“The soft wind from the south-west calls in a voice like my mother's. Italy, it whispers. Greece. Corsica, Sardinia. Its name is Sirocco, Levante, Ostrale, and sometimes even Khamaseen, and it promises magic, and freedom, and love. But that cold, clean wind from the north-north-east has a chilly charm of its own: its name is Mistral, and it calls to me in a voice I think I know; a voice I first heard when I opened the map and saw the village with my name. The voice of an unknown future.
Vianne or Mother? Which will it be?”