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Isabella looks unhappy about this.

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"Well, there's two kinds of people," he explains. "One you take their stuff and they want it back, one you take their stuff and they wanna hurt you. I give back to the first kind."

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That makes a twisted sort of sense, but Isabella can't claim to be happy with it, and it still shows on her face. She can't come up with a sufficiently diplomatic reply, given that it seems reasonably likely she will eventually be divinely commanded to marry this person.

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Micaiah laughs softly. "What?"

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"I - that isn't a fair test," she says. "Serah carries her money in a little bag that her mother gave her before she died. If someone took the bag from her I'm sure she'd fly into a rage. That wouldn't mean it's okay to take the bag, or to judge her based on what she does when it's taken and punish her by keeping it."

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"It's not about who deserves it!" he says. "It's about whether I can give their things back without getting my head bashed in!"

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"You could always drop them and run away," she says.

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He shrugs again.

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Isabella sighs. Jovah has a reason for everything. She flies on, quietly.

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"Did I make you sad?"

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"A little."

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"I'm sorry," he says earnestly.

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"I'm sure you didn't mean to."

(She is in fact fairly confident of that.)
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"I still did, though," he says. "So I'm sorry."

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"I'm fine, really."

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He smiles. "Okay!"

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Flap, flap, soar. Flap, flap, updraft, soar.

Isabella loves to fly. It never fails to calm her. Presently she's not thinking about the fact that the person Jovah may have chosen for her is a pickpocket.
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And presently Micaiah is laughing again.

Whatever his other qualities, he is definitely a very happy person.
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After the promised three-hours-and-change flight, Isabella touches down on the landing outside the oracle's mountain. She sets Micaiah on his feet, and greets the acolyte who stands at the door - some Manadavvi's child, there for a year before entering the priesthood - with a, "Hello. I am Isabella, and Alleluia might remember me - I have a question for her, but I can wait until she's ready to receive me, I know I'm not expected."

"Just a moment, angela," says the acolyte, dipping his head and running inside.
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Micaiah peers around with open, cheerful curiosity.

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The acolyte is back presently. "The oracle will be with you in less than an hour," he says. "Will angela and her guest prefer to wait here, or at the foot of the mountain?"

"Micaiah, do you have a preference?" Isabella asks. "The foot of the mountain has Alleluia's husband's workshop; he and one of their children are there most of the time. Up here there are acolytes. I'm fine either way."
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He tilts his head from side to side for a moment, then concludes, "Workshop!"

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"Okay. We'll be back up soon," Isabella tells the acolyte, and she picks up Micaiah again and throws herself off the cliff. (There are stairs. This is faster.)

The workshop is a warehouse-like building, all over electric lighting and with a couple of generators out back, one of them puffing away. In addition to the oracle's husband and their kid, there must be a number of students, because there are more than two people present swarming about the place with their arms full of parts and wires and clockwork.

"Hello, angela!" says a girl about twelve years old. "What brings you and your friend here?"

"We're waiting for Alleluia, and thought we'd look around while she's finishing up what she's doing, if that's all right," says Isabella.

"That's fine! Want to see the clock I'm making? I'm making a clock!"

"Sure," says Isabella.
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"Ooh, show me the clock," Micaiah says excitedly.

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The girl shows them the clock! Its innards are clockwork, though the blocky battery that also weights its base powers the spinning of the first gear rather than there being any winding mechanism, and she is adding parts to make little figurines of fish spin in place on the surface on each hour.

Isabella refrains from complimenting her on it, though she does smile kindly. People are always giving angels gifts, and this only becomes more likely if they compliment relevant objects.
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