The sky was a muted rose-gold with sharp shards of brilliant light still piercing through and casting shadows and those she watched below.  As the clouds shifted and shaped, like ivory or opal, tufts of opaque white and translucent bluishness, she started imaging the sun and clouds forming exotic pieces of antique jewelry.

"I wonder why abstract art is such a relatively new concept."  Agnes spoke, knowing someone stood a few paces behind her.  The jasmine and patchouli gave it away.

"Because sapiens think they've mastered the art of realism."  Jezebel's voice was confident, yet soft, a manner Agnes had tried in vain to copy, as she always sounded flighty or perturbed.

"Huh."  She kicked at the blank air in front of her, willing open a hole beneath her feet to stare at the city scape beneath her.  "What about surrealism?"

"Over and above what is real."  Jezebel came closer, but stayed out of her friends line of vision.  "It would seem that having conquered what is real, sapeins must move beyond it... to what is unreal.  To what is incongrous, unlikely, absurd."

"So surreal is basically supernatural- a step above what is actual."  It was a statement, not a question, but she expected Jezebel to disagree.

"Well, perhaps.  But sapiens would never call it that."  She moved into view so she could glimpse what Agnes stared at.  "See, supernatural to them denotes some sort of otherworldliness, some sort of spirituality or godliness or the idea that certain aspects of life are unimaginably out of their control."  She put her hand on Agnes's shoulder, a quick squeeze to promote eye contact, and obligingly Agnes looked up.  "Surrealism is their artistic explanation for the juxtapositions are strange coincidences that we, in fact, supernaturally cause.  Those who are drawn to such an art form are drawn to us, looking for answers, through art or literature, for why life is so complex and strange."

"But it doesn't have to be."

"No.  And for many , it is not.  But there are so many of them out there, breeding, multiplying, stretching out across the canvas of earth.  And they, in turn, become our paintbrushes, our medium for creating surrealist works.  Because we are, of course, the supernatural, the surreal, that thing that hovers above them producing irony and inconceivable coincidence."

"Hmmm."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Of course not.  But I've got a lot to think about."  Agnes turned to face her friend.  Both of them were barefoot and Agnes's eyes came only to the swanlike neck of her pseudo-mentor, something like a sister, teacher, and best friend.

"I, too, have been thinking.  Running through my mind's recesses to see if I could come up with anything useful.  And it dawned on me that, not long ago, a similar situation occured with Delilah.  She lost one of her vessels on that same island."  She smiled, expectantly.  "You might want to talk to her."

"Oh, no no."  Agnes took a step back and Jezebel's grin widened.  "She's flaky and bright and energetic and optimistic and all those things that grate on my nerves."

"And she's your sister."

"Well, so are you.  But I like you."

"And you love us both."  Jezebel hugged her close.  "Just talk to her.  I know you've been worrying about this Holly case, and if she can't give you any insight, at least she can, in her absent-minded way, provide you with some direction.  She makes an excellent sounding board."

"Alright, alright.  I'll try it."  Agnes shoudlered her way out of the embrace.  "But only cause she's a relative of yours.  Otherwise, I'd have no patience for her."