Alphonse Maria Mucha North Star

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“You haven’t changed a bit, Esme.”
“Nor have you, then. You’re still a rotten liar, Mustrum
Ridcully”
They walked toward one another. The Librarian shuttled between them with a tray of meringues. Behind them, Ponder Stibbons groveled on the floor for a spilled bottle of dried frog pills.
“Well, well,” said Ridcully.
“Fancy “Nine stones, then.”
“Hmm . . . should be about right . . . three miles hub-ward . . . you’ll feel a slight lurch to the left, nothing to worry about...”
In a lightning movement, he grabbed her hand. He felt young and light-headed. The wizards back at the University would have been astonished.
“Let me take you away from all this.”that.”“Small world.”“Yes indeed.”“You’re you and I’m me. Amazing. And it’s here and now.”“Yes, but then was then.”“I sent you a lot of letters,” said Ridcully“Never got ‘em.”There was a glint in Ridcully’s eye.“That’s odd. And there was me putting all those destina-tion spells on them too,” he said. He gave her a critical up-and-down glance. “How much do you weigh, Esme? Not a spare ounce on you, I’ll be bound.”“What do you want to know for?”“Indulge an old man.”