Anar, a witch, brews up a deadly concoction to ensure that her sweetheart doesn't have to be bothered by an annoying man. Written for Floraison, a Floriagraphy and Original Character zine.

You can also check out the full tags and read it here on AO3!

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“Miss Anar?” 

The girl’s eyes are wide like saucers, tracking Anar’s every movement. Curious. So curious—to the point where Anar wonders if she might be an apprentice in the making. Young little Mita watches as she tosses herbs in her mortar and pestle. She sways slightly at the sound of the grinding, standing on her tip-toes, fingers white-knuckled against the countertop as she steadies herself to peer over it.

Anar smiles at her. “Yes?”

“Mint, right?”

Anar blinks, looking at the handful of leaves that just left her palm. She hums softly. “Correct. You’ve been looking at pictures again, haven’t you?”

“Father brought a few more back from his last trip into the city. I—well.” Mita rubs her face sheepishly. “I like to watch. You, I mean. I like to watch the spells that you weave together.”

Yes, yes, perhaps I’ll ask her later on. Anar has never thought much of taking an apprentice but the more afternoons Mita spends in her shop, the more she considers it. Today, though, it is less just to watch. Mita has come for a potion of her own on behalf of her mother.

“For luck,” says Anar, swirling the pestle around the mortar until the leaves are fine and dusty. “The mint. There are many properties that can be found in its veins but this is the most common application. And the easiest to apply, I suppose. Do you know what else it can be used for?”

Mita’s brow furrows as she thinks and Anar laughs. “Don’t work too hard at it. I’ll tell you, little one. Wealth. Those sorts of spells take practice, though. Time and effort. They are also costly, which is why I don’t often find myself dabbling in such things. Perhaps when I was still in the city.”

A lifetime ago. The hustle and bustle of it all. Anar isn’t much of a people person and after years of brushing elbows with high-society, she’d settled out in the Steppe away from prying eyes and ears. The quiet is nice. Her garden flourishes in the rich, clean air, and the unfettered sun. 

Anar pauses in her thoughts and holds up another leaf, this one flat with spindly leaves. “Another test,” she says to Mita good-naturedly.

Mita grins. “Mugwort!”

“For?”

Mita’s nose wrinkles at that. “Divination. Ma likes to read the stars but Pa would rather read bones,” she says. 

It comes as no surprise. Mita’s Ma is the sort whose head is in the cloud. Her Pa is more practical, feet tethered to the earth, a good head on his shoulders. 

“The results aren’t much different no matter where you look at them.” Anar wiggles her eyebrows exaggeratedly and Mita bursts into laughter. “For the Mugwort,” she continues, her tone turning more professional, “we merely bundle it up around the satchel—no need to grind it up. Everything else, though—” She pauses as she presses a funnel into a small cloth bag and dumps the contents of the mortal right in. “We tie this off and it’s as good to go.”

“No words?”

“Not every spell needs words, little one.” Anar grins. “Sometimes all you need is just intention—I’ve done this one a million times so I just need to think about it.” She ties off the satchel with a pretty pink ribbon before handing the completed bundle to Mita across the counter. “Tell your Ma that she should go easy—this is the third one she’s ordered in two weeks.”

Mita rolls her eyes dramatically. “I’ve told her that a thousand times. You’ve told her that even more.”

Anar shoots her a knowing look. “And no doubt we’ll have to tell her a thousand more. Now off you go. Scoot.”

Mita tucks the spell into the back, gives Anar a mock salute, and slips out the door in a matter of minutes. 

Anar follows her and leans against the frame, watching as she skips down the street. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” she yells, hand cupped around her mouth as it curls into a smile. 

Talent. The girl has a knack. Anar will bring up an apprenticeship when the time is right and thinks that her parents just might find use in it. 

#

Anar’s days are simple.

Measure, mix, and repeat. Read out a recipe. Study some herbs. Measure more, mix more, and repeat once, twice, sometimes even thrice. Anar doesn’t just make spells, she weaves together bits and pieces of herself into bundles of flowers. She cultivates wards and breathes kindness into her work, tying bits and bundles together with silk-spun ribbons that gleam in the sunlight. 

It is back-breaking at times. Anar stretches on her stool, working the kinks out of her back. She rubs the spore spots on her hands idly. Capsaicin, she thinks. “Mint,” she murmurs aloud. “Just a quick past,” is easy to say even though she knows her break won’t be much of a break.

But the cool ointment will be a boon against her skin, bitter-cold sinking into those swollen joints to drown out those twinges. 

The few moments are worth it. And then she looks at her pile of work, haphazard files, and papers that nearly fall over on her desk. Anar sights, her bangs puffing up. “Another break,” she says to herself. “It’s lunchtime anyhow.”

It doesn’t matter if it’s nearly three in the afternoon, Anar sets her things aside, dons her cloak, and locks the front door behind her. It’s not as though anyone else is setting their watches by her meal times.

#

“I know that look,” says Didar, setting down a cup of coffee onto the table, shortly followed by a plate laden with a pastry.

Instead of greeting her back, Anar huffs. “I don’t have a look.”

Didar raises an eyebrow as she leans back, wiping her hands on her apron. “You always have a look, and today it is exhaustion that you wear. You’re working yourself to the bone again.” She clicks her tongue. It is an accusation, not an opinion because Didar knows that she is right. 

“Cruel to me, aren’t you?”

“Me? Cruel?” Didar scoffs. “I will always speak my mind, Anar. You know this.”

Anar does. It’s why her heart skips a beat at the sight of her, why just the sight of Didar’s heart-shaped face, or how her plaited hair hanging over her shoulder remains in her mind for days. Didar’s expression is sharp and her green eyes bold. She doesn’t bother to hand her a menu. “Nasma is already working on your sandwich. We’ll get you right back to—”

“Didar!”

Didar’s face immediately sours. She doesn’t turn immediately, pinching the bridge of her nose. Anar watches as Didar sighs and takes a deep breath before shooting her an apologetic look. 

“Nasir,” she greets, turning on her heel. “Good afternoon to you.”

He is a decent man. Handsome enough with a charming smile. Hair that curls about his forehead in messy ringlets. Anar doesn’t pretend to know him but his grandmother is a frequent client. Still. There’s something about him that rubs her the wrong way. His smile, while sweet, seems off. 

“I was wondering if—”

“Nasir,” cuts in Didar, “I’m working.” She says this gently though Anar recognizes the exasperation that tinges the edge of her words. 

“A few moments won’t hurt anyone.”

“I have tables.”

“A question—”

Didar scoffs. “If it’s the same one as always then the answer hasn’t changed.”

Oh. Anar watches, cradling her chin in her palm. A persistent man, then. She’s had her fair share of those as well. Didar, though, isn’t the type to sit back and do nothing. Anar has no doubt that she’s been honest to the point of rudeness.

“Nasir, with all the kindness that I can muster—not right now.”

“Then when? Tell me a time and I’ll make it happen.”

Didar sighs, her bangs puffing away from her forehead. “I’ve said no time and time again, and yet you bother me here.”

“Just a chance,” says Nasir. He leans against the hostess's podium. “That’s all I’m asking for. I’m a nice guy.”

“I’m sure,” says Didar, leaning forward to fiddle with the plate on Anar’s table. Anything to look busy and distracted. “The answer is the same.”

“But—” 

“It will not change Nasir.” Didar gives him a falsely sweet smile. “And tell your grandmother that no amount of treats will change that, either, as tasty as they are.” 

Nasir doesn’t immediately answer. His lips curl into a frown, his jaw tensing. Like most men, he doesn’t enjoy the repeated rejection. He opens his mouth and Didar cuts him off again.

“Take the loss for the day,” she says. “You’ll have another chance to bother me tomorrow since you cannot seem to take no for an answer.”

Oh, that annoys him. Nasir’s gaze turns cool but he remains polite. “Well,” he drawls, “I bid you a good day, then. May your patrons treat you with the same kindness you’ve imparted upon me.”

Didar heaves a sigh of relief once he is out of sight. “Gods,” she murmurs, dropping into the chair opposite her. “That man.”

“A common occurrence?” Anar doesn’t need the answer, though; she can tell by the way Didar cringes. 

“He usually comes around earlier in the morning. His grandmother is near and he shares breakfast with her, so on the way back to his home…” Didar waves vaguely. “He isn’t a bad man. Genuinely kind, I think. But he just won’t take the hint.”

Anar hums, pulling her coffee close and taking a sip. “Is it kind to be so… obstinate?”

Didar rubs her face. “Likely not. I only meant he means no harm. He truly just wants a date, but if I were to entertain it…” She sighs, leaning back in her chair. “It is nothing against him. Our interests don’t align. That is all.”

Anar leans over and nudges her with an elbow. “No desire to marry?”

“My affection lies elsewhere, is all.”

Anar’s heart lurches at that. There is hope—there’s always been hope that the candle she burns isn’t one-sided. Didar is receptive enough with her tinkling laughter and casual touches. Still, she’s never pushed those boundaries, never tested the waters. 

She has propriety, at least.

“In any case, I do have to get back to work. It’s a slower day but I have another table.”

“Didi,” says Anar as she moves to stand. “What would you do to remove the man?”

Didar’s face crinkles slightly and she chuckles. “Do you have such a thing? Honestly, I’d be right as rain if I never saw his face again.” She tilts her head. “You aren’t thinking of something drastic, are you?”

She knows Anar far too well. “Of course not,” she replies, pretending mild offense. But then they meet gazes, their demeanor cracks, and they burst into raucous laughter. 

“You won’t do anything too terrible, will you?” asks Didar, mostly as a tease.

Anar intentionally does not say anything. Instead, she just takes Didar’s hand, squeezes it, and then requests a refill of her coffee. That touch lingers, Didar’s thumb rubbing over her knuckles before she walks off. 

Didar can take care of herself, there is no doubt, but no amount of curt words will change this man’s mind. But Anar is protective. Even if she had no affection for her, Didar is an old friend, and Anar would still stick her nose where it doesn’t belong. As she thinks about the entire exchange, she plots, thinking of her herbs and plants, and their uses. 

Nasir is harmless enough. Mildly annoying in his doggedness but inoffensive in most matters. 

Anar, though, is not. As she plots, her mouth curls into a cruel smile. 

#

The solution is, of course, simple: Anar will just take care of the problem. 

“Rarely do I get to use you,” she says sweetly as she digs through the shuttered-off part of her garden. The locals know not to come here for these are her more… unique ingredients. And though most, whilst unpleasant, are still relatively harmless, there is one sacred sister that is planted in the far back corner, out of sight. 

Anar wears gloves. “Beauty defined by death,” she sing-songs as she cups the plant, petting over its leaves, turning them to and fro. “By beloved Belladonna and her sweet, succulent end.” She thumbs over a plump berry, watching the way the dark skin shines in the midday sun.  “Nicely ripened,” she muses. “Perfect for a tincture meant to be a nuisance.”

She plucks a handful and drops them into her pouch. When she stands, she stretches out her back, groaning as if this is just a normal day of work for her. “Later,” she says, patting her satchel, “after the rest of my spells. A little… side project as it were. Overtime.” 

Anar laughs like the tinkling of bells pealing through the air. It certainly is the sound of a woman mad or with revenge on her mind.

#

She does not use much. And really, Anar’s intention isn’t necessarily to kill the man. 

All it takes to kill an adult is ten berries. She holds them in her palm and sighs, forcing herself to use only three. “His size,” she mutters to herself as she calculates her measurements. “He’s tall and of decent build. As long as he follows the instructions he won’t keel over.”

But he’ll get sick. He’ll be a mess of night sweats, hallucinations, and a very angry stomach. Anar grins as she mixes her paste, crushing the berries into an assortment of other goodies—all things to relieve headaches. “How lucky,” she says to herself as she dumps in a handful of mint. “Most men don’t go around for medicines like this. How… soft.”

Too bad he’s annoying. Too bad he bothers her dear sweet Didar. Once should be enough, but to request a man to leave twice, thrice—however many times Didar has requested. Well. Anar’s mouth twists into a sour frown. 

“Brought this upon yourself, didn’t you?” What a satisfying thought and it brings a grin back to her face as she bottles up the tincture and gives it a label and a date.

Later, when Nasir drops by her quaint little spell shop, Anar greets him with a smile as she does everyone else. “What a surprise,” she says, “when you called in this request.”

“Yes, well, the regular powders just aren’t cutting it and even I can only handle so much.”

Anar hums at that and places the bottle on the counter. It is small. Inconspicuous. Once opened, it’ll smell like mint and pepper. “I’ve formulated something very special just for you.”

Nasir’s head tilts and his eyes widen. Anar doesn’t like that look; it’s the same sort of one that a man gives a prize-winning pig. The last thing she needs is for him to turn his affections toward her. Anar taps the jar, bringing his attention back to it. 

“Now listen, Nasir, and listen very closely. As you know tinctures are only tinctures, but once my intent is woven into them they become spells. And spells have rules—which I repeat only once.”

“Miss Anar—”

“Once, I said, so you better listen. A dollop into your tea only once a day. The size of a pea, no more, no less. In the morning is best but midday will suffice, but when taken close to bed, you’ll have terrible dreams. It may upset your stomach, and you may vomit and spit, but isn’t that better than the pain? But as I said, these are the rules, and if you don’t follow them…”

“If I don’t follow them?”

Anar shrugs. “I’d venture that it wouldn’t be smart.”

“And if my head still hurts?”

“Take your other medicine—and that is a warning, not a suggestion.”

Nasir thumbs at his chin before nodding. Coins are exchanged. He palms the bottle with flair. “You know, Miss Anar,” he says as he reaches the door, “I had thought you unkind but perhaps I was wrong. Thank you and good day.”

Anar watches him go and feels no regret. “He’s more likely to muck it up, isn’t he? Well, I’ve warned him at least. The rest would only be his own damn fault.”

Still. She hides a grin at the thought.

#

Nasir, in typical male fashion, does not follow Anar’s instructions. 

It does not take long. Anar catches sight of him several days later whilst having lunch at the diner. Nasir looks a mess, pale and sweating profusely. Babbling incoherently about monsters in the night. Didar clicks her tongue as she pours Anar a fresh cup of tea. 

And then Nasir retires to his home, going unseen for days to come. 

A week passes by. Anar spends her day off working in her garden, weeding the green bits that threaten her herbs. “Annoying,” she mutters. “You just have to—”

“Nasir is dead.”

Anar jerks, smacking herself in the face with shock. “Ow,” she hisses, reeling back. Her head spins a little and her nose is sore. “Didi—”

“Don’t you Didi me.”

Anyone else would take that tone as an accusation. Anar knows Didar like the back of her hand; she hears the subtle amusement that curls around her words. When Anar finally meets her gaze, Didar watches back, her eyes glinting. 

“Did you have something to do with it?”

“That’s a bold accusation.”

Didar hums and leans against the fence that pickets her garden. “One that received no answer.”

Anar doesn’t want to lie, and so she says, “I made him exactly what he asked for.”

“Which was?”

“A tincture for his headaches. Perhaps the ingredients were a little unorthodox but they work all the same. The instructions were simple but very specific. If Nasir didn’t follow them…Well.” Anar stands and brushes the dirt from her skirt. 

“So you did have something to do with it.” There is no judgment. In fact, there is a romanticism to her tone, a quiet sort of awe that laces her voice. 

“Didi,” says Anar, stepping close. She reaches out and takes her hand, thumbing over the backs of Didar’s knuckles. “As a witch, my intentions are very clear.”

Didar’s face crinkles as she smiles. “And those would be?”

“That I kiss and never tell.” 

Anar sweeps her hand close and kisses each and every knuckle, and Didar—sweet, kind Didar—bursts into laughter that blooms like the sun. 

Guoba spends an exciting night at the museum. Written for Around the World, a Genshin Travel Zine inspired by real-life places!

You can also check out the full tags and read it here on AO3!

--


Mexico City is hot and Guoba watches as Xiangling sticks a finger into her collar, tugging gently at the silk. 

“Well, at least the flight is over, isn’t that right Guoba?” She glances at him, reaching out to rub a hand across his head. Guoba doesn’t mind plane rides but he knows that she isn’t fond of them. Even as much as they travel, she still gets nervous the moment the engines rumble to life. 

He chirps in response, waving at her, and Xiangling gives him a bright smile as her fingers scratch across the crown of his head. Pets are always welcome, especially from her. Guoba delights in them.

“Excited?” she asks. Guoba nods again. “Yeah, I figured you would be. Mexico City! Of all the places we’ve been to, this is a first for us. I can already imagine it—all the tasty and amazing things that are just waiting to be cooked by my hands.” She pauses, sighing contently. “Día de Muertos. What fun this’ll be.”

Guoba doesn’t doubt it. Xiangling is the best at what she does, those fingers dexterous as they prepare meals with care. Not one person will go unfed under her watchful eye and they’ll leave her presence satisfied, and with bellies full. His mouth is already salivating at the thought of it. 

Xiangling pulls out her phone and scrolls through her emails. “Right then. Looks like someone’s going to meet us here at the airport, and then we’ll be off to the festival. They’ve provided a nice hotel room—oooh, that’s exciting! I wonder if the room service is as good as these reviews say…” She gives him a mischievous grin. “Well, there's only one way to find out, right? Say Guoba, wanna order one of everything on the menu?”

Guoba dances around at the idea of it, never having been one to turn down food, be it good or not. 

#

“Alright, Guoba, here’s the deal.” Xiangling kneels to his level and flashes a bright grin. “I’m about to start setting up here for the cook-off tomorrow, and I have to make sure that it’s perfect. I’m up against Smiley Yanxiao and you know he’s no slouch!”

Guoba does know that, remembering the tasty eats the man dished up during the Moonchase Festival back home. As if on cue, his stomach gurgles at the thought of it.

Xiangling laughs. “Oh, would you listen to that! Are you hungry, Guoba?”

The truth is that he’s always hungry, his stomach constantly roiling and boiling, feeling hollowed out. Guoba dances around and gives an affirmative, which leaves Xiangling reaching out to pinch at his cheek with a smile. 

“As soon as our spot is prepped I’ll cook you something good. In the meantime, why not explore a little?” Then she leans in and gives him a conspiratorial wink. “Just don’t get into any trouble, okay?”

Guoba huffs slightly. He isn’t like her. Xiangling dips her toes in trouble wherever she goes, whether she means to or not. In his experience, though, she means to. She grins at his scoff and reaches out to ruffle the fur that coats his head. Just like that, friendship tingles in his belly as Guoba leans into her touch happily. She scritches and scratches his scalp, and Guoba sighs in contentment.

“Right then,” she says with a chuckle. “Off you go. And remember—” Xiangling taps at her nose. “Behave.”

Guoba trills at them, beaming brightly. As if he wouldn’t. Who does she think he is?

#

The problem is that Guoba doesn’t mean to get into trouble. Xiangling encourages him to explore the grounds, and so he does, toddling into the Museo Nacional de Antropología without a second thought. 

They likely didn’t mean to leave the side door unlocked. Too few staff, too many vendors, and too many people setting up their ofrendas in preparation for their midnight picnics. The entire museum grounds are a chaotic nightmare, and Guoba slips in easily unnoticed. 

Guoba is smart, but he is also a little oblivious. Head caught in the clouds, thinking of only the moment—and at that moment he thinks of the rows of antiquities that he waddles between, taking in things he’s never seen or ever imagined, priceless gems of a culture he’s never experienced. 

Mr. Zhongli would like this, he thinks, pausing to look at a set of conquistador armor hanging in a plastic box, gleaming in its display. He’s a man of history just as Guoba is, and would surely enjoy wandering around these halls. 

However much he enjoys the exhibits, though, Guoba is not supposed to be perusing the wares after hours and deep into the night. The evening guards are not expecting visitors, so as he ambles around, they hone in on the noise of his footsteps.

“Wait, did you hear that?” one asked in a hushed whisper of Spanish. 

Guoba pauses as well, his ears flickering; he might not understand the words, but he understands the tone. He looks around frantically, looking for any signs of an intruder. 

“Yes.” A pause. “I didn’t see anything. Did you?”

The first guard sighs. “I mean, I always hear things, but isn’t that how it is? We’re surrounded by the dead, what do you expect? Is it a night shift if we don’t see shadows?”

Guoba leans a little too far around the edge of a display case and loses his balance, tumbling across the floor and knocking into another exhibit. He panics as the whole thing shakes. 

The guards freeze and Guoba sees a flashlight beam down the hall from around the corner. 

“Aya, La Llarona?”

“Don’t be stupid. That’s a myth.”

“Are you saying that my Abuela lies?”

“Alright, you win. Everyone knows that Abuelas don’t lie.”

There is a pause and then both of the guards burst into laughter. 

Meanwhile, Guoba steadies the display before tip-toeing away without further problems. Careful, he thinks as he roams on. It’s clear that he’ll have to play a careful game of keeping quiet in the halls.

#

It is fun. 

Guoba delights in the sights of the museum despite the way that the displays are dimmed. There is a musty smell, and everything is a little dusty, but it’s a comforting thing for a creature as old as him. There is so little that he seems to share time with, but the collections within these walls are well-aged with time all the same. 

Suits of armor; old textiles and farming equipment; indigenous regalia, and carved stone epitaphs—he feels a kinship, thinks Guoba as he presses a fat paw against a glass case housing artifacts that were used in a game of handball. Guoba feels at home amongst all these age-old artifacts polished by time. 

Eventually, he comes across an ancient hearth. It is the perfect ratio of stone slab to space for a fire and would have fit so many pots, brush nestled neatly into the inside for a hot, crackling fire.

Guoba’s mouth falls open, his eyes wide. He feels the Pyro that burns in his heart, fueled by his love for providing for others whether he remembers doing so or not. His memory might not be so good, but he’ll always be the God of the Stove. 

He teeter-totters on both feet as he makes a dumb decision. Underneath the ropes he goes. Just for a moment, he thinks. Just to get a better look. 

Guoba means no harm, of course. 

He also doesn’t mean to knock anything over. 

The exhibit signage tumbles to the floor in a loud clatter, and Guoba jumps.

“Aiyah, did you hear that?”

The fur on the back of Guoba’s neck stands on end, ears twitching. The guards, he thinks. Not good. He doesn’t know how he’ll get away in time. Guoba has never been a swift thing, rather slow on his feet and not-so-good with his balance. He pauses, standing in the middle of the exhibit awkwardly.

Oh, bother, he thinks, rubbing his grubby little paws together. What a nightmare, what a mess. This is the reason that Xiangling never lets him wander off alone. 

“Eh? Do you think—”

“Should we go look?”

“I’d rather not.”

There is a pause in which the guardsmen are uncomfortably quiet. Guoba still stands there, frozen to the spot, a paw pressed to his face. And then—

“Pssst.”

Guoba turns to the left, only to find the grinning face of Xiangling. Oh, thank Morax. Guoba sighs in relief as he begins to waddle towards her. 

“So this is where you disappeared to, huh? You know that you aren’t supposed to be here?” Guoba tilts his head to the side, face crinkled with confusion. Xiangling tuts at that, lifting the exhibition rope to help him back under. “Come on, let’s get out of here before you get in trouble.”

Easier said than done. The moment that the words tumble from her mouth, a guard turns the corner, the beam of his flashlight shining through the dark room. 

Xiangling winces, covering her face. “Gosh, that’s bright. You see all the dust in the air—”

“Hey! What are you doing here?”

Guoba jumps at the man’s voice, looking around to find whoever he’s yelling at. 

And then, belatedly, Guoba realizes that the guard has his flashlight trained on him and Xiangling, his face pulled into a terse frown. The man’s gaze then washes over Guoba before morphing into something more akin to horror. “Ahhh!” he yells.

His partner appears around the corner, only to drop his own flashlight at the sight of Guoba. It clatters to the ground, rolling across the tile. “Chupacabra!”  the man screams, high-pitched. “It’s—it’s—”

“Dios Mio, we need to get out of here.”

“We can’t, he’s—”

Guoba’s mouth flops open. He’s slow on the intake sometimes, but Guoba now realizes that he’s the intruder they’ve been worried about the entire time. Oh. 

“Easy there,” says Xiangling, holding her hands out to try and placate the guards. “He’s not a… chupacabra?” Her mouth curls around the foreign word, sputtering it slightly. “He’s just Guoba!”

The first guard gets a good look at her, his arms dropping back to his sides. “Eh? Miss,” he says, swapping to accented English. “You’re—”

“Definitely not supposed to be here, I know! My apologies.” Xiangling grins widely as she brushes the dust from her thighs. “Guoba here—he’s my friend—I told him to go explore, but I couldn’t find him once I was done setting up my booth for the festival. Seems that he wandered in here through an open door.”

The second guardsman regards the both of them warily. “Friend,” he murmurs quietly, his voice wavering. “You call him a friend? Are you sure he’s not a spirit? Considering the festival—”

Xiangling’s laugh cuts him off. She moves to wrap an arm around Guoba, tugging him close for a hug. “Guoba’s been with me for almost as long as I can remember—though, the idea of spirit in the night…exciting.” Her grin widens then. “I’d say that perhaps that’d be the full cultural experience, no?”

“Miss—”

“Xiangling, please.” The guard seems to recognize her name, and it’s no surprise. Xiangling is an invited guest, front-page news as far as the festival goes. “He didn’t damage anything did he?”

Guoba snorts at that before the guardsman can answer. As if.

The guard shakes his head. “No, it seems as though everything is fine, aside from the stand over there.”

Xiangling sighs in relief. “So no harm, no foul, right?”

“I—”

“It’s fine.”

The first guard turns to the second. “But, Pedro—”

Pedro cuts him off in Spanish. “Whatever he claims, he’s a strange creature, no? Wouldn’t it be better to play it safe?”

“Still think he’s a chupacabra, then?”

“He’s something, isn’t he?” Pedro then looks at Xiangling. “Not to mention the rumors of the young miss. She’s known to cook just about anything.”

The first guard shivers at the thought, and Xiangling and Guoba are left wondering what they’re talking about. “Right then,” he agrees in English. “No harm, no foul. Just make sure the two of you get out of here, okay? You can visit properly during the day.”

“Right-o!” Xiangling gives him a mock salute before tugging at Guoba gently. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Guoba toddles after her, doing his best to keep up. He feels guilty, just a little. He should have realized that no museum would be open that late, but curiosity got the better of him. At least it didn’t kill him, much like the cat of yore.

Once outside, Xiangling whips around and drops to a knee. “Did you have fun?” she asks him, sweeping a thumb over his forehead. “Dusty,” she finishes with a laugh. 

Guoba can’t talk in the same way, but he gives her a goofy grin, rocking back and forth on his feet. As positive a response as he can muster for her. He sings a soft little note, and Xiangling chuckles as she ruffles the rubbery fur on top of his head. 

“They called you a chupacabra,” she says then, pressing a finger to her mouth in thought. “I wonder just what it is?” Then, her eyes glint with fevered intent. “Think that it’s something tasty? Can I fry up strips of the flank like bacon? Oh, that’d be a thought, wouldn’t it?”

Guoba snickers as she goes on and on without taking a breath. 

Finally, when her thoughts have been sorted out, and she’s tired from thinking about spices and wine pairings, Xiangling sighs softly. Her hand finds his head again, scratching against his scruff. “What a day, yeah? We’re in a new place, and they thought you were a ghost!” She pauses, soaking up the atmosphere of Mexico City. “Apt, though, considering the festival. I’ve learned a lot about Día de Muertos just today alone! I can’t wait to sink my teeth into more—especially the food.”

Guoba dances around on his feet, circling about to show his excitement. He loves that they’re in a new place, but more than anything, he loves that Xiangling seems entirely beside herself, ready to sink her teeth into this bright new culture spread before them. 

“Alright then,” she says, nudging him with her elbow. “Want to go check out the food stalls? It’s late, but it’s a party that goes on all night!”

Guoba can’t agree fast enough, his stomach gurgling at the thought. Nothing to work up a good appetite like accidentally breaking into a museum. 

When Xiangling wraps her fingers around his palm and tugs, he goes, chirping happily.