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Coco can’t sleep.
It is midnight in the atelier, dark and quiet and soft in the way it always is after everyone else has bedded down to sleep. The small flicker of Coco’s lantern is a glowing ring of gold, just enough to light her desk and illuminate the ink-stained paper, her calloused hands. She’s gotten as far as changing into her nightgown, and has even attempted washing her hands, but still, sleep is eluding her—distant and far away, like a dream.
Dreams. Coco bites her lip and practices another circle, her hand faintly trembling. Oh, she’s being so silly—dreams aren’t a good reason to avoid sleep. Professor Qifrey says it all the time, that she has to rest and take care of herself first in order to do her best work. And she knows he’s right, but—
She thinks of her mother. Of stone and magic and the way that first sigil stained her palms. She thinks of the fear in her mother’s voice—of drowning in the sand, in an hourglass, in…
Coco squeezes her eyes shut, and has to put down her pen. Oh, she’s ruined it— her circle is all wobbly now, and she’s screwed up the symbol something awful. Coco looks at it for a long moment and swallows hard. For a moment she has to keep from crying. It’s so silly. She’s not sure why she’s crying now, but—
Sometimes it just hits her a little sideways, she thinks.
She rubs away the tears and clenches her fist, taking a deep breath. She can’t sit here and mope like this! She needs—she needs to take a break. That’s what Professor Qifrey would say. She needs… a clear mind.
She needs to sleep.
But the restlessness is still there, itching beneath her skin, and Coco bites her lip, standing gingerly. She… she’ll go outside a bit, she decides. Just to breathe. Just to get a clear head. She’ll sit in the nice cool air and then she’ll sleep. Maybe. Probably. At some point.
Coco grabs her witch’s cloak.
She’s careful as she creeps down the stairs, stepping soft and light, making sure the boards creak as little as possible. Through the windows, the moonlight pools bright and silver, lighting her path, highlighting the shadows, and frost lines the edges of the windows. When she sneaks into the kitchen it is to find it dark and empty, quiet and cold—but as she slips out of the room, heading for the front door, she hears a series of thumps and a muffled curse.
She hesitates. There’s another thud, and a quiet cry, almost exasperated. She heads for the other door, into the hall.
It’s not hard to find her teacher; his workshop is the only room still lit, and she traces that golden glow to the door. When she creaks the door open, shy and feeling a little silly, it is to find him lying on his back in the midst of the room, books fallen half-open all around him and his hands pressed against his face.
“…Professor Qifrey?”
He goes very still, head snapping up, then sees her in the doorway and winces. “Oh, Coco. Oh no. Did I wake you?”
“N-no, I just… I couldn’t sleep, and then I heard a noise…”
“I see.” He pushes himself up, still wincing, but laughs softly all the same. “It’s nothing to worry about, I’m sorry. I was researching, and made a tower, and then…” He gestures to the books on the floor. Coco giggles.
Qifrey smiles at her, and sits up properly, pushing one hand back through his hair. Despite the ease of the conversation, he looks worn in a way that Coco doesn’t quite like—more disheveled than usual, and his one visible eye looks tired and shadowed, ink all over his fingers and smudges of it darkening his cheek. He looks—he reminds her of her mother, somehow, of Coco’s mother when Dad first died and she had to manage the store all herself, the customers and the cloth and the weaving, and how she would stay up late almost every night, all nights, working until her fingers were raw because there was no longer any time to rest.
The memory sours the moment; Coco swallows, her throat suddenly tight, and looks down at the floor, desperate for a distraction. “What were you reading?”
“Oh, things.” Qifrey’s voice is light, but he reaches out and closes one of the books before she can get a proper look. “Just a side interest. Nothing all that important.”
“Oh…” There’s something she could say to that, she thinks, something she could ask—but words are so hard, right now, and she’s thinking of her mother and her chest is all wound tight. She fidgets in the doorway. Her fingers catch and pull at the hem of her cloak.
Qifrey is watching her, now. He closes the last book and sets it carefully on his desk. “Coco,” he says, almost gentle. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“It—it’s going to sound really silly…”
“Nonsense.”
“I—I was just… the dreams, and, um, sometimes, in them, I see my mother, and she…”
She can’t quite finish it. Qifrey seems to understand anyway. His eye widens and then his expression falls, and his lips thin. “I see,” he says, quiet. He watches her for a long moment, then nods to himself, clapping his hands very softly. “Well then.” He rises to his feet, and heads for the door, placing one hand on her shoulder—warm, grounding. He pushes her back into the hall, and takes one lantern from his workshop into his hands. “You look cold, Coco. Come on. The kitchen will be a far more comfortable place to sit than the floor of my messy workspace.”
“I-I think your workshop looks really cool, Professor, all those magic items—and tools—and the glyphs….!”
He laughs. “Thank you!”
He steers her to the kitchen and waves her off to the table, heading to the stove. Coco fiddles with her sleeves, eye-lids heavy but mind wide-awake, and only jumps a little bit when Qifrey comes back with a small cup of herbal tea for them both. The ceramic is warm in her hands, the drink herbal but sweet, with only the slightest bitter tang, and Coco breathes in the steam and feels a little stronger.
Qifrey is watching her, a slight smile on his face. “Better?”
“Mm-hm!”
“I’m glad.” He sips his drink, too. “I’m sorry. You said before you hadn’t been sleeping well— and I should have expected the problem wouldn’t just go away on its own. We’ll figure something out, okay?”
“Okay…” She looks at the cup, her watery reflection, and something about the sight of her own face— red-rimmed eyes, exhausted shadows— makes something in her falter. Her hand tightens around the cup. “Um… Professor…”
“Hm?”
“I can—I can do it, right?” Her voice shakes, something thin. “My mom, there’s definitely a way… I can…”
Qifrey is silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he says, at last. “Yes. You have my word. And—” He clears his throat. “It is not just you, Coco. Once we can identify the spell, of course I will help—and I’m sure the others will, too.”
“O-oh.” It’s not that she hadn’t known that, so much as it was that Coco hadn’t wanted to assume. She draws her cup closer, and ducks her head with a smile. “Right. Right!”
Qifrey smiles down at her. For a moment his gaze goes distant, unseeing; he stares off in the direction of his workshop and one hand slowly drifts up, almost to his eye—the other one, the one Coco has never seen, hidden behind the darkened lens and his fringe. For a moment Qifrey’s lips thin, and he seems almost to speak—and then he shakes his head and sighs, looking exhausted, and his hand drops.
“It’s all right,” he says instead. “Just know, Coco, that… that you are surely not alone.”
You too, Coco almost wants to say, and for a moment she isn’t sure why those words come to mind. She swallows them back. “Thanks, Professor.”
“Of course!”
She’s still not entirely used to the atelier—to magic, and witches, and all the wonders of the world. Some days she’ll wake up and think she’s back home again, with her mother calling her away, cloth to be cut and work to do. Sometimes she wishes with all her might that she was.
But she is growing to love the atelier, now; already it is swiftly becoming a new kind of home. Agete, Riche, Tetia—Orugio, and Qifrey. She has fellow students to work with and friends to make, teachers who watch over her and cheer her up when she feels low. She’s happy to be here, despite everything. She’s so happy to know them.
And when she finally saves her mother from the stone— Coco hopes she can show her mother this new, wonderful world she has found. The new foundling home.
A future like that, she thinks, would be magical. It’s something to reach for. Something to hold.
And when she finishes her drink, and sets down her cup… Coco smiles, and feels at peace.