year old, and sitting on the table in their home. She was, even from this young age, somewhat of a rowdy rascal, always giggling as she did anything her infantile brain could conjure to cause trouble. Still, being hungry at the moment dissuaded any actions that could delay or abridge her getting to eat as soon as possible, so she was perfectly well behaved. And so, she accepted the mashed carrots without a fuss, “Good girl.”

  After she was finished, and he wiped the corners of her mouth off, he hoisted her up by the armpits and lifted her to the ground. A baby that never slept was a recipe for disaster, but at the very least, her energy would wane toward the night, especially after a bit of play. Recently, she’d dubbed her favorite game to be crawling, full speed, and ramming her head into her father as violently and often as possible, with the goal of knocking him down.

  “Have fun.” He sighed, thinking about having to nurse more bruises on his shins as he began reading a book. But as the strangely peaceful seconds turned to minutes, he started to wonder why she was being so uncharacteristically calm. He looked down, and saw her trying to use her little arms to stand. He considered helping her, but her face was so determined that he felt it was important to let her try.

  So, the father silently cheered her own as she pushed off the ground and rose to her own feet for the first time. She took a tentative step forward, and then another, and suddenly it almost appeared as though she was about to burst into a sprint. Before she could though, she stumbled - and what a stumble it was! - and slid nearly halfway across the room, crying all the while.

  “Oh, there, there,” Django rocked her back and forth, in the particular manner she liked where her feet would swing oh so quickly, “It’ll be alright. Good work on your first steps!” A knock at the door sounded, “Come in!”

  “Good morning, Django,” Toulouse greeted, “Is Sally alright?”

  “She actually just took her first steps.” He beamed with pride at the little hellion, “Quite quickly too, I almost thought she started sprinting.”

  “Maybe she did.” The officer commented, “It’s not unheard of for people to have two gifts. Rarer than one, but still.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” The father grimaced at the thought of caring for a sleepless, impossibly fast toddler, “But anyway - what brings you here? I thought you were a military woman?”

  “I had to take a leave of absence -” She pulled out a chair at his table and sat, “To join the Gendarmerie requires a few years of civil service. Would it be impolite to ask for a coffee?”

  “No, no, of course not. Here,” He handed Sally over to the woman, and set down a cup for each of them, “What brings you here today?”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Ah, right,” She set down her cup after having a few sips, “As part of my civil service, I’ve been instructed to look for jobs which might be suitable to you. You mentioned that you worked as a carpenter in your village?”

  “Well,” Django laughed awkwardly, “Carpenter is a strong word. I was never any artisan -”

  “Well that’s fine - as it turns out, a man not too far from here lost his apprentice in the skirmish.” She informed him, “And quite frankly - I don’t think a better opportunity will present itself. What did you add to this?”

  “Cinnamon, cardamom…” He thought for a second, “Star anise, why? Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s just very sweet, is all. Anyway, what’s your answer? You’ll be glad to know I’ll watch over the demon child in the meantime…” She said, “No offense intended on the demon comment.”

  —

  “Nice horns, brother,” The carpenter to whom Django was assigned said, pushing aside some of his own hair to show off his own headpiece, “Pointy, dark, and,” He wolf-whistled, “Did your family shape them to curve so well?”

  “Huh?” The man asked, taken off-guard at what was a rather personal question amongst those with horns, “Well, no. I just drank a lot of milk, I suppose.”

  “Sorry, I got too excited,” The man, who was a few shades darker than even Django himself, shook the former’s hand, “Name’s Joseph.”

  “Django.” He said, “I was told I’m here to be your apprentice.”

  “Oh, right!” Joseph said, turning around suddenly and snapping his fingers, “How long have you been doing carpentry, Django?”

  “Well, when I was a boy…” Django replied, “I whittled.”

  “You whittled?” The carpenter asked.

  “I whittled.” The supposed apprentice replied.

  “Pierre told me you were a carpenter in your village.”

  “I exaggerated on the intake form,” He admitted, awkwardly rubbing his hair, “I was actually just a clerk.”

  “Just a clerk, eh?” Joseph sighed. “Nothing to do but learn you then, I suppose.”

  “Eh?” Django asked, “You’re not getting rid of me?”

  “Well, truth be told, I’m rather desperate for an apprentice.” He replied, “That, and I haven’t seen an alaenae around here for quite some time.”

  “Well, actually, when I was a child my parents cut my wings off.” The apprentice said, “We - our homeland was very prejudiced.”

  “Well it’s not much better here, my wings were clipped, too.” The carpenter said, “But, enough of that, I need to teach you how to be a carpenter.”

  —

  And so went the next few weeks. Django would work, usually between ten and twelve hours a day, depending on the workload, and Toulouse would spend time with Sally in the meanwhile. Of course he’d greet his neighbors, but his prolonged work meant he never got to know any of them too deeply. Most of the time, when he got home, he barely had time to make the three of them dinner (as a gratitude for the childcare Toulouse had provided) before going to sleep.

  “Baba.” He heard. He was lying back in a chair, too exhausted to even slump into his bed, he had crashed where he sat. How long had he been asleep for? He couldn’t even fathom the answer as he arose from the least refreshing sleep he’d ever had. Sally was standing there - not an uncommon sight over the last few weeks - and was doing her best to drag something behind her. “Baba blanket.”

  “A blanket?” He asked, gently taking the object from her, “Thank you, Sally.” He laid back, resting his eyes for a few seconds, before he realized, “Wait, Sally? You spoke!”

  He regained a new wellspring of energy at that point, leaping to his feet and picking her up to look her in the eyes. A few tears of joy came to his eyes at seeing just how fast she was growing. Not even thirteen months and she already made a sentence… of sorts. Still, she seemed to be remarkably fast, not only in her legs but in her development as well.

  “Very good, Sally.” He paused for a few moments, seeing if she would continue, “Anything else to add?”

  “Baba blanket.” She repeated, squealing happily at his high pitched voice.

  “Baba blanket indeed.” Her father laid back, closing his eyes. His daughter had no such habit. Never needing to sleep, her body never instinctually closed its eyes, and as such, she simply stared forward, listening to Django’s heartbeat.

  —

  A few years had passed since Sally’s first words, and the routine remained, well… routine. She had of course grown significantly, standing, and sprinting as well at unbelievable speeds, and above all else causing trouble. But her growth was even more remarkable: by just fourteen months, she was making sentences of five words, sometimes more, by age two she was able to read, and by age three she was calculating sums and differences in her head.

  All this was to say, she was entirely too gifted to be properly challenged by either of her caretakers. Of course there was nothing to replace them, but as far as teaching went, they had nothing to offer. So, come the fall of her third year, Django sought about looking for some school she could attend.

  “Oh, Joseph?” He asked. He was carrying Sally in one hand, but used the other to shake his boss’ hand, “What are you doing here?”

  “I actually have a son, not too much older than yours.” He replied, laughing at the coincidence, “Is… she supposed to be mouthing that?”

  “Mouthing what?” Django looked down, and gently grabbed the necklace he had on, “No, Sally! That’s not food.”

  “It tasted like metal.” Sally said, wisely.

  “It is metal, little one.” Her father informed her, “She’s remarkably intelligent for her age.”

  “Wow.” Joseph remarked, “She’s only three, right? Well, here’s my son. He is five and his name is Montagne, because, well…” Instead of continuing, the carpenter stepped out of the way to reveal his absolutely massive son. Despite only being five, he was nearly sixty inches tall, with shoulders big enough to make him a serious threat at rugby.

  “Oh, Paace.” Django remarked, “What have you been feeding him?”

  “A lot of milk, I suppose.” Joseph beamed with pride, gesturing to his son’s well-developed horns, “Look at how large they’ve grown.”

  “And you haven’t…” The younger man trailed off. It was a difficult thing to talk about openly.

  “Oh, heavens, no!” The older man said, offended, “No, they just simply haven’t grown at the same rate. They’re rather cute, how small they are.”

  “Not small.” Montagne said, in a voice that was unfittingly small and high-pitched for such a large boy. “They’re normal.”

  “Right, right, well,” His father coughed into his hand to interrupt, “How about we take a look inside, eh?”

  “Say, Joseph -” Django said as they entered through the threshold, “I thought Marie normally handled this type of thing?”

  “Oh, she’s eh…” He held his hand out and tilted it up and down, “Visiting family out in the countryside.”

  “Welcome,” A very tired looking woman, corralling two or three little ones, said to the pair, “Just a moment, sirs.” She snatched two of them by the back of their collars, keeping the kids in line long enough to greet the gentlemen at the door, “I take it you’re here to enroll your children?”