Jazz is used to hanging on for dear life — a lot of the time, that isn't an exaggerated way of putting it. Though they don't have a bond that allows true communication, Jazz and Fortescue have an unconscious level of understanding with one another. She knows how far she can push him. He digs in with his claws, mewling quietly. Going somewhere warmer will agree with his short fur.

"Not exactly," she muses, taking Balthazar's arm, thinking of paintings with witches and cats. That was entirely fictional, where she came from, but the idea had started because of someone, presumably, who had also chosen a cat, once upon a time. She goes for a blunt explanation. "Jazz is my soul carrier. Mine was extracted, in a process called exanima, because the magic I use harms it. He keeps it safe for me."