OOC: My writing style will seem a little disjointed and choppy at times, but I'm doing this to go along with the character. I'm introducing this slowly, but I'm going to try to start writing thoughts as she thinks them, random or not. Blame Faulkner. I'm reading his stuff for English, and it's rubbing off, but I'm not as good. 
"Annabelle."
"Yes?"
"Go check on the birdbath."
A white Angora cat danced around her feet while she walked softly to the sliding glass door. It sighed as she opened it, and a spring wind burst into the house and curtains erupted from their solemnity. The air sang with wind chimes. She slipped on a pair of sandals, and went tto find that the birdbath was as full as it had been the last time her grandfather had sent her to check on it. Ever since her grandfather had found out that she would be leaving, he had been giving her countless chores and tasks to do. He had also been having her do more exercises than usual. It was slightly disquieting—perhaps he thought this would be his last chance to do these things—but she smiled whenever he wanted to give her guidance.
“Grandpa, the birdbath is still full, and before you send me on another errand, I’ve already watered the flowers.”
Grandpa closed his mouth and turned to his book again. Worry filled the wrinkles in his wise forehead, and his lips were drawn tight across his youthful teeth like a bow ready to release an arrow. She went to curl up on the faded sofa beneath the far window, but Grandpa stopped her.
“Annabelle.”
“Yes?”
“What do you see in this new job? What will happen to you?”
Annabelle shrugged. “I can’t tell.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“I know.”
“Tomorrow will be… difficult.”
Annabelle hummed her agreement, and then went into the kitchen. The tea kettle on the stove began to whistle.
Annabelle’s powers were subtle. Her foresight only allowed her to see a few seconds into the future in most cases, so many of her psychic episodes appeared to be coincidence. She could not actually “see” into the future. She had not developed enough for that. For the time being, it was a reflex that came early, and she did things that she, for some reason, felt she should do. She had the ability to move small objects and manipulate fire and water, but she was still sloppy. Her forte was communicating with the dead. This was why she was going on this adventure in the first place. Though he would never admit it, Grandpa needed more money to fall back on than he had. This job would pay very well, and all Annabelle had to do was be herself. She suspected that Grandpa’s opinion of the job was sour because he knew she was doing it for him.
“Annabelle.”
“Yes?”
“Go practice your new sparring techniques.”
***
The next morning, Grandpa woke her up at six. She finished packing, and Grandpa took her to the airport. They were escorted to a private gate where Grandpa and Annabelle would have to say their goodbyes. Annabelle had wondered if Grandpa would cry. His hands were firm on her shoulders, and his eyes prodded at her own. And of all the things to say, he said, “You forgot to feed that damned cat.”
“Take care of him for me.”
He nodded. Through years of time spent together, they had developed their own language spoken between blinks. He looked at her a moment longer, and in that instant, she knew his heart. Then Grandpa turned and walked away.
Annabelle arrived at the Avalon site at roughly eleven o’clock in the morning.