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Chapter Text

It was with an immense sense of gratification, that Jonathan Sims slumped backwards in his chair. He stretched his arms out before him, long and spindly, and tight from writing, before dropping them down into his lap. He took in a long breath, his nose long desensitised to the scent of bitter ink and parchment, and pulled his torso back upwards, heaving his arms back onto the desk. Carefully, so as not to smudge the freshly laid ink, he began sorting through the stack of parchment, eyes quickly scanning over each line, with a brow burning from furrowing.

There was a knock behind him, and he jolted at it, spinning quickly to see who it was. Georgie stood in the doorway, a warm mug between her hands, and a bemused expression upon her face. “You look pretty done.”

Jon looked back towards his work, his fingers shifting lightly between the sheets. “I feel it.”

He heard her shoes against the creaking floorboards as she made her way towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder, as she placed the mug down beside him. “Drink that.”

“I’m not thirsty,” he said, pulling his quill forward to correct a slight error on the first page. “But thank you.”

“Stop being a child,” she said. “You haven’t left this room in days.”

“I was busy.”

“Not right now you’re not.” She tapped a finger down against his desk. “Drink up.”

Jon reached forward, and took the mug between his hands. It smelt herby, and looking down at it, he could see small flecks of green, and freckles of red spices. He took a small sip, tentative, and then another – and another. He finished it off in a matter of minutes, and by the time he placed the cup back on the table, Georgie’s smile had grown.

“Not thirsty, eh?” she said, cocking her head to the side.

Jon shot her a tired look, pushing his chair backwards, and stumbling upwards. Coltish legs led him towards the window, and he pushed open the latch, letting it swing outwards. He took a long breath, feeling the stuffy air leave his lungs in the single motion. He pulled his pipe out, striking the match between ink stained fingers, and alighting the tobacco, before taking a long draw, blowing an earthy smelling plume of smoke out of the window.

“Does Melanie still have the cart?” asked Jon, looking back over to Georgie, who was curiously sorting through his papers. “Was wanting to take the book over this afternoon.”

“She’s out till the morning,” said Georgie. “You done then? That’s it?”

“That’s it,” echoed Jon. Then, aside, “Bloody finally.”

She snorted. “I’m sure it can wait till Melanie gets back. What’s one more day?”

“One more day, is in fact a week,” sighed Jon. “Mr Bouchard only receives visitors on the Monday.”

“So wait a week,” said Georgie. “God forbid you take a break.”

“My point exactly,” said Jon dryly, pushing himself away from the window, and back towards the desk. He pulled at the drawers, his pipe held tightly between his lips as his hands quickly sorted through the clutter kept. It was an odd assortment of nostalgia and work – a quill, long broken, but a gift from long ago; linen wrapped incense, that he never found himself remembering to burn, despite Georgie’s constant prods to; and dog eared papers, marked with mistakes and spillages. They could really do with be thrown out, but, like most things – it always slipped his mind.

“Aha!” He pulled out what he’d been looking for – a beautifully stained red leather binder, with a fantastical golden cord wrapped around it. He placed it onto the desk, unravelling the knot, and pulling free the papers that had been inside. Nothing important, mere ramblings from a few years back.

“Jon,” said Georgie in a long breath. “Just wait another week – it’s too long on foot. It’ll be nightfall by the time you arrive.”

“I’m a fast walker,” said Jon, shuffling the papers together, and knocking them into formation, before slipping them into the binder, “and besides, I know a shortcut.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Deadly.”

“This isn’t a joke,” said Georgie. “Those woods are dangerous, and you know it.”

“You can’t honestly buy into that,” said Jon, straightening out his back to face her. “They’re just woods, it’ll be fine. I’ll take the main road back – they’re patrolled enough at night that I shouldn’t run into any – ” he punctuated his sentence with a small flutter of his hands. “I’ll be fine, honest.”

“This isn’t like your stories, Jon,” she said, her arms crossing over her chest. “You could get hurt, or worse.”

“Like cursed?”

She threw her hands up. “Yes – potentially!”

“She’s dead, Georgie,” said Jon, cupping her shoulders between his hands, bracketing her gently, “and they’re just woods now.”

Her lips twisted for a moment, before they fell, and she let out a small grunt of annoyance as she stepped back. “At least take the Admiral.”

Jon let out a small laugh. “I’m not taking your cat, that’s ridiculous.”

“Well, I’d rather you not go alone,” she said, “and I have clients this afternoon.”

“You say that like you’d come otherwise.”

She smirked. “Dreadful inconvenience, really. Besides, he likes you.”

“I suppose that makes me special?”

“It does actually. The unsociable bastard.”

“Georgie.”

“Jon,” she mimicked, in the same dry intonation. “Take the bloody cat, and try not to get yourself killed.”

“Or cursed.”

*

The Admiral hurried beside Jon’s mud-caked boots as they walked, half obscured by Jon’s cloak as it bounced around them. He clutched the strap of his satchel in one hand, the other going to the hilt of Georgie’s dagger, fastened securely around his hips. It was a stunning piece – crafted by Melanie, her wife, and leant to Jon as a precaution. The pommel was cold, and smooth beneath his fingers; a mesmerising replicate of a birds skull, taken from garnet, and buffed to a shine. The blade, inscribed with protection runes, lay hidden, tucked inside a leather hilt, and bound with waxed silver thread.

He passed through the village, slick cobbles clicking under his heel, loud through the vacant street. The houses bracketing him began to fade, flickering and sputtering out as the road turned to dirt. No one lived in that part of the village; the houses, ashen and crumbling, haunted the streets. There had been a vote, according to Georgie, to rebuild there – but the majority found it too near the Black Wood’s for comfort, and superstition ran rampant and unchecked through a town like their own. Perhaps it was due to his having grown up South, that he didn’t quite understand their fear; they’d had many stories of their own back home, most far more terrifying than a simple witch. Who, he never failed to remind folks, was long dead.

They’d even commemorated it with a plaque.

He looked down towards the Admiral, who was pacing out in front of him, giving a curious sniff in the direction of the woods. He didn’t seem deterred, and Jon had found that animals had a much better sense for dark magic than regular folk did. He bent down, and scooped the cat up into his arms, cradling him across his chest so that his head rested easily against Jon’s shoulder. He wasn’t keen on the Admiral running off.

Whatever the woods held, Georgie’s wrath would be far worse.

“You ready?” he asked, running a gloved hand through his fur. The cat didn’t reply, which he took for a yes, and began to head towards the treeline. The ground was uneven, bulging with wide roots that curled across the stone path. Overhead, the canopy sung and swayed, as a bird’s song harmonised with the soft flutter of leaves, shattering the sunlight into broken fractals. Moss curled up the trees, the vibrant hue faded through the segments of light, fading off into lichen, rough under Jon’s fingertips as he trailed them over.

A river followed Jon as he walked, the waters currents acting as arrows as it continued to bend and weave beside him. The water bubbled, rushing over rocks, and dipping into itself as the land bowed, before swelling upwards with each incline. It left a pleasant smell in the air, far crisper than the dusty streets of the village.

The Admiral pawed at his shoulders, wiggling out of his hold, and digging his nails into the rough woven fabric of his waistcoat. “Hey, alright – alright,” conceded Jon, opening his arms to allow the cat to break free. “But don’t run off, you hear me?”

The Admiral didn’t so much give a nod, as ignore Jon entirely – his fur shimmering in the wind, as he trotted forward, Jon in tow.

“And if you get me lost,” he added, “I won’t be happy about that, either.”

*

They stopped beside a fallen log, tired feet stretching out as Jon collapsed atop it. He pulled his satchel forward, onto his lap, and unclicked the fastening. He unpacked a small selection of food – vine leaves, roasted nuts, and a wonderful tahini dressing he’d cooked up the week before, placing them all down on the log beside him. The Admiral hopped up onto the seat, and sniffed the meal curiously. Jon wasn’t sure if cats could wrinkle their noises in disgust, but whatever expression the feline made, that description felt the closest.

“I didn’t forget about you,” said Jon, going back into his bag, and pulling out a small tin. A fierce, fishy aroma broke free once he pulled the cover off, and he placed it before the cat. “An offering.”

He looked up towards the sky as he ate, turning orange now through the canopy. He’d made this route before – it shouldn’t be so late, not with him still so far from the Bouchard manor. He ran his teeth across his bottom lip, rubbing his thumb anxiously across his forefinger.

“I don’t suppose you have a map,” said Jon to the cat. He let out a nervous laugh. “Of course not. You don’t have pockets. What’s my excuse?”

The Admiral took a break from his dinner to look up at Jon, with a look he could’ve sworn it was pity. He clapped his hands down atop his thighs, and busied himself with tidying away, roughly shoving his food back into the bag, not even bothering to fasten it shut. “C’mon then.”

His steps turned hurried, sloppy, too keen to move fast, and not quite dexterous to do so. The Admiral was back in his arms, embraced tightly against his chest, and bouncing with each clumsy step. The path underfoot wasn’t as sturdy as he remembered, slick with thick mud, despite the last rainfall being well over a week ago, and the river had gone the opposite way at the last crossroads. With each step, it sent the awful, awful thought reverberating through him of Lost, Lost, Lost.

He stopped, and looked behind, letting out a long breath as the unfamiliar path looked back. “Shit.”

He looked back up at the sky – it was setting to the west of him, forward would lead him north, he’d get there eventually, if he just kept heading forward. He muttered this to himself, almost like an incantation, as if fearful he would forget and turn South, deeper into the woods. He swallowed, eyes burning as they watched the sun, which bobbed in time with them.

It was then that something latched around his ankle, tightening quickly, and yanking. He let out a shout as he fell backwards, his legs shooting towards the trees, as a snare pulled him up, holding him aloft. His satchel slipped over his neck, papers scattering across the muddied ground as the wind caught them. The Admiral clawed at Jon’s face as he fell, sending a sharp slice of pain across his cheek, and landing on the ground below him. Jon’s cloak blew out, the fastening now heavy and tight across his neck as the weight drifted with each sway of the rope.

He tried, desperately, to lift his torso up, and grab the knot – trying to free himself. But every attempt to reach upwards, had him flopping back down, non-existent muscles burning in exerted fatigue. Pressure began to build in his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the inverted world, and the curious face of the Admiral, who pawed weakly at his shoulders. Jon dropped his hands, so that they swung by his head, and reached out for the cat, giving him a single, comforting pat.

“Can you get Georgie?” he asked, his voice thick and nasally. The Admiral blinked at him, once, twice, before bounding off – in the opposite direction. “Fuck.”

He tried again, trying to gain momentum to send his torso upwards. Hands reached, clawing uselessly at air, before snapping back down. It was then that he caught the glint of silver, the blade of his dagger, shifting ever so slightly out of it’s hilt. Jon cursed, and then cursed again, louder.

With one final, desperate, push, he sent his arms upwards, just as the dagger finally shifted free – the pommel falling downwards, and knocking Jon into oblivion.

*

He awoke feeling far more comfortable than he'd expected to. His neck was cradled in the gentle hands of soft cotton, his head sinking softly into bracketed warmth, as a quilt lay atop of him. His hands reached out to fist the material, feeling the subtle texture of stitches, and the slow rise of the padding. Incense filled the air, sweet and intoxicating, and Jon could see the faint streams of smoke trail across his vision, leading his eyes towards a window. It was circular in shape, and speckled with rain. Past that, only darkness lay, as branching shadows swayed and shifted in the wind.

Glowing orbs hung above him, dangling from the ceiling from thick twine, which twisted around the shape, cupping it. The light flickered and faded, billowing into brightness in stuttering increments, before dulling as if in a breath. Jon eyed them curiously, he’d never seen anything quite like it. His eyes scanned the room; dried orange slices strung across the walls, cloves knotted through, herbs and flowers, bundled up together, hung over the fireplace, the colours somehow still vibrant against the stone masonry. Jon blinked, and the softness of the room was immediately sharpened as he shot up, throwing the blanket away from his body, and stumbling upwards. Pain shot through him, as his ankle gave way, and his legs buckled out from beneath him. He caught himself on the bed, falling back into it. It was warm, and bowed easily under his weight, and Jon suddenly couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all some awful mirage, hiding underneath a terrifying scene that he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Where the hell was he?

A knock came at the door, and Jon’s head snapped towards it as it opened. A man stepped into the room. He was an odd looking fellow, dressed in a strange array of clothes and colours, none seeming to match. His face was round, and nervous, half obscured behind thick stubble that criss-crossed upwards into his hair; a deep, auburn hue, with a tapestry of silver cutting through it. He smiled, which somehow made him look more uncertain, and Jon wondered, briefly, if the man was in the same situation as him.

“You’re awake then?” asked the man, his voice quiet and gentle. “Gave me a bit of a scare there, really.”

Jon just nodded, looking around the room.

“How’re you feeling?” the man stepped closer, holding in his hands a ceramic cup, painted in swirls of blue. It smelt of ginger, and lemon, and a touch of orange zest, and he placed it on the small carved table by the bed.

“Where am I?” Jon met the man’s eyes with that question, trying to coerce his features into something that didn’t quite belie the nerves in his chest.

The man blinked, and then swallowed, before gesturing loosely around the room. “My home, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

The man gave Jon a funny look. “I live here. Is that a better answer?”

Jon twisted his lips. “Why am I here?”

He looked down for a moment, his hands interlocking into a tense knot. “I couldn’t quite right leave you out there, unconscious and all. Especially not when it was my fault.”

“Your fault,” echoed back Jon with a bite, “did you trap me on purpose?”

The man shook his head quickly, holding his hands out. “No, no – Christ, no. It’s just for game, really. Most folk don’t come out this way – specially not off the path.”

“I was on a path,” snapped Jon, his knuckles tightening around the bedsheet below him.

“A run, maybe,” said the man. “Not a path for folk, though. Take it you got lost?”

“I – ” Jon faltered, and he looked down. “I was fine. I was heading North. Speaking of, I should really be leaving.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “I can’t let you go out there.”

Jon’s eyes went wide. “You’re trapping me here?”

 “I’m not – Christ, it’s just dark, is all,” said the man. “Don’t much fancy the chances of a man who got lost in daylight out there right now. It’s not safe at this hour.”

“And you would know all about that?”

“Funnily enough,” said the man, “I would. Now, rest – please. You injured your ankle something awful out there, not to mention that welt atop your head.” He tapped a finger against the cup. “And drink that, it’ll do you some good.”

Jon let out a long breath, watching as the man made his way back to the door. “Thank you,” he said, the words tight and stained. “My names Jon.”

The man smiled. “Martin.” There was a beat before he spoke again, clicking his fingers together as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh! Your cat is fine, by the way. He’s just in the next room over – got a small fire going through there. Seems to be overly enjoying it.”

“The Admiral?”

Martin shrugged. “He didn’t tell me his name.”

“Why on earth is he here?” asked Jon, his brow furrowing.

“Reason I discovered you, actually,” said Martin, with a small laugh. “Came and found me. I don’t usually, you know, follow random animals into the woods - probably for the best I did, though, huh?”

Jon hummed, and nodded slightly. “Smart cat.”

“Quite,” said Martin. He opened the door. “Rest up, Jon.”

The door shut with a small click behind him, leaving the room feeling suddenly very quiet. Even the rain seemed quieter. He reached forward, towards the cup, and brought it to his nose, giving it a curious sniff. It smelt crisp, and soothing, and he lowered it to his lips, taking a small sip. Warmth flooded his chest, the bitter lemon bringing an easy breath through his lungs, as the honey soothed him. He took another sip, suddenly quite thirsty, until the cup was empty, leaving him feeling sated and calm. He lay back onto the bed, bringing the quilt back over his body, and resting his hands atop it, and turning his head back towards the window. Sleep took him peacefully.

Light streamed through the window, curving over Jon’s rising form as he pulled himself upwards. He pressed his hands to his face, pulling away the tension along his jaw, and the sleep from his eyes. He blinked, looking around the room; cast now in a warm glow. There was a stick by the bed, propped up against the bedside table - it was tall, and gnarling, smooth wood curving upwards into a carved finial. Beside it, was a note, written in an unfamiliar scrawl.

For your ankle – M

Jon looked at the note curiously, flipping it over in his hands before returning it to the small table. Slowly, he clasped the stick, wrapping his fingers around the midsection, and pulling himself up onto his feet. His ankle gave out a small cry as he stood, but he gently readjusted the weight, leaning easily against the stick. He took a small step forward, and then another, making his way towards the door. The next room was larger; with a curved roof, and wooden floors. A fireplace protruded from the wall, covered in sprawling green as the plants on the mantle crawled up it. The logs were black, and charred, and speckled with small glowing embers. Jon held his hand out towards it, and could still feel the dwindling warmth. He turned, to the centre of the room, where a wide, circular table sat. It was covered in tiny bottles, and jars, notebooks and cookery books, all scattered around and across each other. On the middle of the table, was a small pot – simmering gently as a small flame warmed it from underneath.

Jon bent down, inspecting the flame – there seemed to be no source for it, bar a small metal disk, and the flame itself was a far more vibrant hue than normal, flickering even with small wisps of pink. His brow furrowed as he rose, and he continued to inspect the room. Shelves lined the walls, with more bottles and books, these ones larger, and far dustier. The bottles themselves were corked, and labelled and each filled with an odd viscous liquid. Jon picked one up, holding it between his fingers. The glass was warm, and the liquid inside moved slowly. Gingerly, he uncorked the bottle, and raised it to his nose.

“Oh, Christ!” He let out a loud cough, holding the bottle out as far away from him as he could. He wrinkled his face up in disgust, quickly corking the thing, and trapping the awful scent. He stumbled backwards from the shelves, steadying himself with the staff, and turning towards the door. His cloak was hung up beside it, the bottom caked in dry mud. Beneath it, lay his satchel, atop of which was his knife. Jon hurried towards his belongings, tucking the knife back into his sheath, and wrapping the cloak around his shoulders. He slumped the bag down on the table, and flipped it open.

To his horror, it was empty. He let out a throaty, warbled noise of distress, shutting and opening the bag again, as if it was merely an illusion. He held it out, and tipped it upside down, shaking it desperately. He cursed, loudly, before anger set in.

That man – that Martin must have taken it.

“Martin!” he called out to the home, his voice sharp. He clenched his fists, and called out again. “Martin!”

No reply came, and Jon let out a tight huff of air. There were no other rooms in the home, just a small archway leading into the miniscule kitchen, and the door outside. He peered through the arch, seeing nothing but tins, and more bottles, and books, and then made for the door.

The air was damp as he stepped out, and the ground soft below his feet. Trees encompassed the perimeter of the home, almost curling towards, as if sheltering it, and a small pathway of stepping stones led out from the door, curving through a small woven archway. Jon followed it, his staff knocking noise against the stone as he did, passing by a small garden; with weaving and winding stalks of green, speckled with bright, yellow blossoms, and crawling vines.

The pathway began to fade, falling into a dirt track, leading downwards. Through the rustling of the trees, and the clear whistle of bird song, Jon could hear running water. Eventually, the trees cleared to reveal a small bank, and the form of Martin, hunched over the stream, and playing with the Admiral. A small basket of washing sat beside him, half submerged in the river. He looked up as he heard Jon approaching, holding his hand up in a small wave. The Admiral jumped up at his hand, and he pulled it away quickly with a laugh, before running it across the cat’s fur.

“You sleep alright?” he asked, his eyes squinting against the sun.

“Where is it?” demanded Jon, bringing the cane down against the bank with a similar bite to his words. “My papers, my work – where is it?”

“Excuse me?” Martin wrinkled his brow. “What papers?”

“My papers!” snapped Jon. “My work. It was in my bag,” and he swung his satchel forward as he spoke, “and now it’s not. You took it.”

Martin rose slowly. “I didn’t take anything, Jon. I took what was near you when I found you, and left them by the door.”

“Then where is it?”

“Where did you leave them?”

Jon kissed his teeth with a sharp breath. “I left them in my bag.”

“Could they have fallen?” offered Martin. “I know I’m always losing stuff out there.”

“Well, I’m not you,” said Jon, before he froze – as an awful memory of fluttering white sheets filled his mind. He pressed his hand against his brow, and cursed. “When I got pulled up … my work. Christ, my work.”

“It fell out?” surmised Martin. “We can find it then, right? Just gotta go back to where the snare was.”

Jon dropped his hand, and let out a sigh. “The rain - last night. It’ll all be gone, it’ll be ruined.”

“Hey, hey,” soothed Martin, holding his hands up. “It’ll be alright. We’ll go look for it, yeah?”

“That was months of work,” stressed Jon, feeling panic begin to rise in his chest. Quickly, Martin stepped forward, and clamped his hands down on Jon’s shoulders. “What – ”

“Everything can be fixed,” he said, meeting Jon’s eyes. “No use getting in a tizzy now, okay. I’ll lead you back to where I found you, and we’ll look.”

Jon’s shoulders sagged. “What if this isn’t fixable?”

“Then it’ll be a first,” stated Martin. “Let’s go.”

*

It was a twenty minute walk by the time they arrived back at the snare, and it was in that twenty minutes that Jon’s ankle had begun to pulse and ache in agony, the staff only alleviating some of the pain.

“Here we are,” said Martin, holding his hands out towards the cut rope as if it were some grand monument. Jon hobbled over, the mud thick and sticky against his boots, and sending another pulse of pain through him. He let out a small wince, and Martin’s attention snapped towards him. “Your ankle.”

“It’s fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“You should sit,” said Martin. “I’ll look.”

“You don’t know what it looks like,” argued Jon, leaning his entire weight on the staff, and then stumbling as it sunk deeper into the mud.

Martin reached out, and caught him, steadying him easily. “I know what paper looks like, Jon. I think I’ll manage.”

“Fine, fine – alright,” said Jon with a sigh, inching towards a fallen tree, and collapsing down onto it. “There’s a red binder as well,”

Martin’s squinted. “Red?”

Jon blinked. “Red. You know what colours are, do you not?”

Martin’s face broke into a smile. “Sorry. Just winding you up.”

“You could be colour blind,” said Jon, throwing a hand towards Martin as he began to survey the grounds. “I just met you, what would I know?”

“I’d still know what colours were,” said Martin, picking up a sodden sheet of paper, caked in mud. He grimaced, and placed it beside Jon. “I’m sure that’ll be the worse of it.”

Jon worried his lips, wiping off a particular large clump of mud off from it. The lettering was partially intact, though bloomed into inky smudges where the mud had sunk through. “It’ll all need rewritten.”

“Not all,” said Martin, with an air of triumph as he held up the red binder from the bushes where it had somehow found itself. He opened it up, to reveal half a stack of, mostly, intact work. “The binder must have kept them dry.”

“Not the rest, unfortunately,” mumbled Jon, as he took the binder, flipping through the paper with a sigh. He looked up at Martin, and gave him a tight smile. “Better than all, though.”

Martin nodded, stepping back towards the trees. “Give me a shout if you see any around here, I’m going to see if any have blown further out.”

“Right,” said Jon, watching as Martin ducked under a swinging branch, fading into the shadowy woods. Jon looked around, twisting where he sat to scan the area with narrowed eyes. A small flash of white caught his eyes, a page pressed up against the base of a tree, and fluttering. With a heave, Jon rose to his feet, letting out a sharp wince as he did, and hobbled over to it. He peeled it away from the tree, and then watched in horror as the page slowly tore itself in half, the bottom so entirely soaked through as to almost dissolve in his hands. “For the love of – ”

“What are these even for?” came Martin’s voice, loud through the trees. Jon turned, to see Martin peering over at him, half obscured by foliage. He held up a handful of pages, better fared than the one in Jon’s hand. “Not in order, so I can’t make much sense of it all.”

“It’s a commission,” said Jon. “Mr Bouchard, of the eponymous manor, wanted a scribe to take down stories from the nearby village, and those surrounding it. He’s curating a sort of,” Jon waved his hands around in front of him, “history, I suppose. Trying to preserve it all.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” said Martin, and Jon hummed, nodding. “Interesting, though.”

“Quite,” said Jon, stumbling back over to the fallen tree. “He’s looking for a resident scribe, you see. This was – well, I suppose this was to be my interview.”

“You’d want to work up in a manor?” Martin cocked his head to the side. “No offense, but you don’t seem – ” He shrugged. “Isn’t it sort of stuffy folk up there? ”

Jon laughed. “You might be the first person to not think me such.”

“Well …”

“Thanks for that,” said Jon dryly. He fiddled absentmindedly with the binder. “It’s not so much that I want to work for him, quite the opposite really. But – there’s little work for writers, and I can’t very well continue at the rate I am, squatting in my friends attic. It’s not ideal, but it’s money – not that it even matters anymore, what with me losing half my bloody work.”

“Hey,” warned Martin. “It’s all fixable. So you have to rewrite a few pages, it’ll get done.”

“A few?” barked Jon with a laugh. He tapped his finger down against the sodden stack beside him. “Well over a few.”

“Look at this way,” said Martin. “It’s just a few, and then it’s another few. That’s all it is.”

“Just repeat for eternity.”

Martin snorted, and stepped forward, placing the recovered sheets beside Jon. “I’ll light a fire, we can dry out some of the damp, and go from there. How does that sound?”

“I should go back to the village,” said Jon. “All my quills are there. Bit of a moot point without them.”

“On that ankle?” Martin raised an eyebrow, and shook his head. “You can stay until you’re healed up, alright? I’ve got quills, and ink – and all that. As long as you don’t mind writing whilst I work, then it should be alright.”

“Martin,” said Jon weakly. “I can’t impose like that.”

“Wouldn’t have offered if you were,” said Martin, giving Jon a wide smile. “Besides, I’ve taken to your cat – wouldn’t mind it if the two of you stayed a bit longer.”

“Just till I’m healed,” said Jon. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The quill Martin had offered was odd. Firstly, the feather was tinted – a deep orange near the nip, fading into yellow near the top, and shimmering with an odd light. Secondly, was the weight of the thing; so light as to almost be imperceptible. When Jon had first picked it up, he’d almost sent it flying, readying his arm for a much sturdier weight than that of the quill. When he’d asked Martin about it, he’d only shrugged, and said he didn’t use it much, which Jon had found to be an entirely lacking reply.

Martin had made a sort of makeshift rack for the papers, placing two chairs on either side of the mantle, and crossing a length of twine between them. The two had hung up the worst of the pages to dry, Jon grumbling the whole time.

A few hours had passed since then, which had been taken easily by work – Jon, quickly replicating the smudged words down onto fresh parchment, and Martin, alternating between stirring the pot in the middle of the table, and petting the Admiral. Jon wasn’t quite sure he’d ever seen the cat look so relaxed, eyes soft, and body limp under Martin’s hands.

“He’s not usually so friendly,” said Jon, gesturing towards the Admiral.

“Oh?” Martin looked between them, and then cocked a sort of half smile. “Feel quite honoured then.”

“You should,” said Jon. “Historically, he’s rather a bastard. His mother’s words, not mine.”

“He’s not yours?” asked Martin, his attention now back on the pot. It bubbled between them, thin tendrils of zesty smelling steam rising from it.

“She – my friend, Georgie, didn’t want me going off alone into the woods.”

“She sounds smart.”

“Smarter than me, you mean?”

Martin smiled. “I never said that.” He paused to sprinkle something into the pot, it smelt faintly of chamomile. “I suppose he did his job, though – keeping you safe?”

“He was more meant for company,” said Jon, curling his arms across the page in front of him, and hunching forward. “She doesn’t like me getting lonely.”

“Lonely isn’t always bad,” said Martin. “Can be pleasant, at times.”

Jon shrugged. “She just worries is all.”

“Must be nice,” muttered Martin, before he froze, and blinked, looking up at Jon. “Sorry, sorry – I didn’t mean for that to come out quite so - so petty. That is nice, truly.”

“Oh,” said Jon, “no need to apologise. Didn’t even notice, really.”

Martin grimaced. “Sorry anyway.” There was a small, uncomfortable beat of silence between the two, before Martin stepped away from the table, wiping his hands down across his apron. “Are you hungry? Was hoping to make a start on dinner soon.”

“Do you need the table?” said Jon, hurrying to stand, already shuffling his papers to the side. “I can get out of your way.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Martin. “Plenty of space on my side.”

“Do you need a hand?” asked Jon. “I’m not a half bad cook myself.”

Martin gave a small wave with his fingers, shaking his head. “I’m alright, and besides – you’re my guest. Not to mention the mountain of work you’ve to do.”

“Right.” Jon looked over towards the drying pages. “That’s true.”

He fell back into his chair, picking the odd quill back up into his hand, and lowering the nib to the page. Soft sounds came from Martin’s direction; the padding of his feet between the table and the kitchen, the humming of a song behind his lips, and the gentle drum of the knife against the chopping board. Overlaying all of that, was the soft crackle of the fireplace, and Jon found himself feeling oddly calm, even as his hands hurried over the paper.

Another page down, placed to his right, as he pulled the next forward. This continued in a steady flow, flipping easily between the sheet, narrow eyes squinting over bloated text. By the sounds of it, Martin had finished preparing dinner, and was now ambling about the room, wiping down surfaces that didn’t quite look like they needed it, and thumbing through books he didn’t look to actually be reading. Jon swallowed, feeling the sudden urge to offer the strange man a lifeline from his pottering.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing towards the pot, and the small metal disk below it, still lit. “I’ve never seen a contraption quite like it.”

Martin looked over at him from across the room, his flush evident even in the firelight. “Oh,” he said, walking over. “It’s nothing, really. Just something I picked up in a nearby town.” With that, he touched a finger to the disk, and the fire died. “Simple mechanism.”

“How does it work?” asked Jon, peering curiously at it. He reached forward, holding his finger above the metal plate, before tapping it down quickly against it, much like Martin had done. It was cold, which was strange, and did nothing as he tapped it, and then tapped it again.

Martin let out a small laugh, making a shoeing gesture at Jon’s hand. “I’m not an engineer, not sure I could explain it.”

“Surely whoever you bought it from must’ve explained it,” said Jon, his brow furrowing.

“I didn’t ask,” said Martin. “Besides, it was a long time ago now. Not sure I’d even be able to remember if I had.”

Jon rolled his lips between his teeth, and let out an unsatisfied sigh. “Where did you get it?”

Martin made a vague gesture with his hands, wrinkling up his nose. “It really was a while ago, sorry. How long have you lived in the village?”

Jon blinked at the sudden change in conversation, faltering with a small, garbled noise, before finding his footing again. “Just under a year. Moved over from the city.”

“Not long then,” said Martin. “How’re you finding it?”

“Pleasant enough,” said Jon. “A tad more superstitious than where I used to stay, but I’ve a roof over my head, and the folk are kind; they don’t much care for your woods, though.”

“Can’t blame them,” said Martin, with a small, tight laugh. He looked over at Jon. “You’re not scared?”

“She’s dead,” said Jon. “They’re just woods now. Woods with traps, albeit. Though, wasn’t quite aware of that fact before I went in.” He met Martin’s eyes, and Martin offered back an apologetic grimace. Jon leant forward against the table. “How long have you been here?”

“All my life,” he said without pause.

“Were you around when it happened?” asked Jon.

“I was ten at the time,” said Martin, his voice thick, and strained. He looked away suddenly, letting out a long breath as he made towards the small archway leading into the kitchen. He emerged after a minute, clutching a cast iron pan between covered hands, two bowls balanced precariously atop the lid. He gave Jon a tight smile as he began to dish up, and Jon couldn’t shake the awful feeling that Martin was trying not to cry.

*

They took the dishes down to the river to wash. Martin argued against Jon coming, but he could only watch someone work and clean around him for so long before he started to feel quite useless. He held his staff in one hand, the lantern in the other, and it swung by his side as they walked, Martin ahead, cupping a small metal basin filled with their dirty crockery.

The sun hadn’t quite set, but was slowly pulling the cover of the earth up over it, turning the sky a milky purple, speckled with keen stars and the low crescent of the waxing moon. They passed over the stepping stones, through the archway and down the soft incline towards the bank. The dishes clinked noisily as Martin jostled the basin onto the ground, crouching down by the water, and pulling one of the bowls into his hands, scooping the current into it as he worked away the grime with a rag strung across his shoulder. Jon sat down beside him, crossing his legs underneath him, and holding his hand out for the sodden bowl. He took it in his tea towel, and dried the moisture off, before placing it down beside him, and holding his hand out for the next. They continued like this, in companiable silence, for a while; just the gentle rush of the water before them, and the soft knocking of ceramic. When they’d finished, Jon helped Martin transfer the crockery back into the basin, stacking it neatly, and tucking the damp towel down alongside it.

“I’m gonna take it in,” said Martin, letting out a small groan as he pulled himself up to his feet. “I usually sit out here after dinner – you’re welcome to join, but you’re also welcome to head back in, if you want. I know you’re busy.”

“It’s nice out here,” said Jon, “I’ll stay, if that’s alright with you?”

Martin smiled. “I’d like it if you did.” He tapped a hand against the basin. “Back in a moment, alright.”

Jon nodded as Martin turned to leave, bounding up the small incline, and vanishing through the trees. Jon turned back to the water – a bank sat parallel to their own, crumbling, grassy knolls falling into the water, as wide, gnarled trees cut upwards, tightly packed together, like stitches on a scarf, weaving and consuming. Th rough them, Jon watched as the sun finally crossed beyond the horizon, eliciting an immediate chill. He leant closer towards the lantern, letting the small flicker of the candle warm his hands.

Suddenly, a weight landed over his shoulders, and he jumped, looking behind him towards where Martin had appeared, clutching a blanket in his hand, and a corked bottle of something in the other. Jon’s hands went up to his shoulders, to find a blanket loosely strewn across. He clutched it in his hands, and pulled it flush against his body, clutching the ends like a cape around him.

“Gets cold out here,” explained Martin, seating himself down along the bank, and draping his own blanket across his shoulders. He tapped a finger against the bottle. “I didn’t bring glasses, I hope you’re okay swigging from the bottle.”

Jon eyed it curiously. “What is it?”

Martin held it in front of his face, squinting at the faded label. “Sorry,” he muttered, “forgot my glasses inside. I think, and emphasis on the think, that it’s a blackberry liquor.” Jon gave a small snort, and Martin turned to him with a chuckle. “And I think, emphasising again, that I made it last Autumn.”

“Well, it sounds,” he began, pausing as he searched for the right word, “interesting.”

Martin pulled a face. “It could be awful. I don’t entertain much, though sure that’s evident enough.”

“Well, you’ve been a perfectly amicable host,” said Jon. “Snare aside.”

“You thought I’d kidnapped you.”

“It was just – ” he fluttered his fingers out in front of him. “You could’ve worded it better when you said you ‘couldn’t let me leave’.”

“Still,” chuckled Martin, as he wrestled the cork out of the bottle. He brought it to his nose, and took a tentative sniff. “It doesn’t smell entirely rancid, I’m surprised.”

“How tempting.”

Martin took a small sip, his expression flickering between multitudes for a moment, before fading into a shrug. He handed the bottle to Jon. “Doesn’t taste entirely rancid, either.”

Jon took it, feeling the cool chill of the liquid through the glass. It smelt sweet, almost medicinal, and tasted thick, bitter burning easing into crisp berries. He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, letting out a small cough as he did. He placed the bottle between them. “I’ve had worse.”

“Two immaculate reviews,” said Martin. “I’m going to chalk that up to a win.”

“Right,” snorted Jon, bringing his knees up against his chest, and drawing the blanket tighter around him. “It must be nice living here.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re getting the tourist treatment,” said Martin. “It’s beautiful, but I’d rather live in the village, near folk, you know.”

Jon looked over at him. “Why don’t you?”

Martin reached for the bottle, and took another sip, shuddering slightly. “It’s just not an option, it’s – it’s complicated. Don’t worry about it.”

Jon twisted his lips. He was never much one for letting things go, especially when his curiosity took hold – but Martin’s gaze had grown dull, and was set pointedly away from him. Jon just nodded, even though he knew Martin wasn’t looking. Then, he reached for the bottle, and took another swig, before spluttering out another cough. “I think it gets worse the more you drink.”

Jon held the bottle out for Martin, and he took it, fingers brushing lightly between the exchange. He took another sip, and then nodded. “I think that’s a fair assessment. We probably shouldn’t keep drinking this.” Even after saying that, he took another sip, wrinkling his nose as he did. He turned towards Jon, and then opened his mouth – before he closed it quickly, letting out a small breath instead.

Jon’s curiosity could only be so restrained. “What?”

“What?”

“What were you going to say?” He gestured towards Martin. “You were going to say something.”

“It was nothing.”

“Martin.”

Martin eyes flickered between Jon’s own, and they squinted, ever so slightly. “Earlier,” he began, “you said you said you weren’t scared, when talking about – about the old Witch. Do you not fear magic?”

Jon blinked, running his hand along his jaw. “I’ll be honest, I’m rather inexperienced with it. It’s outlawed inside the cities – bar the King’s mages, of course.” Jon gave a small laugh. “I think the most magic I’ve ever encountered was watching street performers. Not quite sure that’s the sort of magic you’re referring to, though.”

Martin gave Jon an odd smile. “Not quite.”

“Why do you ask?”

Martin shrugged, looking back towards the water. “Our earlier conversation just had me thinking, is all. Do you think you would be scared? If you saw it.”

“I really couldn’t say,” said Jon. “Perhaps? No, yes – it all depends, doesn’t it?”

“On what?”

“On the context,” said Jon. “Why is it being used, who is it being used against? What exactly it is they’re doing. I imagine I’d be terrified if some haggard witch threatened to curse me, but far less so if they were doing – oh, I don’t know. What’s a harmless spell?”

Martin just looked at him for a moment, the edges of his expression caught in the candlelight; it was a shifting, unreadable thing, one that left Jon suddenly feeling quite out of sorts. Then, Martin placed his hand down on the bank, and closed his eyes. Slowly, almost meditatively, Martin let out a long breath, and Jon’s eyes fell down the where his hand lay, where a small pool of light was beginning to bloom. It shone through the earth, fractals of light beneath the sand, slowly growing stronger. Then, Martin opened his eyes, and they were shining with that same light, fading and blossoming in time to the slow, heartbeat rhythm of the light below.

The pool began to spread; crawling hues of orange carving pathways outwards, meeting and splitting, forming a glowing spiderweb of light. Jon twisted where he sat, watching intently as the light began to bead up along the surface, like dew atop a blade of grass. They rose, slowly upwards, swaying and dancing in the soft evening air. Jon craned his neck up to watch them; multitudes now, forming constellations that shone back in reflected forms upon the rivers surface. One floated by Jon’s face, and he raised his hand up, his index finger brushing gently against it. It burst as he did, fading into a soft haze, until it was gone entirely.

He turned to Martin, who was looking back, his eyes still glowing with that strange light, and his expression far clearer now, and wholly uncertain. “I suppose this would count as harmless.”

Jon swallowed. “How?”

Martin gave a tight laugh, and shrugged. “Runs in the family, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Jon let out a long breath, raising his hand to brush at another orb. “It’s – huh. Quite beautiful.”

“You’re not scared, are you?” asked Martin. “I’m not threatening to curse you, or anything.”

“No,” said Jon, shaking his head. “I don’t think I am.”

“Good,” sighed Martin. He blinked, and the light suddenly faded, leaving the night dark and empty. Jon missed it almost immediately. “Good.”

Jon worried his hands between the blanket. “You’re not – I’m not trapped here now, am I? This isn’t – this isn’t you tell me this, and suddenly I can never leave, right? Protect your secret, and all.”

“It’s not a secret,” said Martin, tilting his head to the side. “Everybody knows – or assumes, more accurately.”

“Not everybody.”

“Not you,” corrected Martin. “And, god – Christ, Jon. You’re not trapped. You’re allowed to leave whenever you want.”

“Right,” said Jon. “Sorry.”

Martin rolled his eyes, and made to stand. “You’re allowed to accuse me of kidnapping you once a day, alright. You’ve already burned your allocated accusation. Use tomorrows as you will.”

“Martin,” said Jon, almost by way of an apology. He shuffled upwards, resting his weight against the staff. “Thank you for telling me – for showing me.”

Martin lifted the basin into his hands, gesturing for Jon to take the lantern. “It doesn’t do good to hide that sort of stuff.”

*

The Admiral greeted them as they stepped back inside, and Jon stooped down to run his hands through his fur, muttering small affirmations as he did.

Martin offered a soft “Good evening,” to the cat as he passed, heading towards the kitchen. The fire had died, and the warmth was slowly beginning to fade, leaving Jon reluctant to remove his cloak. He opted instead to pull the Admiral into his lap, crossing his legs down against the wooden floor, and holding the cats warmth against his chest. The Admiral let out a small sound of protest, twisting in Jon’s lap, and finding his own comfort. Jon kept his hands up and away as the cat sorted himself, before draping them gently atop him once settled.

There was a small tap from the kitchen, and Jon looked up to see Martin, peering over at him. “Tea?”

“That would be lovely,” said Jon. “Thank you.”

Martin gave a nod, holding a small kettle in his hand as he made towards the fire. Jon watched, with wide eyes, as Martin tapped his finger against the mantle, and the logs burst into life; bright, deeply saturated flames licking their way upwards, where Martin had placed the kettle.

“The metal disk,” said Jon, “It’s just a metal disk, isn’t it?”

Martin turned to him, a sheepish expression on his face. “It’s just to stop the fire spreading, really. And I wasn’t lying – I really don’t remember where I got it.”

“I’m not sure that was the worse lie told in that conversation.”

Martin ran his hand across his neck. “It can be a hard thing to bring up. Some folks are very – they don’t much care for it, get kind of angry.” He walked back into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two ceramic mugs, each painted with that similar swirling blue pattern. “But I thought, hey – if he gets angry, I could probably take him. Not much he could do on that ankle, anyway.”

“Rude.”

“Joking.” He placed the mugs atop the table, and shot Jon a wide smile. From the fireplace, the kettle began to sing, and Martin hurried towards it, pulling a small rag from the table to wrap around the handle as he lifted it. “It’s the same as last nights. Hope that’s okay.”

Jon lifted the cat from his lap, and heaved himself upwards, wincing slightly as he did. He crossed over to Martin, and took the offered mug. “It was rather lovely last night, thank you.”

Martin’s smile grew. “Thank you. I make it myself.”

Jon looked down into the cup, where small flecks of orange zest bobbed alongside wide slices of ginger. “Is it – is it magical, in any way?”

“Well, I always say that every cup of tea is magic,” he said, looking upwards with an air of performance, “but I just really like tea.”

“Right,” said Jon, blowing a small laugh out of his nose. He raised the mug to his lips, and took a small sip, letting out a small, contented hum, cupping it in his hands, and feeling the warmth spread easily through him.

“I’m gonna turn in soon,” said Martin. “The beds yours.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Where are you sleeping?”

Martin gestured vaguely towards the fireplace. “I’ll put some pillows down – it did me fine last night.”

Jon blinked, suddenly feeling guilt and realisation march upon his face. “I put you out of your bed.”

“It’s fine,” said Martin quickly, waving his hand out. “Really, it’s fine.”

“I’ll take the fireplace,” said Jon. “You take your bed – it’s yours.”

“You’re my guest.”

“I’m more of an inconvenience than a guest,” corrected Jon, “and I refuse.”

“Jon – ”

“I refuse,” he reiterated, more firmly this time.

Martin raised his brows, and let out a defeated breath. “You’re very stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Famously so,” said Jon. “I once got voted most likely to disagree., Which I resent. Though, in my defence, the only person voting was Georgie.” Martin snorted. “But it still stands.”

“Alright,” said Martin softly, placing his cup down. “I’ll go get everything sorted.”

Jon’s offer of help was brushed aside, as Martin began to curate his make-shift bed; replicating a birds nest of blankets and pillows. He hummed again as he worked, still lulling over that same melody as before, tucking and squashing the pillows into a comfortable looking shape.

“That should do you,” said Martin, with a small air of triumph in his words. He turned to Jon as he stood. “Do you want the fire on?”

Jon nodded. “I run quite cold. Thank you, Martin – really.”

He gave Jon that same odd smile. “Of course. No bother at all. Oh, I – ” he bent back down, ruffling back through the bedding, pulling out what looked to be an orange shirt. He held it towards Jon. “Just if you were wanting something else to sleep in. Know you’ve been in those clothes for a while now.”

“Oh.” Jon took the shirt, feeling the soft material sag in his hands. “God, I suppose I must smell quite foul.”

“If you do, I hadn’t noticed,” said Martin. He looked back towards the bed. “You sure you’ll be okay there?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Jon with a sigh. “I’ve kept you up long enough, go – sleep.”

“Right,” said Martin, taking a step towards his bedroom. “Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

Jon made a light shoeing gesture. “Goodnight, Martin.”

“Night, Jon.”

The door closed behind him, and Jon was left alone. He took a long breath, breathing in the smell of firewood and incense, and the soft bite of ginger from the tea still in his hand. He placed it down upon the table, placing the shirt beside it. Tugging off his own clothes, and loosely folding them up beside his satchel, he pulled the orange garment on. It swum on him, swinging down towards his knees, and sliding off his shoulder. He tugged uselessly at it, shifting inside the fabric, before hobbling towards the bed, holding his small notepad in his hands, which he had retrieved from his trouser pockets, and Martin’s quill.

He collapsed into the bed, pleased to find that it was, in actual fact, rather comfortable, and terrifically cosy. The fire was warm beside him, and the bundle of blankets atop him offered a soothing weight. He hunched forward, his paper tilted towards the light, as his quill began to scratch down his mental ramblings. He never got much of a chance to write prose – most work came from acting as a scribe, and his own stories were never much given the time of day. But he still took joy from creating them; it was an easing of the mind, a way to pool the flooding of his brain.

Those stolen moments were enough. They had to be.

Chapter Text

He awoke to footsteps, and light. Squinting his eyes open, he could see Martin, still in his sleep clothes, padding quietly around the main room. The small pot in the middle of the table was simmering again, and Jon gave a small sniff as soothing lavender filled the room. Slowly, he watched as Martin began to line up glass bottles on the table, clinking softly as they brushed up against one another. Jon felt strange watching Martin work; but there was something oddly meditative about it, the practiced motions, the ease of which he moved, and that soft smell brewing gently.

Martin tucked a funnel into the lid of one of the bottles, and slowly lifted the pot from the flame, cupping the handle in a rag. He tilted it, and steaming, tinted liquid began to pour, sloshing into the bottle. It was somewhat translucent, and faintly purple, and small buds of flowers could be seen through the glass – though Jon was lost in identifying which.

Then, a loud clatter came, as the liquid rushed over the top of the bottle, and Martin started, sending the bottle rocking over onto its side, and rolling off the table. It landed with a smash, and the two both jumped.

“Shit.” He looked over to Jon. “You’re definitely not still asleep, are you?”

Jon grimaced, and pulled the cover away from his body. ”Can I get anything? To help?”

“No,” said Martin, holding a hand out to halt him. “Don’t move, you’ve not got shoes on.”

“Neither do you,” pointed out Jon, gesturing to Martin’s woollen clad feet. “You grab a broom, I’ll get the larger shards.”

Martin’s lips twisted, and then he let out a breath, turning towards the kitchen. “Be careful.”

Jon rolled his eyes in the safety of Martin’s turned back, and stooped down onto his knees, shuffling forward in increments as he began to fish through the shards. The smell was far stronger; lavender, geranium and something else he couldn’t put his finger on. Small buds and leaves lay sodden on the floor, and Jon peeled them up into his hands, tapping his fingers together quickly to dull the heat. Martin appeared quickly, broom in hand, and he begun to quickly sweep the shards into a small pile.

“Is that a regular broom?” asked Jon, pointing towards it. “Or is it – ” He wiggled his fingers in a mimicry of magic.

“That’s not a thing,” said Martin, raising his eyebrows. “Could you imagine?”

“So it’s just a broom?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not,” said Jon. Then, “maybe a little.”

Martin smiled, a lopsided, sleepy thing, before bending down, and scooping the shards into a small metal pan. He held it towards Jon, who shifted his own shards into the pan, clinking nosily as they fell. Martin left again, and returned brushing his hands down his striped trousers. He looked at the damp patch on the floor, and twisted his lips in annoyance.

“At least it, uh - it smells nice,” offered Jon, looking up at Martin. “What is it?”

“A healing tonic,” said Martin, thumbing absentmindedly at the bottles. “It’s for customers.”

“Customers?” echoed Jon, rising upwards with a sharp wince. He clutched the table for support. “Folk buy things from you?”

“That’s the ideal outcome for a business, is it not?” His eyes wrinkled in a smirk, and Jon found himself wearing a reluctant smile. Martin turned his gaze away, and gestured vaguely towards the table. “It’s mostly generic stuff – healing tonics, salves, love potions, at times.”

“Love potions?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” said Martin quickly. “Nothing – nothing manipulative. That stuff falls under some particularly dark magic, far darker than you’d probably expect. It just helps promote a – a preconstructed fondness, and helps open oneself up to love – all kinds, really. Familial, platonic, romantic. I’d probably call it an appreciation potion more than anything, but that doesn’t look as good on a label.”

“And whose this customer?” asked Jon, plucking one of the bottles from the table to view the label. It was the same scratching scrawl that had been on the note Martin had left him, reading out, in a minute font; Lavender, geranium, chamomile, and, “Cypress,” let out Jon, clicking his fingers together. “I knew I recognised the smell.”

Martin gave a small laugh, taking the bottle back, and slotting it into formation on the table. “This is more of a generic batch – but I’ve someone coming later this morning to pick some up. I should probably be concerned how often she buys this stuff, but I suppose it’s expected in her line of work.”

“What does she do?”

“Smithing.”

“I’ve a friend who smiths,” said Jon, then pulled a face. “Or more accurately – I’ve a friend married to someone who smiths.” Martin gave an understanding nod, and Jon moved around the table, towards where his papers were all stacked. “You won’t mind if I work?”

“Go ahead,” said Martin. “I’ll finish this up, and then make us some breakfast.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Tough.”

Jon let out a surprised laugh, a rather unbecoming snort, before hiding his face in the crook of his palm, bowing his head towards the page, where the nib of his quill now rested. He pulled one of the ruined sheets towards him – speckled with watermarks, and browning from mud. The inking was almost entirely ruined, but Jon could still make out the familiar curve of a few letters, and his memory of the woman who had told the story, and how she had told it, was far clearer in his mind than it was on the page. He flitted between the papers, lifting and looking, scanning and scribing. The noises around him slowly faded out of his interest, and his eyes tunnelled in on the words forming before him. He scratched down a full page, blowing the ink dry, before turning it over, holding the ruined sheet in his hands and swinging his gaze like a pendulum between the two.

When the soft thud of ceramic landed by his side, he barely even noticed – until it was followed by a cough, and Jon looked up to see Martin, who was dressed now; in an odd purple tunic, and striped, yellow trousers, and a green cloak, strung across his shoulders. The hem was embroidered in a fabricated garden, curling stems of green encasing buds of pink. Jon blinked, as if he’d forgotten why Martin would be in the same room as him, before his eyes fell on the mug and bowl placed beside him. Steam rose of both, the bitter brew of coffee, and something nutty from the bowl.

“You won’t get much done on an empty stomach,” said Martin. “I’m heading out for a small walk – let you get on with your work in peace.

“Oh,” said Jon. “Alright. Be safe.”

Martin just nodded, and the sound of the door closing followed soon afterwards. Jon fell easily back into his work, interrupted only by the small purrs of the admiral, who had found himself comfortable around Jon’s feet. His fur tickled between his toes, but the warmth he emitted more than made up for that fact. The pages before him fluttered by in a stream of blackened ink, curving valleys of language and form spilling from his fingers; the eloquent lettering hiding the panicked and hurried formation of them. He lost himself to it entirely, the burning in his shoulder muffled under the need to work, move, finish.

When a loud bang came at the door, he almost lept backwards in his chair, stumbling onto his swollen ankle - the surge of pain bringing him back to his surroundings. He pulled the staff into his hands, and eyed the door curiously. It wouldn’t be like Martin would knock – it was his home, after all. Slowly, he inched forward, his hand falling upon the handle as another knock came.

“Jon?” came the voice of Melanie King, pitched up in surprise as the door swung open.

“Melanie?” said Jon, in the same confused echo. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m – ” Her brows furrowed, and she let out a small puff of air. “I could ask you the same thing, and a few others. What on earth happened to you?”

Jon looked down at his swollen ankle, red and shiny, as his hand rose to the dwindling welt atop his brow. “I had a small – a minor accident. I’m just staying here until I can walk proper.”

Melanie crossed her arms over her chest, and shook her head as if preparing to scold a small child. “Honestly, Jon.”

“I – it’s hardly like I meant to,” he argued back. “I got caught in a bloody snare, of all things.”

She gave him an unimpressed look. “You shouldn’t have been out here alone.”

“I wasn’t,” said Jon. “I had the Admiral.”

“He’s a cat, Jon. That doesn’t count.”

“Georgie thought it did.”

“Well, Georgie’s worried sick,” said Melanie. A beat passed. “And she misses her cat.”

“The Admirals fine – I’m fine,” said Jon, waving his hand through the air. “I’ll be home in a few days, this is just until my ankles healed up.” He met her eyes, and cocked his head to the side. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”

A branch snapped underfoot, and the two both jerked their attention towards the small archway, where Martin was now standing, wide eyed under their stares, a basket in his hands, covered by a rag. He looked between the two, and then settled his eyes on Melanie, smiling; a small, lopsided thing, filled with fond familiarity. “Sorry, didn’t think you’d be swinging by till later.”

“A job got cancelled,” she said, with a small dismissive shrug; one that only thinly veiled her disappointment. Jon knew how much she hated it when customers pulled out – especially when the commission was particularly good, and if it was the one he’d heard Georgie mention, then he knew she’d been excited for it. It wasn’t every job she got to work with etching. “Thought I’d see if you were about.”

“Just stepped out for a moment. Didn’t want to be in Jon’s,” and he gestured towards Jon as he spoke, “hair too much whilst he worked.”

“I think you’ve got to trek a few more miles to get out of his hair,” she said with a smirk. “It sort of spreads, like an awful fungus.”

“Thank you, Melanie,” said Jon, dryly.

Martin blinked. “You two know each other?”

“This is Jon,” she said, as if his name was somehow an inside joke – and, if the dawning realization that was spreading across Martin’s face was any indicator, it was.

Martin’s eyes flickered over to Jon, with the glee of a child who had finally pieced together some infuriating puzzle. “You’re Melanie’s Jon?”

“He’s not my anything,” said Melanie. “Except a pain in my ass – at times.”

“At times,” echoed Jon, with a sigh. He looked over at Martin. “I wouldn’t take everything she says at face value, she’s incredibly biased.”

“A sarcastic workaholic?” Martin grinned. “Think I got there on my own, Jon.”

Jon twisted his lips, and Martin let out a warm laugh, moving through the space between the three, and clapping a hand down on Jon’s shoulder, slipping through the doorway. With a small, almost imperceptible squeeze, he pulled his hand away, and beckoned the two inside. “I just finished it this morning – with Jon’s help, actually.”

“Not sure you could call it help,” said Jon, slipping back inside, and leaning against the wall. Melanie followed him in, and moved around the room with a familiarity that for some reason, Jon found himself envying. She rested her hands down against the table, peering over Martin’s shoulder as he packaged up the bottles, and he laughed, loudly, as she quietly murmured something into his ear. It was far less reserved than Jon was used to, a sort of barking and bubbling thing, and Jon felt a very intense urge to be in on whatever joke had been shared – to know whatever it was that made Martin laugh like that.

Melanie looked over at him, and raised an eyebrow. “What are you sulking about?”

“I’m not sulking,” he said, which very much made it sound like he was, in fact, sulking. He pushed himself away from the wall, limping towards them, and pressing his weight into the table. Martin looked up as he did, and gave him that same odd smile; the strange, wobbly one that always looked far too shy and unsure to be sincere, and simultaneously overly so.

“Do you come out here often?” asked Jon, pulling his gaze towards Melanie. “And Georgie knows?”

She ran her bottom lip between her teeth. “Not – I mean, hardly often, and no, Jon. She doesn’t.”

“Shouldn’t she? Know, that is,” said Jon, furrowing his brow. “You know how she gets.”

“That’s exactly why,” she said, and then she sighed. “The doctors in town cost far too much, and Martin’s work here actually works, unlike that snake oil they market. And Georgie – Georgie grew up there, and you know how the locals get about these woods. She’d throw a fit if she found out I go here, especially if she knew Martin was the one making the stuff.”

Jon’s furrow deepened. “Why would it matter who made it?”

Melanie’s eyes flickered downwards, and Martin cleared his throat, clapping his hands together and breaking the sudden silence that had fallen. “That’s everything packed.”

Melanie smiled, a tight, forced thing. “Perfect. Thank you, Martin.” She took the small brown bag in her hands, and turned her body towards Jon. “You come home soon, alright? I hardly miss you, but – you know I don’t like seeing Georgie worry.”

“Tell her I’m alright,” said Jon, “and I’ll be back soon.”

She nodded. “Right. Look after yourself.”

“You’re not wanting to stay for tea?” asked Martin, a faint line of confusion over his face. “I could put the kettle on now, if you were wanting?”

“Nah, I better – ” she gestured towards the door. “Three’s a crowd, and all that. Thank you, though – for the offer, and the – ” She punctuated her sentence by holding up the paper bag. She held up her hand in a small wave, as she made towards the door. “See you soon, Martin. Jon.”

“Bye,” said Martin, the confusion on his face dripping into his voice. When the door shut behind her, his head dropped for a beat, and his lips twisted.

“Sorry,” said Jon, his voice quiet. “I feel that was rather my fault. She’s not – she isn’t my biggest fan.”

Martin shook his head. “No, I sort of – I think that might’ve been on me.”

“In what way?”

“In a rather convoluted way,” said Martin. He raised his head, and offered Jon a smile that he knew to be fake, signalling the end of that conversation. “Were you wanting to help me prepare for lunch? I got mushrooms.”

*

His fingers were coated in a small layer of grime as he scrubbed the muck from the mushrooms, picking off the larger clumps of mud, and running a damp cloth over their skin. Martin took them from the bowl he was depositing them into, and sliced them into thin slithers, before dumping them into a small pot that sizzled with oil, and garlic and the warm bite of ginger.

“Did you forage these yourself?” asked Jon.

“I did,” said Martin. “About a mile east, there’s a small valley – they grow in abundance down there.”

“I’ve never done that,” said Jon. “Foraged – gone out and got my own food like that. Always been a market.”

“It’s a good skill to have,” said Martin. “Cheaper, too. I could show you, if you’re interested. Once your ankles healed up, of course.” He looked over at Jon, and Jon just nodded, feeling oddly dumbfounded. Martin flicked his gaze over to Jon’s stack of wrinkled pages. “How’s the work going? Getting along alright?”

“It’s going,” said Jon. “Going alright might be too generous. It’s just – it’s tedious, is all. Going back over all your work, it’s – ” He sighed. “Disheartening.”

“I can see that,” hummed Martin. “I could offer a hand, if you were wanting? My penmanship’s a bit rough, but – you know. Help.”

“It’s alright,” said Jon. “Mr Bouchard’s quite particular – or, so I’ve heard. Never actually met the man.”

“How did you get the job, then? The commission job, that is.”

“I was a chronicler, for a bit – on a ship, if you can believe it,” said Jon, with a small air of pride he didn’t quite manage to hide. He was fond of that job – it’d been one of the few he’d worked where he’d been allowed to divulge into his own tales, and the crew had always been keen to hear more. “The captain of the ship, a Mr Lukas – he and Bouchard are – were friends, I think? He never spoke fondly of Mr Bouchard but he spoke of him a lot.” Jon deposited another mushroom into the bowl. “By the time we reached port, he said that I’d been offered a job. I assumed it was with him, full time – but he instead gave me the address to the Manor, and told me to write.” Jon gave a small shrug. “A week later, I was offered the job, and found residence within the village. Been working on that book ever since.”

“A ship?” echoed Martin, with clear fascination. “Can’t imagine the sorts of things you must’ve seen.”

Jon smiled. “I probably wouldn’t have either, had they not been my own eyes. The worlds a beautiful place, I’m grateful to have had the chance to see it.”

“I’ve never left these woods,” said Martin, his lips twisting to the side. “That sounds quite lovely.”

“Perhaps one day.”

“Perhaps,” echoed Martin. He turned his attention to Jon, and offered that same odd smile. “In the meantime, though – perhaps you could tell me. What it was like, and all.”

“You’d want to listen?”

“If you’d want to talk,” said Martin. “I always quite enjoy a story.”

Jon bowed his head, hiding the small smile that had bloomed upon his lips that felt far too vulnerable to reveal. He coughed once, clearing his throat, and nodded. “Sure. I could tell you a story.”

The afternoon passed in a soft blur, of steam and words; of tales and a bubbling pot. Jon, resting atop the table, hands carving out the tapestry of his memories, dramatizing and emphasising, and weaving, and creating, the words spilling easily from his lips as he recounted ravaging storms, salt-slick brows and the ever changing coastal lines. He told stories of the crew members; of the games they’d played, and attempted to teach Jon, of the crumbling cook who looked far too old to stand, let alone serve those aboard, of the songs that had been sung, and the legends that had been shared. He didn’t tell it from his own point of view, no – he found that much too boring, instead slipping between the minds of each of the folks he had known, imitating their odd quirks and rough accents as he spoke.

Martin listened intently, looking up from where he cooked, always wearing that odd smile, his eyes wrinkled in soft intrigue. Jon was surprised with how easily he fell into the role, never stumbling nor faltering; comfortable in the space between them. Outside, it had started to rain; heavy, thick droplets that chased themselves down across the windows, smudging the forest outside into a smear of green. A crack of thunder concluded the tale.

“Thank you,” beamed Martin. “That was wonderful.”

Jon warmed, dropping his hands down into his lap. “Thank you. Sorry, think I got a bit carried away in the middle there.”

“I liked where you took me,” said Martin. “Carried away isn’t always a bad thing – a sort of spectrum, perhaps. With, I don’t know – carried away by a murderous flock of crows somewhere near the top.”

Jon chuckled. “Is top good or bad?”

“Bad,” said Martin. “I think.”

Jon leant forward onto his knees, his eyes fixed on Martin with a curious smirk. “What’s right at the bottom then, for the good side?”

Martin raised his eyebrows. “Hm, well – I don’t quite know. Carried away by a conversation, perhaps – with someone of good conversational stock, someone whose company you enjoy. Carried away in a moment, maybe – when everything sort of fades away, and it’s just – it’s just calm. But then of course, carried away in a bad conversation, with someone whose company you rather despite – that’s, well – bad.” He paused for a moment, eyes flickering away. “But your story, that was – I’d put it pretty high up – or low down, I suppose, but it’s – it’s on the good side.”

Jon blinked, and then smiled. “Thank you.”

Martin just nodded, turning back towards the pot. He gave it a small stir.  “I think we got a bit carried away talking about getting carried away – the stews done. Maybe overly so.”

“I’m not sure you can overcook stew,” said Jon, pulling his cane into his hand as he slipped off the table and towards Martin. “Sort of just, at some point, becomes stew and then it – then it just stays like that. Like stew.”

“I’m not sure that’s entirely true,” said Martin, the smile in his voice audible as he dished them both up a bowl. He pushed it towards Jon, and then tucked himself into a chair, leaning easily over the table. Jon pulled out his own chair, and fell into it with a small sigh. His knee knocked into Martin’s as he pulled himself flush against the table, and he pulled it back with a small jolt, muttering a quiet apology under his breath. However, he felt Martin’s leg shift slightly, and a small patch of warmth bloomed where their knees met again. His eyes flickered over to Martin, who was looking down at his bowl, as he curled his spoon through the thick soup, raising it to his mouth.

Slowly, Jon relaxed his body, letting the small touch fade into something softer, something more deliberate. He looked down at his bowl, and began to eat.

Chapter Text

Jon sat out on the step, the damp seeping faintly through his cloak, as he watched Martin out in the garden; placing small jars under all the plants as the sun set behind him. His boots squelched in the mud, weaving between the trellis of vegetables, humming again as he worked. Jon wasn’t exactly sure what it was he was doing; but he’d rushed outside as soon as the rain had died, a small crate of jars under his arm, and Jon had found himself following, curiosity leading his feet.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin atop them, and wrapping his hands around his ankles, careful to mind the swelling. He didn’t much want to disturb Martin, with his focused brow, and stumbling steps, but the itch to fill in the blanks prevailed. “What exactly are you doing?”

Martin looked over at him, his eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, Jon – didn’t know you were out here.”

“Sorry,” he said with a shrug, “sort of – just curious, is all.”

“Oh.” Martin let out a breath, and smiled at him, before holding up one of the jars. “Nothing all that interesting, just collecting rain.”

“For water?” Jon cocked his head to the side. “Haven’t you got the stream?”

“Yeah, but – ” he made an odd gesture with his hands, his face warming slightly. “It’s, uh – special, I guess? More potent, in, uh – energy stuff. Sorry, I never really – I don’t really ever describe this sort of stuff.”

“Is it okay?” asked Jon. “If I ask questions? I don’t – I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I must admit, I am – it’s new, you know. All this. Magic stuff.”

Martin smile shrunk, but lost none of the warmth. “Yeah, yeah – you’re allowed. I just might not be – I’m not very good at it, to be honest. Sort of – always just made it up as I went. Doubt your kings mages would approve much of it.”

“Did your parents not teach you?” asked Jon. “I – well, I assumed they would be like you. Magic-users, that is.”

Martin looked away. “Yeah. They were – my mum, anyway. My dad, he – he was like you, I guess. I mean, not – you’re nothing like him, just – ”

“Just not magic,” said Jon, holding up his hand. “What about your mum, then?”

Martin’s lips twisted. “I was sort of – I suppose ‘late bloomer’ would be accurate, but,” he visibly cringed, “sort of hate that term. My mum thought I took after my dad, actually. Was sort of mad about it.” He paused for a moment, swallowing. “But, uh – well, by the time I started to develop my own magic, she had passed, and my dad had left before.”

Jon blinked. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Martin just shook his head. “It was a long time ago.”

“Still,” said Jon slowly, “losing a parent can be hard. I lost mine when I was younger, too.”

Martin’s face softened. “That must’ve been awful.”

“Long time ago,” echoed back Jon. “I was too young to remember them, really. Can’t quite tell if that’s better or worse.” He placed his down on his thigh, and rose to his feet, letting out a small groan as he did. Hobbling over to Martin, he held out one of his hands for the jar. “Let me help.”

Martin gave him a curious smile, before dropping the jar into his hand. “It collects well below leaves, it sort of funnels the water in.”

“Below leaves,” repeated Jon. “Got it.”

The mud was wet, and malleable under his feet, popping loudly with each clumsy step. The leaves reached out for him as he passed, wiry stalks, with buds of colour beading upwards. He crouched down, taking one of the leaves in between his fingers, feeling the fresh dew that lay upon them, and the soft fuzzy underside. He tucked the jar underneath it, twisting it slightly into the soil to secure it. He rose with another groan, his joints creaking in complaint. He turned to Martin, who picked up another jar, and held it out to him. Taking it, he followed the perimeter of the rickety fence, his hands skimming over the wooden rails, feet stepping over curling roots. The air was crisp, damp with rain, and alive with sweet perfume.

He looked around, searching for the source, before he heard Martin clear his throat, pointing towards a flowering bush, tucked against the wall of the cottage. “It’s jasmine. It blooms at night – quite pretty, really.”

Jon narrowed his eyes, watching as the thin, tubular shape of the white jasmine flowers curled open, revealing a small yellow burst of colour, haloed in white. “Oh,” he said, small, quiet, “yes, quite.”

“We should head in soon,” said Martin, “it’ll be a cold night.”

“You can tell?”

“Oh, yes,” said Martin, nodding his head wisely, with a sagely lilt to his voice. “After years of training, I can tell it’ll be cold due to the fact that I’m currently shivering my arse off.”

Jon gave him a dry look. “Yes, yes – alright.”

“C’mon,” said Martin, tilting his head towards the curved door, an easy smile on his lips. Jon moved towards him, hands held out to steady himself as he limped over raised roots, and twisted around aching vines, the mud slippery and squelching below his boots. Martin had reached the small gate now, and turned to hold it open for Jon, just as a particular keen root rose up to meet his feet, sending him staggering forward. Martin caught him easily, rushing forward with large hands, cupping the small curve of his waist, and holding him steady. Jon was pressed up against him, and the warm weight of Martin’s chest burned through him, sending a bright flush up his neck, and along his cheeks.

“You alright?” asked Martin, his voice low and steady. Jon could feel his words in the breath upon his skin, warm and ghosting.

Jon nodded, unable to will himself to look up at Martin. “Just this bloody ankle.”

“Alright,” said Martin, quieter. “I can have another look at it, if you want?”

“It’s fine, really,” said Jon, as Martin’s hands fell from his waist, and rose to his shoulder, taking a step back as he did. The wind rushed through the space created, dulling the soft and strange bloom in Jon’s chest. “It’ll sort itself out.”

“Just let me look at it.”

*

“It probably goes without stating,” said Martin, sat in the chair opposite to Jon, Jon’s ankle resting upon his knee, “that I’m not a doctor.”

Jon snorted. “Oh, thank you for putting me at ease – I was almost worried that I was in unqualified hands.”

Martin rolled his eyes, his hands falling down onto his ankle; the touch light, and mindful of the swelling, yet a small wince slipped past Jon’s lips, and Martin sent him an apologetic look. “It might be worth binding it, put some pressure on it to compress the swelling.” He lifted Jon’s foot, and placed it down on the floor, before he rose. “I’ve no bandages, but I’ve got scrap fabric – sure that’ll work fine.”

“Sure you’re not a doctor?” called Jon, as Martin vanished into his bedroom – appearing again a moment later, with a woven box under his arms, bustling with colours. He dropped it down beside Jon, and crouched beside it, his fingers flittering through the materials. With an air of triumph, he pulled free a length of cotton, the edges jagged – evidence of prior use, and Jon found himself wondering absentmindedly what he’d cut from it.

Martin fell back into his chair, and tapped his knee, signalling Jon to place his foot back there. He slumped back further in his chair as he did, interlocking his hands and holding them over his stomach, watching with intent as Martin began to wrap the fabric around his reddened ankle. He worked quickly, thick fingers working the fabric with ease, pulling tight enough to feel, but not enough to hurt.

“There,” said Martin, splitting the end into two strands, and tying them in a bow – which Jon found himself laughing faintly at. Martin furrowed his brow, and met Jon’s eyes. “What?”

Jon shook his head. “It’s nothing, it’s nothing. Just can’t imagine many doctors gift-wrap their patients.”

Martin held his hands up. “I did say that I wasn’t a doctor!”

“I know, I know,” said Jon, pulling his ankle off of Martin’s knee. “Thank you, really.”

“Put some weight on it,” said Martin, standing, and holding his hand out to Jon. “Here.”

Slowly, Jon rose his hand, his fingers curling around the wide expanse of Martin’s palm, his fair skin stark against Jon’s. Martin pulled him up onto his feet with a light tug, dropping his hand as he did to cup his elbow. Jon held a tight breath as he shifted his weight onto both feet, grimacing slightly as the familiar swell of pain bubbled through him – though, it was fainter. Far fainter, actually, and he exhaled in surprised relief.

“Oh,” he said, looking down, tapping his foot lightly against the floor. “Why didn’t we think of that before?”

“Better?”

“Much.” He stepped away from Martin slightly, taking a few tentative steps. “Will probably still need the stick, but – ” He tapped his foot again, and let out a small, impressed hum.

Martin made a soft sound, something that was almost laughter, but not quite. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Jon fell back into his chair, as Martin began to putter about the floor, sorting cups, and spoons for sugar. Jon’s gaze fell downwards, towards where the woven basket lay at his feet, bursting with magnificent hues and textures; satin, thick wools, vibrant patterns. He pulled free a small scrap of something red, and soft between his fingers. The edges were frayed, and Jon ran his fingers through the splayed out threads, feeling them brush against his skin. He dropped it back into the box, diving back in, feeling all sorts of fabrics brush up against him.

His fingers met something thick, and woollen, heavy in his hands as he pulled it free. It wasn’t like the rest – wasn’t cut, nor torn, nor a faded scrap. It was a skirt, in perfect condition, woven in red wool, speckled with bursts of oranges and yellows.

“Oh,” came Martin’s voice, and Jon turned to look at him, dropping the skirt into his lap as he did. “Forgot that was in there. Thought it was a tablecloth when I bought it, was going to use it to make a draft snake for winter, but – well, it seemed too nice to just cut up. And,” he gestured to himself as he spoke, “it’s not exactly my size.”

Jon fiddled with the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. “Yes, it’d be a shame to use it for scrap.”

Martin looked at him for a moment. “You can have it, if you want. I’m hardly going to use it.”

“Are you sure?”

Martin shrugged, nodding. “Like I said, not exactly my size. Also, no doubt you’ll appreciate a change of clothes that actually fit.”

Jon snorted, looking down at Martin’s oversized orange shirt that trailed off him. He clutched the skirt tighter. “Thank you.”

Martin just smiled, and turned back towards the fire. Placing one hand on the table, Jon rose to his feet, unbuckling the small fastening on the waistband of the skirt. Clumsily, he stepped into it, shifting it around so that it hung comfortably on him, before securing it. There was a gentle weight to the thing, and as he twisted, it swayed around his ankles, warm wool brushing against bare skin. He ran his hands down it, feeling the rough fuzz of the thing, and smiled to himself.

He turned towards Martin. “Fits surprisingly well.”

Martin looked back at him, and there was a moment where the only sound was that of the fire; until Martin cleared his throat, and nodded. “Yeah, it – it suits you. You look nice.”

Jon felt his face warm, and bowed his head, disguising the gesture by fiddling with the bulk of orange fabric that swelled over the waistband. He gave it a small tug, before smoothing it down. “Thank you.”

Silence settled again, though it was comfortable; like a weight you were only just aware off, but found yourself sinking under. Jon pulled the wooden staff into his hand, and made his way towards Martin, as he held forth a cup.

“Ashwagandha and oat flower,” said Martin, his voice almost a whisper, “should help you sleep.”

Jon thanked him quietly, and took in the strange aroma of the tea; milky white and speckled with flecks of black. He took a small sip, and pulled a curious face. “It’s – ”

“Odd,” supplied Martin, with a half-smile. “A little, yeah. You get used to the taste after a bit, though. Knocks you out like nothing else, though.” There was a pause, and Martin grimaced. “That’s hyperbole, it’s not actually – it’s just calming.”

Jon just shook his head. “Relax, I didn’t think you were trying to poison me or anything. Though,” and he smirked, “I haven’t used my allocated accusation for today.”

Martin raised a brow. “Oh, yeah? I thought that was solely for kidnapping?”

“I think I’m allowed to branch out,” said Jon. “Gets a bit repetitive otherwise, doesn’t it?”

Martin chuckled, and in their proximity, Jon could feel the soft waves of the sound against his skin, and he found himself smiling gently behind his cup. The fire popped beside him, and outside, an owl began to sing. Jon looked up at Martin.

“I was thinking, the other night – that – the spell you did …” He faded off, Martin’s eyes wide against his own. “Would you do it again?”

Martin blinked, warm eyes flickering with firelight. “You want to see more magic?”

Jon just nodded.

Martin let out a long breath, his hand coming up to brush through his hair, leaving it cupped against the nape of his neck. “I – yeah, really?”

“Why so surprised?”

“It’s just – no one’s ever – ” he cut himself off with a surprised laugh as it bubbled up his throat. He smiled, wide. “Yeah, alright. But, I – I have a better idea. It’s just a short walk, but wrap up.”

*

They stood at the edge of the pathway, looking out into the dark void of the woods. The fuzzy greyscale silhouettes of the trees fenced them in, and Jon furrowed his brow in slight apprehension. He looked over to Martin, bundled up in his cloak and scarf, hands shrouded in wool, who gave him an easy smile. Then, he watched as Martin cupped his hands, and brought them to his lips. He blew into them, and it sounded almost like the owls that called out around them, but – as he opened his hands, a ball of light was revealed.

The centre was opaque, flickering in small pulses, fading out into intangible glow. It shone with fierce brightness, catching the edges of Martin’s face, and illuminating the soft fuzz of his gloves. Jon found his hand reaching towards it, his index finger skirting the edges of it’s radiance. He shot a look up to Martin, who just nodded, and he pressed further, feeling an almost buzz encase his skin as the light engulfed him. In the centre, there was warmth, like dipping your finger into honey, left out in the sun. He pulled his hand back, and a small sound bubbled up through him; something between awe and amusement.

“Here,” said Martin, gesturing towards Jon’s stick. Jon held it forward, and almost as if Martin was handling sand, he held his palm up above the staffs finial, and began to pour the light down onto it. It stretched downwards, catching itself on some invisible form, undulating and twisting itself back into that orb shape. When Jon pulled the staff back, the light stayed, swaying with the motions.

“That’s not what I wanted to show you, by the way,” said Martin, gesturing into the woods. “It just gets dark.”

With intrigue lacing each step, Jon followed Martin as he led them into the woods. No stones lay underfoot, no pre-forged path, and the ground was still muddy and slick with rain – yet, Jon felt almost giddy as he followed, the odd light glowing against the trees they passed, filling him with warmth. The trees were taller the further they walked, thicker too, encased in sprawling layers of moss and lichen, with gnarling roots that bulged under the earth. Martin turned to check on him as they walked, his brown eyes glowing with the light from Jon’s staff as he did.

“Almost there,” Martin announced, as the ground began to slope downwards. He angled his body towards Jon, his hand extended. “Here, give me your hand.”

Jon swallowed, clutching his staff tighter as he raised his hand, meeting Martin’s. With a smile, and a squeeze, Martin began to lead Jon down the slope, holding the weight off his ankle as he did. His hand was large, and impossibly warm against Jon’s; the heat traveling like a river through him, rushing over his lungs, and filling him with drowning comfort.

The ground began to even out, and Martin’s hand didn’t stray from Jon’s as it did, nor did he part as he pushed through a hanging canopy, nor when the wide maw of a cave revealed itself before them.

He clutched Jon’s hand tighter. “It’s safe, don’t worry.”

Jon could only nod, stumbling alongside Martin, craning his neck to watch as the slick gums of the cave glistened under the passing light. Their steps were quiet, muffled by the damp of the walls, and the slick green slime that coated them. Jon repressed a small shudder, subconsciously pressing his arm flush against Martin’s, eliciting a small chuckle from the other man. “You’re fine, honest.”

Jon didn’t reply, just turned his gaze towards his feet, kicking out a small pebble as he walked – until Martin held out his arm, and halted him. “What?”

“We’re here,” he said. “Give me the torch.”

Almost tentatively, Jon held the cane towards Martin, uncertainty heavy on his brow. Martin dropped Jon’s hand, and held them up to the orb, cupping it between his palms, slowly pressing them flush until the light died. Jon expected darkness, but darkness was not what came. Instead, the cave came to life. A constellation of light bloomed on the cave walls; glowing, flickering hues of blues and greens, cascading upwards and overhead.

Jon’s eyes followed the pathways of light, where beaded opalescent stalactites hung, catching the light and swaying ever so slightly in the barely there breeze. The light was moving, following pathways he couldn’t see, dying and reigniting. It felt as if he was cupped in the hands of some almighty thing, with light seeping through the gaps between their fingers. He turned to Martin, his mouth open in a question he didn’t know how to ask.

Martin just smiled. “I know you wanted to see my magic, but – well, in a way, it’s the same thing. It all comes from the earth, it’s all connected.” Martin looked out into the cave, blue light tracing his profile. “I actually used to come here, when I was a kid. Used to pretend it was my magic that did this.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s just glow worms, though. Bit less magical, I know.”

“Still beautiful,” said Jon, his voice soft.

Martin hummed beside him. “Still beautiful.”

“Why show me?” The question was soft, almost asked with gratitude.

Martin gave him that odd smile, the one Jon was finding himself growing accustomed to, but never quite understanding. It softened, and he looked back towards the cave. “I don’t know.”

For the first time, Jon didn’t ask questions. Somehow, that felt like enough.

Chapter Text

The stream was thick and swollen, rushing up to meet their steps far too soon; white wefts of water shrouding the river bank. Martin swung his foot through the water, sending up a small spray, and Jon watched as it reflected in the bright morning sun, turning into the most magnificent hues.

“It always gets like this after it rains,” said Martin, his eyes wrinkling as if he was letting Jon in on some secret joke.

Jon hummed, tucking the wash basket in his hand between two rocks, safe from the current. He and Martin bracketed the thing, sitting on the small slope, barely just out of the rivers way, and began to pull clothes from the basket, running them through the stream. Martin pulled out a bar of soap and brought a brush down against it, the dampness bringing bubbles up from the block, lathering the hairs up in the sweet smell of germanium. Jon did the same with his own brush, holding the sodden shirt in his hands taut against a rock as he scrubbed the dirt and grime from it, his tongue peeking out in concentration as he did.

The water turned milky and white around them, carrying the scent down the river, where it drifted upwards, catching in the soft sway of the trees. Jon dropped the brush into his lap, the dampness seeping through the wool of his skirt, as he wrapped both hands around the shirt, twisting it below the water, before raising it upwards, giving it a vicious shake. Water spackled them both, and Jon’s nose wrinkled as droplets freckled his face. He heard Martin laugh beside him, leaning forward to hold out the metal basin he had brought, and Jon dropped the shirt in with a wet plop.

“Thank you for helping,” said Martin, dropping the basin down beside them. “It can be a bit of a chore, I know.”

Jon just shrugged, reaching for another garment – his own slacks, ruffed up and muddied around the cuffs. “I think helping out if the least I can do – hardly like washing a few shirts pays you back for bed and board.”

“You don’t have to – to pay me back, Jon,” said Martin simply. “Whether in favours, or whatever. It’s – I like having you here. Having company, it’s nice – it’s new.”

“What about Melanie?” asked Jon. “You two seemed friendly.”

“Melanie’s lovely, but she’s – it’s rare. To see her, that is.”

“Don’t think even Georgie has ever described her as lovely,” said Jon, “Besides, I hate to think about what she’s said that constitutes me as her Jon.”

Martin chuckled. “She said nothing untoward, Jon, really. Can’t believe I didn’t put the two together, though.”

“Good to know she paints an accurate picture,” muttered Jon, and then, “well, perhaps not good – accurate isn’t exactly favourable.”

“She likes you more than you think, you know,” said Martin. “Not all her stories are bad – some even made you sound quite nice. Told her I’d be curious to meet you, actually.”

Jon rose an eyebrow. “And is your curiosity sated?”

Martin pulled a noncommittal face. “Enough.”

“Flatterer.”

Martin snorted, muffling the sound with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of suds across his cheeks. He wiped them clean off on his shoulder, and wrinkled his nose. He looked back down into the water, wringing out a shirt as he did. “This river doesn’t go to the village, does it?”

“It goes underground just before,” said Jon. “Sort of, uh – cuts off where the woods start, really.”

“Where do folk do their washing, then?” asked Martin. “Don’t much suppose most of them brace the woods.”

“No, not quite,” said Jon, biting down on his lips. “We’ve a well, though. Gets a bit crowded come the weekend.” He pulled another shirt into his hands, and began to scrub. “Have you really never been? To the village.”

“Once when I was very young – too young to really remember,” said Martin, “and once more after that, but it – I don’t really think that counts.”

“How so?”

Martin was quiet for a moment. “Do you know much of the village history? With the Witch?”

Jon shook his head. “Very little, though not for lack of trying.”

Martin gave a small nod. “Most folk don’t like to talk about it much, the real history – it’s all caught up in superstition, as if speaking something aloud creates it.”

“Small towns are like that.”

“I know, I know,” said Martin, half muttering. “I just – I wish they weren’t so – so stuck in it.”

“Will you tell me then?” Jon turned to Martin. “The real history? It’s my job, after all.”

Martin’s lips twisted. “It’s not some story, Jon.”

“I know that,” said Jon. “But is it not important to chronical these things, true things?”

“I don’t think I’d want it to be immortalised,” said Martin. Then, quieter, “I rather wish people would just forget.”

“They immortalised it in the village,” said Jon. “They’ve a plaque and everything, with nothing of detail bar a date – but folks know.” Jon rung the shirt out, and tossed it into the basin. “I suppose it comforts them.”

“There’s a plaque?” Martin’s voice was quiet, distant, almost. His eyes flickered towards Jon, and Jon nodded, swallowing. “Oh.” There was silence, and neither of them moved. “That’s odd isn’t it? A woman dies, and they celebrate it.”

Jon wasn’t quite sure what to say, so all he said was, “I don’t know.”

“They weren’t always afraid of her, you know,” said Martin, around a deep breath. “She helped them – protected them. She wasn’t just anger, she was a person ” Martin slapped his brush against a muddied pair of trousers with vigour. “You can write that down.”

Jon considered his words for a moment. “You knew her?”

“Yeah,” said Martin. He let out a weighted sigh. “She was the Witch of the Black Woods, and she was a scourge on the village, and – and she was my mum. It all gets a bit tangled up these days, though.”

Jon froze. “Your mother?”

Martin’s jaw tightened. “Yes, Jon. If you want to run off screaming, or whatever, could at least finishing washing your slacks?”

Jon shook his head, though Martin wasn’t looking. “No, I – I - ”

“Don’t Jon,” he sighed. “Don’t bother.”

They were both quiet for a moment, and then Jon’s reached forward, his hand falling against Martin’s back. “I am – I’m so sorry.”

Martin looked at him, and the harshness along his brow faded, turning to confusion. “She was bad, Jon. I know that.”

“But she was your mother.”

Martin swallowed, and then looked away, his head bowing. A beat passed, and his face fell into his hands. Jon didn’t know if he was crying, or not, but he moved closer, and brought his arm tighter around Martin’s back, his thumb carving a small line of comfort across his shirt.

Eventually, Martin’s hands fell, and he took in a small breath. “I think you might be the first person to say that. To, you know - let me grieve her.”

“Oh, Martin.”

Martin just shook his head. “Twenty years late is better than never, right?” He looked over at Jon, with wet eyes that folded into an almost smile. “If I tell you her story, will you promise to keep it true?”

Jon didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

*

“And you’re sure about this?” Jon looked up at Martin from where his quill lay upon the page, seated across from at the table. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“I’m sure,” said Martin, tucking his hands between his knees. He let out a strained laugh. “I mean, I – I hardly want to, but I think I should?

“If you’re sure,” said Jon. “In your own time.”

Martin nodded, rolling his lips between his teeth. “I was a kid at the time …”

The cottage was cold. No fire warmed the hearth, nor pot on the stove. There was quiet, but it was not calm, it was not peace. It was a length of twine, held taut between hungry blades. His mother stood guard at the window, awaiting. Awaiting for what, Martin pretended he didn’t know.

But he did know. But he also knew that his father was not coming back; he had seen the bags, seen the look in his eyes. He had not said goodbye to his home, for this was not his home, and it never would be again. He approached his mother slowly, front lit by the grey clouds that rolled outside, her back dark and cold to him. She did not turn.

“Mum?” His voice was quiet, unsteady around the nerves that coated his tongue. “It’s dinner soon.”

The side of her cheek turned to darkness as she turned it to face him; with wide, vacant eyes. Martin watched her watch him, and her lips twisted. “Must you stand so close?”

Martin took a step backwards, and bowed his head. “Sorry.”

“Miss Graham isn’t getting better,” she said, monotonous. “You gave me the wrong vial, Martin.”

Martin swallowed. “You wanted dillweed, you asked for dillweed.”

“I know what I asked for.” Her hands tightened behind her back. “But she’s not getting better.”

“Maybe your magic can’t help her,” said Martin. “Sometimes it’s not enough. You know that.”

She turned at that, slowly, her lips drawn across her face. The blades bit down, and the tension snapped. “I’m sure you know all about not being enough, Martin. You should’ve left with him, but even he knew you would be nothing more than the bags he took. You would be a weight, nothing more, tethering him down the way you do me.”  She took a step closer. “You gave me the wrong vial, Martin, and she’s not getting better.”

Winter came and passed, and as it did, so did Miss Graham; sickly, and yellowing. Martin’s mother had been at her side as she’d faded, and she stayed silent upon her return to the cottage, weak hands waving away Martin’s offers of conversation or tea.

Instead, she sat by the window, and waited.

Visitors came, customers with familiar faces – which brought with it fondness, and Martin greeted them all with wide smiles, before his mother had pushed him outside, and ushered in the faces for privacy. Martin would sit in the garden, and pretend he couldn’t hear shouting.

He would watch as the visitors left, with hurried steps and clenched fists. Never did they turn to him as he wished them safe travels. He would stay out in the garden until the sun faded, and sneak back into the cottage when the snores of his mother sounded.

“Mr Cortina isn’t getting better,” she said, her hands pressed flush against the table, her gaze set on the pot before her. Martin sat beside her, and swallowed. “They say it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” said Martin, quickly. “You help them, mum, truly.”

Her jaw tightened. “I help them.” Her hand curled into a fist, and she brought it down against the table. Vials and bottles shook, and rolled onto their sides.. They fell like rain, smashing into droplets. “I help them, Martin.”

Martin hurried to his feet, grabbing the broom and quickly brushing it against the floor, shifting the shards into a small pile. Another bang came, as her other hand formed a fist, and she brought both down together. “They think I’d hurt them?”

“They’re just scared,” said Martin. “They don’t want to lose their dad, is all.”

“That’s not scary,” she snapped. “That’s life, and that’s death. It’s not scary, it’s expected. It’s something we can trust. They villainise it, they make it out to be cruelty. It’s a mercy, Martin.”

“Mum?”

“To live without death,” she said, “now that’s something to fear. That’s something truly evil.”

Mr Cortina passed in Spring, with Martin’s mother at his side. Martin did not try to talk to her as she returned, nor did he try to talk to her as the week went on, and as the month drew to a close, his throat was gummy and thick from disuse.

“Mrs Ransom isn’t getting better,” said his mother. And she smiled.

A knock came at the door, a week later, and Martin answered it excitedly; keen to see faces, hear voices, people – anything. They did not look at him as the door opened. They pushed past, and let themselves into his home.

There were more people than Martin could count – strangers, customers, people he had thought of fondly, or as friends. Their features twisted and warped into anger, as their hands reached and clawed for his mother as she screamed.

Mr Ransom passed that morning, and Martin’s mother had been at his side.

The afternoon sky had silhouetted her as she had been pulled through the door, her heels clawing against the wooden floors, and scraping through the mud. A choir of hands clasping her, with chain like fingers that held her tight, close, leaving links of red welts across her skin.

Martin ran after the crowd, shouting words he didn’t understand, screaming – begging, as his own hands came up to clasp around his mothers, before weight pulled him back, sending him flying to the forest floor. His head met stone, and darkness took him.

He came to with the smell of smoke, clawing down his throat, spiderwebbing out through his lungs. He hacked and wheezed as he rolled onto all fours, stumbling upwards, and falling against a tree. He could feel something hot and sticky running down his spine, and even in the darkness of the night he could see the glint of crimson.

He fell forward, his mouth cupped in the crook of his elbow, as he guided himself along the pathway, grasping at the trees for security. He could see tracks before him, muddied footsteps, and desperate heels. Sickness settled deep in his bones, and he followed them; to where the woods faded, and where the village bloomed. Where the fires burned.

His mother stood before him, the wick amongst the ferocious blaze, her hands held before her, as if they’d been trying to meet in a prayer. Her skin was ash slick and golden in the heat, as charcoal strands of hair whipped around her, caught in the twisting winds that pushed the fire ever forward.

Her lips were parted, and through the noise; the roar of the flames, the panicked cries of the villagers, he could hear her weep. She wept like a scream, shaking and thundering, desperate and aching. And then the fire pulled back;, flickers of fingers clutching her in a fist, before opening into nothing. There was nothing.

His mother was gone.

Silence came. And then someone was shouting – they were saying something, they were saying his name. Martin turned his dolorous gaze away from the ashen fractals that stretched out from where his mother had stood, and saw coming towards him, a lumbering group of men.

That’s her son, they said. That’s her son.

And then –

“I ran,” said Martin. “I just kept running until I got home, and – and I hid. Christ, I hid for days, but – well, I suppose in the chaos that followed, they sort of … forgot about me. No one ever came, and I didn’t dare go back. Still don’t.”

Jon’s quill fell silent against the page, and he let out a long breath. “My god, Martin.”

Martin looked down into his lap, and nodded. “Yeah, it’s – did you get it all alright?”

Jon placed his quill down against the page, backdropped in streaks of prose, and the sharp curves of Martin’s words. “I – yes, I did. Thank you.” He looked up at Martin; watching the other man’s eyes fight against his own, flickering across the floor, with knotted hands weaving anxiety atop his lap. “I – I am so sorry, Martin. That’s – that’s awful. Utterly.”

Martin just swallowed, and pushed his lips to the side in a tight smile. “She’s dead now, though – so it’s alright.” He let out a strained laugh, and drummed his fingers against his knee. “Can’t hurt anyone now, or – or whatever.”

Jon stared for a moment, then blinked, shaking his head. “No, I don’t – Martin, no. What happened to you, that’s – you were a child. Alone. I – ”

“It’s okay, Jon,” said Martin, his voice suddenly soft, and almost questioning. “It’s alright. Yes, I wish things could’ve been different, but I – I – ” he faded off, his tongue peeking across his lips as the words died on it. “I’m okay. It’s fine now.”

There was silence between them, and in the silence Jon extended his hand towards Martin, cupping his fidgeting fingers in a small embrace. Martin looked up at him, with wide eyes, and the silence held before his shoulders fell from their perch by his ears, and he let out a long breath. Jon gave his hand a squeeze, and then rose, stepping towards Martin and wrapping his arms across his back.

Martin went rigid, and Jon jumped backwards, with wide, apologetic eyes. “I – sorry, I just – sorry.”

Martin was quiet for a beat, and then, as if suddenly shocked back into life, jumped to his feet, holding his hands out in front of him and waving them. “No, sorry, I – I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“I should’ve asked.”

“No, no.” Martin shook his head. “Sorry, it was nice – just not used to – not used to it. That.”

“Oh.” Jon’s eyes flickered between Martin’s, and he tilted his head to the side. “Would you – do you want me to – to –  uh - ” he gestured vaguely between them.

Martin just nodded, slow and small. Almost tentatively, Jon stepped closer, the floorboards creaking in the space between them, and he brought his arms back up around Martin. It was an odd angle - a awkward embrace; with Jon reaching up on his toes to stretch his arms across Martin’s shoulders, and Martin’s back bent downwards to meet him. His hands fell loosely onto Jon’s waist, his thumbs resting atop the wool of his skirt; before, in a long breath, pushed around until they relaxed onto the small of his back. Jon’s chest was pressed against Martin’s, and he could feel the rhythmic thrum of his heart reverberate through him, singing some quiet, uncertain song.

Their angle soon thawed, as Martin’s arms rose upwards in time to Jon’s lowering, his feet dropping flat onto the floor. He turned his cheek flush against Martin’s chest, closing his eyes and feeling the soft weave of his tunic against his skin, smelling sweetly of geranium. Martin’s arms tightened around him.

Then, he opened his eyes, and, “Oh.”

All around him was light. Entirely unlike what he had seen before – it bloomed with life, curling shapes, as if the wind had chosen a form and that form had been golden. The light twisted around the room, curling around other strands, and dancing upwards. Jon stared, and watched, his hands stretched out against Martin’s shirt, as the light cocooned them, in a soothing hurricane of intangible ribbons.

And then Martin froze under his hands, jumping back, cutting some invisible string. The light halted, and then shattered, dissipating into nothing. His eyes, wide and almost frantic, met Jon’s, and he looked – how did he look?

“Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” he said, the word half hidden in a breath, rough under a cough. He shook his head. “Sorry, sorry – I’m fine.”

Martin took a step backwards, and then another, stumbling awkwardly into a chair, sending it tilting backwards. It landed with a bang, and the two both jumped – before Martin scuttled around it, fixing it upright, his hands coiled tightly around the wood. He didn’t seem to be letting go.

“Martin?”

“Hm?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Martin’s hands loosened around the chair, and his shoulders fell. He shook his head. “No, no – not at all, not even remotely. I just – I just didn’t mean to do … that.”

Jon rose an eyebrow. “The spell?”

He just nodded.

“You know I don’t mind,” said Jon, stepping closer. “I like it, in fact. Liked it – that spell, particularly. It was – ” he shrugged, stalling for time as he searched for the word. “I don’t know, it felt – ”

“Warm,” said Martin, his voice quiet, as if answering a question and fearful of the answer.

Jon smiled. “Safe.”

Martin’s eyes flickered between his own, and his expression was clearer now – he was afraid. “But, I didn’t mean to, Jon.”

“I do stuff I don’t mean to all the time,” said Jon, taking another step. “It happens, Martin.”

Martin looked away, letting out a sharp exhalation. “Yes, but it’s different for me. If you do something by accident, it’s what – spilled ink? I could – I could hurt someone, Jon.”

“Oh, Martin,” murmured Jon. “You wouldn’t.”

“But I could. I – I could. And – and I hate that.”

Jon steadied his gaze, catching Martin’s eyes. “But you wouldn’t.”

Martin looked at him for a moment, leaving nothing between them but his slow, shaky breaths, and then, “how are you so sure? You accused me of kidnapping you not three days ago.”

Jon frowned. “I’d just met you, Martin - I didn’t know you.”

“And you do now?”

“I – ” Jon stopped, taking a step backwards. Martin’s eyes had hardened, and the cottage, for the first time, felt cold. Jon looked away. “I suppose not.”

The fire had died, and Jon couldn’t remember when it had happened. Without the soft crackle, the silence was palpable, thick in Jon’s throat. Martin stepped away from the chair, and the floor creaked with the movement.

“I’m going to – ” he gestured loosely towards the door, not meeting Jon’s eyes. “Yeah.”
Jon just nodded. “Okay.”

He barely heard the door close, yet it ran through him like a slam.

Chapter Text

As soon as the door closed, Jon was moving. Not with speed, his ankle didn’t quite allow that – but with purpose. He stumbled against the table, where his papers were spread, cast over the wood like an ink-speckled sheet. He roughly pushed them together, knocking them into a pile, and shoving them into the red binder. He secured it with a viscous knot, pulling it so tight that it had surely strained the leather.

“Admiral!” he called out to the cottage, shifting his weight between his feet as he scanned the room for the cat. A moment later, he was replied to with a soft purr, and the feeling of fur against his ankles. He bent down, scooping the feline into his arms, tucking the binder against his chest and making for the door. His bag, cloak and cane rested beside it, and he pulled all three towards himself, messily arranging them around him. With a long breath, and final look back into the cottage, he pulled the door open, and fled into the night.

He was an idiot. He knew that, of course. But he’d never felt it as strongly as he did then, hobbling through the treeline, with panicked, and pained urgency. He’d messed up – he’d mistaken something, for something else, and – he’d ruined it. It being … he didn’t quite know. He shook his head, willing to dislodge everything but reason. Whatever fantasy he’d been living in the past few days, he’d overstayed his welcome. It was time to go home – finish his book in the comfort of his own room, with Georgie’s pity, and Melanie’s scorn. His chest lurched out of him, leaving him feeling sick, and then empty. Aching.

The woods were dark, and the path was faint, narrow, cutting out as grass reclaimed it, hiding each stone. He’d never walked this route – only passed over it, held in Martin’s arms, and unconscious. Jon felt annoyance flush to his face at the thought; Martin had been kind, helpful, because he was nice, and Jon had turned around and mistaken it for – for – he shook his head again.

His cane slipped, and he stumbled to the side as it sunk into the mud, letting out a biting curse as he steadied himself. The Admiral took the opportunity to leap out of his arms, trotting out ahead.

“Wait,” demanded Jon. “Don’t run off, okay?”

The Admiral gave him a look that Jon couldn’t help but feel was pointed, and Jon could swear his purr sounded a lot like hypocrite. Jon narrowed his eyes, and twisted his lips to the side.

“You’re a cat,” he snapped, “what do you know?”

The Admiral didn’t reply, but Jon supposed it would’ve been strange if he did. Still, he couldn’t help but resent the silence. The two trudged on through the darkening woods, following a path that Jon told himself was right, convincing himself that the unease was simply due to their argument.

“Was it an argument?” he asked the cat. The Admiral didn’t seem to hear. “I mean, it – we disagreed, but I – is that enough for an argument?” Silence. “I think I hurt his feelings, but I don’t know how.” Silence. “He’s too polite to say, but he’d want me out of his hair. I – I shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did, this bloody ankle aside. I – ” he sighed. “I was just being selfish, wasn’t I? Staying simply because I wanted to, that’s not – I shouldn’t have.”

He looked down at the cat, and he looked back.

“I’m doing the right thing,” he said, and then, “right? Saving him the effort of asking me to leave.”

The Admiral didn’t reply, and Jon sighed again, heavier this time.

“Would he have?”

He still didn’t reply, but Jon knew the answer. They continued to walk, his stick knocking the low hanging branches aside as he hobbled onwards. Somewhere, deeper in the woods, an owl called out, and the sound found itself low and heavy in Jon’s gut. He glanced behind as he stepped forward, almost trying to convince himself he could still see the comforting light of the cottage, but all that lingered was the low flicker of the moon, half cast behind shadow.

“God, I’m an idiot. Why did I – ” He stopped, running a hand through his hair, and turning where he stood as the blackened woods encompassed him. The path below his feet had turned to dirt, thick and heavy below his boots. Sudden despair rocked through his body, churning itself upwards into his throat, and he let out a sound that felt almost like sob, though no tears fell – just bubbling panic as the darkness deepened. It seemed almost tangible, as if the night had taken the form of a heavy hand, gripping his shoulders, and pushing him deeper into the mud slick forest floor.

Which way had he come?

He turned, frantically, looking for familiarity within the branches. But the wind had picked up, and the leaves all sang their own staccato dance, blurring his old route with each rustling movement. He looked down at the Admiral, as if pleading for answers, and the cat began to walk again – and Jon followed, strung along on some invisible leash. He knotted his free hand against his cloak, drawing the rough wool between his thumb and forefinger, and kneading away the tension.

“This shouldn’t happen so often, should it?” said Jon, laughing away the shaky cadence of his voice. “One of these days I’ll – I’ll buy a map, huh?”

Suddenly, the Admiral stopped, and Jon froze as he watched the cats back arch upwards. He could feel his breaths, heavy in his chest, but drowned out under the thudding of his heart as he awaited what terrible thing had been awaiting them. And then – Jon blinked. There was light.

Faint, speckling, glowing. Popping up in shattered constellations along the trees, rising upwards into the canopy, and stretching out across the muddied floor. They were moving, too – not like Martin’s magic, no, but familiar, nonetheless.

“Glow worms,” said Jon, and then he laughed. Breathy in disbelief, and faint with amazement.

The light grew as more appeared, crawling up from under rocks, and from between the fractal tree bark. And the woods came alive, coated in silver, and glistening with light. And then a branch snapped underfoot, and Jon spun –

“Jon.”

Martin was standing between the trees, his eyes wide, and his face ashen with fear and slick with sweat. His shirt was untucked, and rumpled around the collar.

“Martin,” said Jon, and the guilt rushed out with the name, “I’m so sorry. I – ”

He was cut off as Martin pushed forward, arms wrapping tightly around him, squeezing him with palpable relief. “God,” he said, pulling away, but still gripping Jon’s shoulders, “I came back, and – and – I thought something terrible had happened.”

Jon shook his head. “No, I – Martin, I just thought – I thought you’d hate me.”

Martin’s whole face furrowed. “How?”

“I hurt you!” said Jon. “And – and you left, I thought – ”
Martin’s shoulders fell, and shame crept over his features. “You didn’t hurt me, Jon. You were trying to comfort me - I just needed a moment.”

“But – ”

“I was frustrated with myself, Jon,” he said, his tone painfully sincere, “not you.”

“I’d overstayed my welcome,” said Jon, feeling as if he needed to argue himself back onto the hook he’d been let off.

Martin’s face softened, and then became unsure. “You’re allowed to leave when you want, Jon. I – I don’t want you to feel like you have to sneak off because I wouldn’t let you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“And you haven’t overstayed anything,” continued Martin, not seeming to hear Jon. “Has it ever occurred to you that I really like having you here?” Jon swallowed. “I – I know I said I like the company, but it’s your company I like. You’re welcome to leave, but just say goodbye first, okay?”

Jon let out a small breath, and nodded, looking down. “I’m sorry - I think I’ve been an idiot.”

Martin chuckled. “Running off into the woods at night on your ankle? Yeah, you’re getting close.” He paused. “Honestly, for someone who thinks so much about so much, you keep coming to the wrong conclusions.”

Jon snorted, the sound wet and gummy. “How did you even find me? I – I don’t really know where I am.”

Martin gestured around the glowing woods. “I asked for help.”

“From the glow worms?”

“From the glow worms.” He smiled, and his eyes creased into spiderwebs. “They owed me a favour.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” He raised an eyebrow. “Certainly worked.”

Jon rolled a small smile between his teeth, and turned his head back to the trees – the insects were beginning to fade, seeping back into the wooded fray. The darkness felt lighter though, now, even with their absence.

Martin cleared his throat. “I – do you want to come back? I can – I could walk you back to the village. Not too close, but I – if you wanted that. I could.” Jon opened his mouth to reply, but Martin’s face had suddenly become focused, and their eyes met. “But, I think it’s worth stating that I – I’d like it if you stayed.”
Jon felt open and flayed in front of him, and, breathless, he just nodded.

*

There were flowers on the table when the two stepped back into the cottage. Not a neat bouquet, or tucked inside a vase – a rough, hand-picked flourish, pooled out onto the table as if they’d been dropped. They hadn’t been there when Jon had left, and he tried not to stare at them as the two peeled off their shoes. There was a tension between them as they moved around one another; Jon slipping down onto his chair, the Admiral leaping onto his lap, and Martin puttering about with the kettle. But it wasn’t the same tension that weighed them down as before – it was heavy, still, but not oppressive. Like a hand clutched too tightly, and Jon wondered if, when it eased, the hands would fall apart, or intertwine.

“You’re shivering,” said Martin, as he placed a steaming cup beside him. He pressed the back of his hand against where Jon’s lay on the table, and his brow furrowed. “Christ, you’re like ice, Jon.”

“I didn’t notice,” admitted Jon, flexing his hand out, and slowly bringing awareness to the frozen numbness of them. He reached forward for the cup, and the ceramic felt like fire against his skin.

“Take the bed tonight,” said Martin. “This room always gets cold on nights like these.”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t take your bed.”

“Why?”

Jon balked for a moment. “I – it’s your bed, where you sleep! You shouldn’t have to camp out in your own home.”

“I am offering.”

“Yes,” said Jon, “because you’re nice, and – and you do stuff like that.”

Martin looked surprised. “I’m nice?”

“I – what?” Jon felt his face warm. “Of course you are!”

Jon took comfort in the fact that Martin’s own face had began to redden. “Thanks,” he squeaked out.

“Besides,” continued Jon, looking towards the fire, “I don’t want you getting cold, either.”

“I run warm.”

“Martin.”

“Jon,” sighed Martin, “you’re not the only stubborn one, you know. Just one night, okay?”

Jon steeled his jaw. “I’m not taking your bed!”

*

Martin’s bed was softer than Jon remembered, and without the haze of injury or confusion from the first time he’d seen it, the room was sharper; the homeliness apparent in every inch. He tried to find a way to describe the energy of the room, the softness, the smell of jasmine through the window that looked over the garden, the heavy warmth from the duvet – but the only word that came to mind was simply: Martin; who he could hear through the doorway, the floorboards creaking slightly with each muffled step, and the low murmurings of a conversation with the Admiral. He allowed the small smile on his face to stay, but turned onto his side and buried it under the duvet. The sheets smelt of tea, and the river, and the scent filled Jon’s lungs, spreading outwards across his chest. The glass baubles that hung from the rafters above flickered with a fading light, and Jon recognised the glowing speckles inside as Martin’s own magic. It felt comforting, as if he were in the room with him. He thought of Martin, of his ashen face in the woods, and guilt pooled around him. What had he been thinking? Running away without a second thought, because what? It was easier?

He curled the duvet tighter around himself.

When he awoke, it was still dark out, and the trees outside were lined in silver from the looming moon. His ears twitched in the silence, seeking out whatever had roused him from sleep. Just his own breaths, and then – a loud clatter sounded through the cottage, and Jon froze, his eyes going wide. A beat passed, and then he heard a muffled sigh, and the shuffling sound of Martin’s socks. Jon waited a moment, before he tugged the duvet away from his body, and padded towards the door.

Martin was knelt down on the floor beside the shelves on the far wall, one hand resting against them, the other picking up fallen books. He winced as he saw Jon, and grimaced in apology. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Did I wake you?”

Jon ran a hand over his bleary face. “S’fine. What’s ‘appaned?”

Martin rose, messily placing the books back onto the shelf. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d do some reading.” He pulled a face. “Didn’t mean to knock them. Sorry.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” echoed Jon, his voice a low gritty grumble, thick with sleep. “Why not?”

“Uh – ” Martin faltered, and even through sleep addled eyes, Jon could see the layers of jumpers and wool draped over his body, and the thicker pile of blankets by the fire on the floor.

“Cold?” summarised Jon, and Martin gave a reluctant nod. Jon gave a full body eye roll, his shoulders sagging with the motion, he waved a hand through the air, and stepped back into the bedroom. “Get in here.”

Martin’s face flushed. “Jon, I – ”

“Shush,” Jon slurred, and he was strangely thankful for his muddled state – or he might’ve shattered into a million pieces had he realised what he’d said sooner. No, it wasn’t until he had fallen back into the bed, and Martin appeared in the doorway, that it struck him. Even then, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else – either turn Martin away, or offer to swap. He found he didn’t want to. Martin crept across the floor, and out of the corner of his eye, Jon watched as he peeled the numerous layers off, leaving him in his simple blue tunic that trailed down to his knees. A slight draft entered the bed as Martin peeled up the other end of the quilt, but it was dulled almost immediately as Martin sunk in beside him, the bed bowing under the weight. Despite his obvious chill prior, gentle heat radiated off of Martin, and Jon felt mothlike, willing himself not to bend towards the warmth like a flame.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he heard Martin ask.

“No use us both being cold,” Jon murmured, “is there?”

Martin gave a small breathy laugh, though the unease still rocked through. “I suppose not, but – ”

“It’s fine, Martin,” said Jon, and with a surge of confidence he couldn’t understand, he reached his hand forward and squeezed Martin’s arm, and his breath hitched ever so slightly. Jon pulled his hand back against his chest, curling it under his chin, and closed his eyes, burying his head against the duvet. “As long as it’s okay with you?”

The pillows shifted as Martin nodded. “Yeah, it’s – it’s okay with me.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Seems good, then.”

Martin’s soft smile was audible, “It does.”

There was silence, and for a moment, Jon thought Martin had already fallen back to sleep. But his breaths were too quiet, and too calculated, and as Jon peaked through lidded eyes, he could see the light glinting off of Martin’s, whose head was tilted towards him.

Oh, thought Jon, he’s beautiful, isn’t he?

There was nothing sudden or odd about that thought, it simply settled at the front of Jon’s mind as if it had always been there. And then Martin, blinked, and looked up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “about earlier. I – I shouldn’t have left like that.”

“I think I could very well say the same,” said Jon. “More so, really.”

He heard Martin swallow. “I wish you hadn’t, but I – I left first.”

“Yes, to go get air,” Jon pointed out, “I just got scared.”

“Scared?”

He hadn’t meant to say that. “Not – just, I – I didn’t think I could bear hearing you ask me to leave.”

Martin let out a strained breath. “Jon, I wouldn’t have.”

“You’re allowed to,” said Jon, and then he laughed, “as soon as you want me gone, just say, okay?”

Martin was silent for a moment, and then, almost reluctantly, “okay.”

Jon blinked, and the light from the baubles began to fade – and Jon missed how the light danced over Martin’s face, now silver in the moonlight. The bed creaked as Martin turned onto his side, and the space between them was miles and millimetres.

“I got scared, too,” Martin confessed. “That spell. Magic is – it’s hard to control at times. It wants to be let out, and it – it takes advantage of vulnerability. Whether that’s anger, or confusion, or – or happiness, it seeps through. My mum, when – she was terrified, Jon. What she did to the village, to herself, that wasn’t her. It was, but it was – her anger and her fear, she was just a conduit.”

Jon’s hand found its way to Martin’s, and he clutched it tightly.

“I’ve always tried to stay on top of it all,” he continued, “because I’m just terrified, Jon - of doing to someone else what she did to that village.”

“You wouldn’t,” slipped past Jon’s lips before he had a chance to catch it. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Martin, “your faith is – I appreciate it. Really. Before, I just got so caught up in my own head of what it all meant, whether or not it was the start of a spiral. If I would – ” He sighed. “I don’t want to be her, Jon. I don’t. Honestly, my magic I – I hate it, at times. It’s hers.”

Jon shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

Martin’s face crumpled. “She gave it to me.”

“I have my mothers eyes,” said Jon, “and my fathers nose. My Grandmother said I had hair like her husband, and a wit like her own. They’re mine, though, and your magic is yours.” Martin clutched his hand tightly. “Can I ask you a question?”

Martin just nodded.

“How did you feel when you cast that spell?”

“Happy,” said Martin. “I felt happy, Jon.”

Chapter Text

The light atop him was thin and faint, catching the small freckles of dust that danced through the air. Jon’s eyes squinted against it, turning his head into his pillow for a final breath of darkness, before submitting to the day. A low murmur sounded behind him as he shuffled upright, and he froze, craning his neck to look over at Martin; still fast asleep, his mouth gently parted. The duvet was tucked tightly under his chin, and his body was curved into a self-made cocoon, set deeply into the bed. He looked almost small; peaceful and warm, and it made Jon’s heart feel the same.

It was with reluctance, that his feet met the wooden floors, and he made towards the bedroom door.

The Admiral was already awake, puttering about beside the ashes of the fire, his paw blackened with charcoal as he inspected it. Jon let out a quiet hum to greet him, as he padded across the floor towards the table. He’d left his satchel by the chair after the two had gotten in, and he bowed down to pull it up onto the table, unbuckling the fastenings and slipping the binder out onto the table. He made to sit down and start his work, before he stopped – as his eyes landed on the flowers he’d seen last night. They’d wilted slightly, left out of water and discarded alongside the books and bowls, and other knick-knacks that cluttered Martin’s home.

Jon ran his finger along the stem of one of the flowers, following the green bone up to a bloom of purple, shaped almost like a spearhead. Iris.

There were others, too; other hues, and blooms – not many Jon could recognise. But of those he did, he saw hyacinths, daisies, and gardenias, tucked alongside the stems.

Jon allowed his heart to linger for a moment on the thought that perhaps they had been for him – but reality reminded him of Martin’s work. He’d simply been gathering supplies. Nothing more.

Even so, seeing them left out on the table like that seemed wrong, and Jon tip-toed over to the small kitchen, his hands trailing across the shelves until he found a receptacle that was large enough to act as a vase. It was a glass jar, with a corked lid, though sat empty, and when Jon opened it, the remnants of whatever had been in their last broke free and the smell of peaches filled the air. He filled it with water from the stiff tap, and trotted back over to the table, placing it in the centre, and plopped the flowers down into it. The relief that flooded the leaves seemed immediate, though Jon wasn’t sure how, as they all perked up, colour filling diluted petals. He fiddled with them, neatening them up into something close enough to respectable. Satisfied, he fell down into his chair, and pulled his quill into his hands and began to work.

*

The light was brighter by the time Martin woke, bleary eyes looking around the room, as he ran a hand through his mess of curls, all pressed to one side. Jon looked up at him with a small smile, willing the fondness in his chest to stay put.

“Morning,” he said. “Sleep well?”

Martin nodded weakly, drawing his hand across his face. “Too well, I think. I feel rather dazed, if I’m honest.”

Jon let out a breathy laugh, and rose to his feet as Martin sat down across from him. His feet followed the path he’d seen Martin make countless times; into the kitchen, grab the tea leaves from the top shelf, the teapot from the bottom, towards the fire, and – “would you mind?”

Martin blinked, his eyes still hazy. “Huh?”

“The fire,” said Jon, and held up the teapot. “I’m quite rubbish at lighting them myself. Really just asking to save myself the embarrassment.”

That woke Martin up, and he jumped to his feet with remarkable speed. “Oh, Jon, you don’t have to. Let me.”

As Martin stepped forward, Jon turned the teapot away from him, shielding it with his arms. “Let me, Martin.”

Martin’s eyes furrowed into a glare, before he conceded with a sigh. He tapped a hand down against the mantle, and flames burst from the logs. “It’s too early to bicker with you.”

“Thank you,” crooned Jon, smugness dripping from his voice as he hung the pot off of the small metal hook above the flames. When he turned back, Martin was staring at the flowers, a small look of surprise on his face.

“Sorry. I – they seemed a bit sad on the table,” said Jon, stepping forward. “I didn’t want them to die if you were needing to work with them, or – shit, did they need to be dried out?” He shook his head, stumbling over towards the vase, and bunching the flowers up in his hand, pulling them free of the jar. “Sorry, I didn’t think.”

“Hey, hey,” eased Martin, his hand shooting out to catch Jon’s wrist, lowering the stems back into the vase. “I mean to last night, just got – ”

“Distracted?”

Martin huffed out a laugh. “Very much so.”

“Sorry,” that Jon weakly, “again. I really didn’t – I just – ”

“It’s alright,” said Martin, his lips tilted upwards in a small smile. “Really. I was, um - I thinking, though.”

Jon turned back towards the fire as the kettle began to sing – he savoured the excuse as a slight fear had taken hold on his face. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I just – I thought I’d offer it, in case you, you know, wanted to,” said Martin, and the nerves were clear in his voice. Jon wrapped a towel around the kettles handle, and turned back, pouring the amber liquid into the ceramic tea bowls. His eyes briefly met Martin’s, and the vulnerably in them was raw and piercing. “I thought you might like to stay.”

“Stay?”

“Not – I’m not saying forever,” he added quickly. “I know we just said until your ankle had healed, and I – it’s pretty much there, isn’t it?”

Jon was embarrassed to say he missed the pain, if not for the excuse it offered. He nodded his head.

“And your work,” continued Martin, “it’s coming along quite fast, right?” Jon nodded again; he’d only a few chapters to finish now. “The manor is nearer to here than it is the village. You could stay, you know – until you’d finished your book.”

“Oh,” was all that Jon said.

“It’s just a thought!” rushed Martin, waving his hands out in front of him as if to dismiss the conversation entirely. “I could also walk you back near the village right now, if you’d rather. Whatever, uh – whatever you want, Jon.”

Jon sat down into his chair, his papers spread before him, and ink staining his skin. He lifted his cup to his lips, and took a sip. “Okay,” he said, slowly, as if unsure; although he knew there was little doubt in his mind, and the small smile that had crept over Martin’s face did little to dissuade him. “But can I make a request before?”

Martin blinked. “Oh, yeah – sure. Wasn’t really expecting a clause, to be honest. What is it?”

“I’d like to see your magic,” said Jon, “properly. You skipped out on me last time I asked. Though,” he held up his hands, “the worms were lovely.”

“The worms,” echoed Martin, almost muttering, “you make it sound like I took you to a patch of dirt.”

“If I were to be pedantic, then I’d say you took me to a hole.” Martin opened his mouth, and Jon laughed, cutting him off. “A lovely hole.”

“Thank you.”

“But, really,” said Jon, “if you’re comfortable with it, I’d like to see more. Blame it on curiosity, or, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I just rather enjoy it.”

“I’m not a very good witch, you know,” said Martin, leaning forward against the table. “I’ve not exactly got the most interesting spells up my sleeve. I use most of my magic to make tea, for crying out loud.”

“I disagree,” said Jon, plucking the quill back into his hands, “I think you’re a wonderful witch.”

Martin was quiet for a moment. And then, “okay. But let me think of something first.”

*

Martin was absent for most of the morning, appearing only as he moved between rooms, muttering absentmindedly to himself, and vanishing into the woods for extended periods of time. He would murmur a small hello to Jon each time he passed, to which Jon would intone his own greeting in the same barely-there way, too buried in his work to give it proper attention. By the time his hand had started to cramp, Martin had burst back into the cottage, his hands behind his back, and an uneasy look on his face.

“Okay,” he prefaced, stepping forward, “you can’t get mad at me for lying.”

“Lying?” Jon raised his brow, and leant back in his chair. “Okay.”

Slowly, Martin pulled forward whatever he’d been obscuring, placing it down on the table. “It’s – yeah.”

“Huh,” said Jon, as he looked at the raggedy broom. “I actually think you have one of these, in a far better condition.”

“What? No, Jon, it’s – ” he shook his head, and fluttered his fingers like Jon did, in his comic mimicry of magic. “You know?”

“Oh,” said Jon, and then, “oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought – ” He shook his head in disbelief. “You said that, and I quote: ‘wasn’t a thing’!”

“That’s why I mentioned the lying!”

“Could you imagine,” continued Jon in an approximation of Martin’s accent. “That’d be ridiculous!”

“Well, I never said that bit,” protested Martin. “I just – I didn’t want you to ask to, you know, see it?”

Jon blinked. “And now?”

Martin’s face warmed. “Well, I was thinking – about what would be interesting, and, well.” He gestured towards the broom. “That’s sort of exciting, right?”

“Wait.” Jon looked up at Martin, his eyes wide. “Are you asking if I want to – to fly it?”

“Well, I’d be flying it,” said Martin quickly. “It, uh – it wouldn’t work for you. It could be fun! Is that – god, that’s stupid, isn’t it? My mum always called them death traps.”

“Oh – comforting!”

“We don’t have to,” said Martin. “I – god, I haven’t ridden in years, anyway.”

Jon rose to his feet, and moved over to where it lay. He ran his hand down the rough handle, trailing upwards the where the bristles were tightly bound. “Would it even hold us both?”

“Oh.” Martin chuckled. “It’s deceptively sturdy. Or, was, anyway - it’s been holed up for a while, not sure it’s still quite up to scratch.”

“I don’t really have anything to compare it to,” said Jon, and Martin hummed in agreement, “but I trust it – you, anyway.”

“Yeah, I – wait, what?” Martin looked at him with a slight look of shock. “You want to ride it?”

Jon just nodded his head. “It’s not like this will be a repeat offer in my life. It’d be thrilling.”

Martin looked sceptical. “You’re sure?”

“Are you?”

“I – no, Jon, of course I’m not!” A panicked, spluttering laugh broke past his lips. “I thought you’d say no!”

“Then why show me?”

“Because – cause then whatever,” he mimed magic again, “spell I showed you, it would be more impressive under the scope that it could’ve been this.”

“Martin, that makes no sense.”

“No, no – no, it does,” said Martin, grinning slightly. “Because, like any reasonable person, you would immediately turn down this offer - and I would pretend to be disappointed, because I was so excited to show you. And then I’d do something simple, and you would be so relieved that you hadn’t fallen and died tragically from a broom that you’d think it was amazing.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, and then, laughing, “what?”

Martin sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I just wanted to seem, I don’t know – impressive?”

“Martin,” eased Jon, “I don’t need you to – to blow my socks off, or what have you. I’m sure I’d love whatever you showed me.”

Martin’s face softened. “So I didn’t need to pull this out.”

“Oh.” Jon shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

*

“And you’re sure?” checked Martin for the umpteenth time as the two stood at the end of the pathway. The broom was clutched tightly in this hand, propped up on his shoulder - and with the white-sheet look of apprehension spread across his face, the sight was rather comical, and Jon only half succeeded in hiding his smile.

“I’m sure,” he said, “more than sure.”

“Christ, I wish I had your confidence.”

Jon chuckled, as Martin held the broom out in front of them, swinging one leg over it so that he was straddling it. He looked up at Jon, and then over his shoulder. “I suppose if you want to, uh – wherever you’re comfortable really. To sit.”

Jon blinked, nodding, rucking the loose fabric of his skirt up into his arms as he sat behind Martin, his hands fluttering, unsure, in the space between them.

“You can – it’s probably safer if you hold onto to me,” said Martin, his voice slightly strained as he craned his neck to meet Jon’s eyes. “If – if you’re comfortable with that, of course!”

Jon swallowed slightly, allowing his hands to rest along the pillowy expanse of Martin’s waist, his fingers drawing along the soft wool of his purple tunic. “Is that alright?”

Martin nodded. “Yup, that’s – yup. Hold tight, I suppose?”

Then, ever so slowly, the broom began to rise, until the tips of Jon’s shoes barely scraped against the whistling grass below. A feeling of giddy fear began to bubble up inside of him, and he gripped Martin’s shirt tighter, feeling a small huff of laughter escape him. Then, suddenly, the broom lurched forward, and Jon’s nose smacked off of Martin’s back with a slight cry.

“Sorry!” exclaimed Martin, steadying the broom. “Sorry, God – a bit rusty! You’re sure? One hundred percent?”

“Knock off ten,” said Jon, pinching the aching bridge of his nose. “But still sure.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” said Martin, “you and your stubbornness.”

“As long as it’s not your flying that does it.”

“Hang on - I thought you were meant to be encouraging?”

“I am. I’m just being an arse.”

The broom began to rise again, swaying slightly with the wind as if they were a ship, tied to the falling breaths of the sea. Jon’s legs dangled down, swinging against nothing, as the edges of his skirt caught in the breeze, billowing out behind him as they began to carve through the sky.

“You doing okay?” checked Martin.

Jon nodded, his hair brushing against Martin’s shirt. “Yes, I – ”

He cut himself off, looking down – where the tree tops reached up to greet them, fanning downwards to where the earth lay, faintly blurred now. The river could be seen, and the rocks that they had sat on were mere pebbles. His eyes followed the line of blue, where it vanished under canopies, and remerged miles later – crawling up the face of a grand mountain, capped in green and yellow gorse, and the bright purple hue of heather.

In the distance, Jon could see the spire of the villages town hall, peaking up through the trees, with the faint wisps of chimney smoke. He thought of Georgie, hunched over her own writing desk; and Melanie, out in the garden working the anvil. He wondered what they’d think if they looked up and saw him flying overhead. The thought made him chuckle.

“It’s beautiful,” he finished finally. “Thank you.”

“Oh!” Jon could see the backs of Martin’s ears warm. “You’re welcome, Jon. It’s actually – you know, it’s funny, this isn’t half as bad as I remembered it being.”

“How often did you use to fly?”

“My mum used to quite a bit when I was younger,” he said, his voice barely loud enough over the wind, “I’d always sit with my dad in the garden and watch her zip away, and about. But, with my magic being so, uh – diffident, she never taught me how. So,” and the broom dipped lower for a moment, “I sort of had to teach myself. God … the amount of trees I flew into.”

Jon chuckled alongside Martin’s melancholy laugh. “I wish I could do this sort of thing. I fear my life seems rather boring compared to all your magic.”

Martin snorted. “Christ, Jon – if anyone should seem boring, it’d be me! You’ve seen the world, you’ve – you’ve had a life. I’ve just been puttering about with potions and tea.”

“Would you believe me if I said I envied that?”

“How so?”

“Well, I – I guess I’m just tired,” admitted Jon. “I’ve been moving around so many places, constantly looking for work – and then the work I do find, it’s – I just don’t care about it.” He shrugged. “I’ve always just wanted to find a nice place to settle, for more than a handful of months, where I can just write. Not for someone, just – just my own stories.”

Martin was quiet for a moment. “You’ll find that, I promise.”

“You think?”

“I think,” intoned Martin, “that you’re far too talented and far too stubborn to settle for less.”

Jon smiled to himself, tucking his forehead down against Martin’s spine. He could feel the thud of his heart. It was quiet and soft under the wind. “I suppose it’s my turn to wish I had your confidence.”

“Tell you what?” Martin craned his neck to catch Jon’s eyes. “We’ll spot each other. I’ll have confidence in you, vice-versa. That way – ” he shrugged, there seemed little less to say, except:

“Thank you,” Jon’s voice was gentle, and his hand’s tightened momentarily around the witches waist. “I – I’m rather glad I met you, Martin.”

The broom swooped downwards, and the two let out a sudden shock of breath that ate whatever reply Martin may or may not have given. Martin steadied them quickly, stringing off more apologies as he did so. “I should probably call it there,” he said, sheepishly, “might be testing my luck if I fly any longer.”

Jon nodded. “Perhaps.”

Martin’s body shifted to the side as the broom turned back on itself, revealing the small clearing into which the cottage lay. It was odd to say, but Jon realised he’d missed it in their short absence. He couldn’t quite imagine never seeing it again, and as his gaze settled on the barely visible curve of Martin’s cheek, he found that the thought ached.

Chapter Text

The wind had picked up, drawing the rain horizontal across the sky, as if the earth was a crib, rocked wearily by a sleep-addled mother. Jon found himself tucked up next to the window, dragging one of the kitchen chairs over to curl up on, his knees brought up to his chest, a warm mug tucked neatly between them. He could hear Martin behind him, brewing more potions; the soft clatter of glass against the wooden table, the bubbling of the pot, and the soft song he was humming. He wasn’t a good singer, by any means, but there was warmth in his voice, and that warmth alone was pleasant. A tree bowed with the wind, the branches bending and swaying as if caught in a dance.

He turned his head to Martin, whose tongue was peaking out in concentration as he measured out a violet mixture. “Can I help?”

Martin started, the liquid almost sloshing out of the jug. “You want to?”

“I’m curious.”

“Beginning to sense a theme with you.”

Jon chuckled, swinging his legs down off the chair, and resting his arms over the back. “You haven’t been put out of it yet. I’ll just keep chancing it until I find the line.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Martin placed the bottle in his hands down onto the table. “Alright, then. But do as I say, alright? Can’t chance mixing up a healing tonic into some awful dread-draught.”

“I’ll be sure not to add anything marked with a skull and crossbones, then,” said Jon dryly, rising to his feet. Martin gave a sardonic laugh, raising his eyebrows at Jon in a teasing warning.

“Could you pass me the vial to your right?”

Jon passed over a rounded out glass, corked and adorned with string. The liquid inside was strangely  warm, and smelt of oranges as Martin uncorked it, pouring out a splash. The mixture in the pot fizzled and sparked, the deep purple hue transforming into a vibrant red. Jon felt a feeling of calm wash over him as the scented steam rose.

“You make it all look so easy,” he said, watching Martin’s concentrated profile.

“It’s easy now,” he said. “More of a reflex than anything – like cooking. Along the way, you learn what spices and herbs work, and,” he poured in a drop of something clear, “what doesn’t. Believe me, I’ve mixed up a lot of things that really do not mix.” He looked to Jon, and offered the wooden spoon that he’d been using to stir. “You want to try?”

Jon hesitantly wrapped his hand around the curved handle, feeling the rough lattice that had been carved into it.

“It’s not like stirring soup,” said Martin, “you have to stir with intention.”

“What sort of intention?”

“Well,” he said slowly, “this is an appreciation potion. So.” His cheeks seemed to redden. “You have to stir it with the intention of appreciation. As you stir,” and he lightly guided the tip of the spoon around the bowl, Jon’s grip slack around it, “you have to think of things you appreciate, of ways you want to be appreciated – of people you appreciate, who appreciate you. Just – ”

“Nice thoughts.”

Martin smiled, and dropped his hand. “Essentially.”

Jon looked to the pot. “I’m sure I can handle that.”

Martin busied his hands with more bottles and his knife, chopping up fresh herbs and sorting them into empty vials. It looked methodical, but Jon knew he only worked off feeling – he envied that, his own methods ended up getting too tangled in professionalism and proving something that never really felt was worth proving.

Across the table, he could see his book – only a few pages now left unwritten. He almost hated it. Hated it that he had ever had to waste his time on it, and hated that his time with it was coming to an end. He had the strangest urge to take the bottle of ink that sat beside it and drench the pages in blackness, each scrawled out word dissolving into the darkness.

He looked down at the pot. These were hardly nice thoughts.

So, he forced his mind to the nicest thing he could think of – the man beside him. He thought of cups of tea, of freshly cut herbs and bowls of soup placed carefully beside him as he worked. He thought of dried oranges, and hand-sewn quilts that he melted under. He thought of greying curls, and brightly coloured clothes. He thought of the warmth in his chest, growing more and more familiar each day.

And then, the strangest thing happened. With a pop, the bubbling mixture before him let up a sudden plume of smoke, with hues of pinks and purples running through it, speckled with orange embers. With a shout, Jon jumped back, the spoon clattering to the table.

Martin eyes went wide, and he looked at Jon with something between reverence and shock.

“Was that meant to happen?” cried Jon, his heart rate hammering viciously against his chest.

“Yes,” said Martin, nodding his head, “that’s exactly what’s meant to happen.”

Jon let out a long breath. “Good. That’s good – that’s good, right?”

“Jon.” Martin moved towards him, each step tentative and slow.

“It just scared me as all,” said Jon, trying to wave away the concern on Martin’s face. Except, it wasn’t concern. It was something else. “I’m fine, honest.”

“Jon,” he said again. He sounded almost breathless. “That was magic.”

Jon blinked. “Magic.”

“Magic,” he echoed. “Jon, you did magic.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I just did what you told me to do.”

Martin laughed, this bubbling, frantic laugh. “Anyone could do what I told them to do, Jon – but not everyone could do it with magic, don’t you see?”

“I don’t – ” He shook his head, and then shook his head again. And then, not knowing what else to do, shook his head again. “It wasn’t. It was just – ”

Martin closed the gap between them, and took his hand, squeezing life up his arms. “Jon, this isn’t a bad thing. This is – it’s wonderful. You have magic.”

“How?”

Martin shrugged, the motion giddy and joyous. Jon wished he could feel what it was Martin felt, instead of the cold dread inside him. It didn’t feel wonderful at all.

“You said you never really knew your parents,” he said, “could they have had magic?”

“I don’t know,” said Jon again. “How would I know?”

Martin was quiet for a moment. His grip in Jon’s hand loosened. “This isn’t a bad thing, you know.”

“But, I – ” He cut himself off, not knowing what he’d even been wanting to say. “I’m not magic, though. I’m not like you, Martin.” Martin flinched slightly, and Jon sighed. “I don’t – you’re wonderful, Martin. You, and your magic. But this doesn’t make sense.”

“What were you thinking?” asked Martin. “When you cast the spell?”

“I didn’t cast anything,” said Jon, quickly. Defensive.

“Magic takes advantage of emotions,” said Martin. “Perhaps that emotion called forth my magic.”
“Like a conduit?”

“Perhaps.” Martin shrugged again. “It’s rare. But it’s happened.”

Jon looked down, feeling all sorts of twisting emotions writhe around his chest. He looked back to the pot, bubbling with sweet smelling aromas. He thought of the smoke that had burst from it, the way the warmth in his chest had travelled through his body before bursting free.

That feeling, that warmth; it had felt like Martin.

“Jon,” said Martin, his voice soft and soothing. His name sounded like a balm, and it pulled free the sickness in his chest. Martin moved closer, and placed his hands down against Jon’s shoulders. “It’s alright, I promise. It’s all okay.”

The warmth returned to his chest, and suddenly everything was clear. Everything was sharp and focused, and the room was the world, and it was small, and it was theirs. And Jon kissed him.

It was small. The faintest, ghosting peck.

When he pulled back, Martin’s eyes were wide, and his body was frozen. His hands had tightened where they lay against his shirt. The regret Jon felt was not sudden, it was more of a slow drip.

“Can we please pretend I didn’t do that,” he said, his voice dry and ragged. He could feel his throat beginning to close up. “I’m sorry.”

Unblinking, Martin just nodded.

Chapter Text

Martin was true to his word. He didn’t talk about the kiss. Neither did Jon.

The rest of the day passed mostly in silence, broken up by small questions of tea, quiet thank you’se, and the Admirals rumbling purr. Before, Jon would have called the quiet peaceful. Now, it just felt suffocating.

He worked. Hunched over the table, and furiously scribbling down text as Martin worked across from him. He would’ve taken an excuse to leave, a moment along the river just for a breath, if the wind had not been so vicious and the rain so persistent. The Admiral curved around his ankles, butting his head occasionally against his food as a call for attention. But he felt far too vulnerable to even move, to do nothing but smear ink across a page.

Martin cooked dinner. He placed it beside Jon with a small greeting that was barely heard, and Jon replied with a voice even quieter.

He hated this.

When the hour grew late, and sleep bore down on them both, Jon got ready for bed by the fire, puffing up the sagging pillows, and rearranging the small woollen nest that Martin had created last night.

“It’s going to be cold again tonight,” said Martin, and it was the most words he’d said since the kiss.

“You had to bear it last night,” said Jon, his rough from lack of use. “It’s my turn.”

“Jon.”

Jon just fluffed the pillows harder, willing Martin to concede and turn away to the bedroom. Perhaps it would be easier in the morning, perhaps the weight would lessen. Martin sighed.

“I won’t be able to sleep if I’m worrying about you shivering away in here,” he said. A beat passed. “Please, Jon.”

Jon still didn’t turn to face him. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable – ” Martin cut himself off with another weary, and performative sigh. “Christ, I’m asking you, Jon. You couldn’t – you wouldn’t. Leave off with this uncomfortable nonsense, alright?”

Jon decided to keep to himself that he already had. “Really, Martin. This is fine.”

Jon heard the bedroom door hinges creak ever so slightly, and he spared a glance over his shoulder, hoping to see it swinging closed, but instead, Martin was still there, holding the door open wider. He looked exhausted, but more than that he looked stubborn.

His stubbornness was becoming an increasingly infuriating feat to compete with.

“If I wake up and you’ve frozen to death, or worse – caught a cold, I’ll be kicking myself in the head all week.”

“Martin.”

“Jon,” he said, echoing Jon’s dry tone. There was a slight pause, and Martin looked down for a moment. “Of course, if you don’t want to – I really won’t force you. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, either.”

“You aren’t,” said Jon.”
Martin head bobbed in a steely nod, determination back on his face. He let out a sharp breath, and gestured between them. “Well, would you look at that – two comfortable adults. Now, please come to bed, you’re letting all the warm air out.”

Martin’s lips were tight, and his eyes were wide – an expression that seemed to somehow grow in potency as the seconds stretched on. Jon’s own eyes narrowed, which seemed to trigger Martin’s to widen even more. A beat passed. He sighed.

“You’re the one holding the door open,” said Jon, pushing himself up onto his feet, his joints creaking and clicking back into place.

“And you’re the one being stubborn.”

Jon scoffed.

They dressed into their sleep clothes with their backs turned to one another, and all the while, Jon’s heart drummed frantically against his chest. It was just a bed, and it was just Martin.

He folded his day clothes over the wicker chair that sat under the window, and they turned silver under the moonlight. And then, keeping his head down, and gaze averted, slipped into the bed, pulling the thick quilt over his shoulders, and burrowing his face into the soft pillows. A moment passed, and then he felt the comforting weight of Martin slip in beside him, feeling the bow of the bed, and the perimeter or warmth that radiated off of him.

“Night,” he heard Martin say.

“Goodnight.”

That should been it. That simple exchange should’ve been the conclusion for the day, instead, it felt like a preamble. Jon drummed his fingers against his pillow, feeling the soft cotton give and rise to the beat. Against his back, he felt Martin sigh, and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what it meant.

“Jon.”

He closed his eyes, and cursed himself internally. “Do we have to?”

“I just – ” Martin began quickly, and stopped just as fast, and Jon could feel the cogs in his brain rerouting his words. “I’m not very good at this.”

Jon waited.

And he waited.

“Nobody has ever kissed me before,” he said eventually, and Jon felt his breath hitch. He turned, slowly, to face Martin, who was looking up at the ceiling, his posture stiff. His hands were intertwined across his stomach, and his thumbs worried against one another.

“I’m sorry,” said Jon, “I shouldn’t have taken that from you.”

Martin laughed; not joyous, but not cold, either. “It’s not an object, Jon. It’s just a fact.”

“Still,” said Jon. “I am sorry, Martin. Truly. I had no right.”

Martin’s hands went from his stomach to his face, and he groaned into his palms. “Christ. You’re so bloody dense at times, and I’m really not good at this.”

Jon hesitated. “Good at what?”

He made a vague and strained sound, fluttering his hands out above him. “This? You? Everything? I don’t know.” His hands fell back down onto his stomach. “It just – it happened so fast.”

“What did?”

“The kiss, Jon.”

“Ah.”

“And then,” he continued, “before I had any time at all to process it, you’ve wrapped it all up in a big ‘Do Not Touch’ sign.”

“I, well – I’ll admit,” said Jon, “I may have panicked.”

“You think?” Martin looked to him with wonky smile, and Jon wished the fluttering in his chest would hold still for once. A beat passed, and Martin turned onto his side, tucking his hands under his cheek. “I really am bad at this, Jon.”

“I’ve proven I’m not much better.” Martin laughed at that, and it instilled Jon with the smallest burst of confidence. “Have you processed it now?”

Martin didn’t reply for a moment, and then, nodding, he said, “I have.”
“And?”

He went quiet again, and Jon waited. Outside, an owl hooted, and the wind curled around the sound. But there, in that room, in that bed, in that space between them, Martin moved – propping himself up onto his elbow, and looking down at Jon. The moonlight traced his features; his soft chin, his parted lips, the tousled curls that curved around his ears. And like a spotlight, the light followed him as he moved towards Jon, and pressed their lips together, for just a second, before pulling back.

“I’m not wrong,” he said, his voice rough and quiet, “about this, am I?”

Jon shook his head, and sat up, his hand coming to rest against Martin’s cheek. He shook his head again, and then, knowing nothing better to say, kissed him.

“I – ” started Martin, as the two pulled back. “I didn’t say it back on the broom, but – I’m glad I met you, too, Jon.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said; a bit dry, a bit fond, as he brushed a stray curl behind Jon’s ear. Jon’s body followed the pull as Martin’s hand returned to his side, and their lips met again, deepening ever so slightly. He could feel Martin’s lips curved in a smile against his own, their teeth knocking as his own smile broke wide. They split into giddy, affectionate laughter, never straying more than an inch away from the other.

Jon’s hand fiddled absentmindedly with the rumpled collar of Martin’s shirt. “There’s not a, well – kissing a witch isn’t a – a basis for a curse, is it?”

“You – ” Martin’s eye’s narrowed and he let out a sharp, performative sigh, throwing his hands up. “I take it back, I take it all back. You were a nuisance to meet, you have been nothing but a nuisance.”

Jon made a polite noise of agreement, nodding his head as he pressed kisses along Martin’s jaw. Martin gave up in a grumbling laugh, and draped his arm around Jon’s shoulder, and the two fell back down onto the bed, pulling the duvet over them as they did. There was a small pause, as Jon and Martin met each other’s eyes. And then, without a word, Jon nestled against Martin’s chest, his spindly arms curling around his stomach, and tucking a knobbly knee across his lap. He could feel Martin’s laugh reverberate through his chest, and it was a sound unlike any he’d felt before.

Chapter Text

One year later

“Oh, that fucker,” hissed Jon, his hands curling around the edges of the neatly printed letter. Martin’s head appeared from around the arched kitchen door, curiosity pulling his brows upwards.

“Everything alright?”

Jon turned to him, and held the letter up, and spoke in a sneer, “Bouchard.”

Martin’s face fell into a flat line. “Ah.”

“I thought I made myself perfectly clear,” said Jon, pacing around the table, “if he wouldn’t take the book with your segment in it, then he couldn’t have it!”

“Perhaps it would just be easier …”

Jon held his hand up. “Let’s not rehash this again, okay? My job was to tell an accurate history of this area – your story, your mother, that’s a part of the history. And if he wants to just ignore - !”

Martin’s hands fell to his shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to his cheek, cutting him off. Jon blinked, warming slightly, and looked down as Martin chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, alright- alright, Jon. Christ, you’re stubborn.”

“Has that not clicked yet?”

“Still just waiting for you to surprise me, I suppose.” Martin ignored Jon’s aghast expression, turning his attention instead to the pot that was bubbling in the middle of the table, letting off plumes of orange smoke. “Have you heard back from Georgie’s client?”

Georgie had announced, one visit a few months prior, about one of her clients opening up their own independent publishing firm – specialising in non-fiction and historical pieces. Jon, with his finished manuscript sitting beside him, had managed to weasel the man’s address out from her, and had written to him, alongside the first few chapters of his book.

He was yet to have received a response. “Not yet.”

“Give it time, yeah?” Martin held his hand out to Jon, who took it, sidling up against his side, and wrapping his arms around his stomach. “They’d be mad not to publish it. It’s amazing, Jon. Really.”

“You have to say that.”

“Not legally.” He kissed the top of Jon’s head. “Honest, Jon – it’s going to mean a lot to this community having their history out there.”

“It’s a good history,” said Jon, and then, “well, not good – history rarely is. But interesting.”

“Certainly interesting.”

 Jon watched the other mans face for a moment. “You are alright with it, aren’t you? Sharing that side of it all? I know – I mean, lord, we’ve spoken about it before, but – ”

Martin’s arms tightened around him, squeezing all the air out – leaving nothing left for his words. “Yes, Jon. For the millionth time now! I want it out there.”

Martin’s arms loosened, and Jon held a hand against his chest. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” he said, and then, waving a hand towards the pot, “right, let’s get this bottled up and cleaned away. I’m not entertaining with a messy home.”

Jon frowns at all the clutter. “They’ll hardly judge …”

“Get a broom,” said Martin, pulling the pot off of the flame. “Not that one, Jon.” Jon drops his hand from where it was reaching for Martin’s flight broom. “The one for sweeping now.”

“They both sweep,” Jon muttered under his breath – not quiet enough, though, it seemed: judging from Martin’s dry look. “Right. Look, I’m cleaning!”

*

Night crawled quietly into the woods surrounding the cottage. The wind is a biting thing growing teeth with the changing seasons. Between the haze of misty rain, warm light illuminated itself from the home, and the chimney sighed out a continuous plume of smoke. The house inhales, and it exhales, and the inhabitants are none the wiser to the chill behind the door, tucked in beside the roaring fire.

“You know,” said Georgie, resting her head on Melanie’s shoulder, “I wouldn’t half mind a place out here.”

“Oh, you’d be out here alone if you did,” replied Melanie, scoffing. “Not dragging me out to the middle of nowhere anytime soon.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Jon, leaning back into his chair, and the nest of blankets between him and Martin. “Once you get used to it.”

“I’ll not be more than five minutes away from the market,” said Melanie, definitively. “Couldn’t be fucked otherwise.”

“Got a market outside,” said Martin. “Less than a minute walk to the garden.”

Melanie pulled a flat look. “Hah.”

Beside her, Georgie wrinkled her nose. “To be fair, she’s got more of a black thumb than a green one.” To demonstrate, she tugged Melanie’s hand up, her own thumb rubbing along the blackened tips of Melanie’s. “You did wash before we left, did you not? How’s this still all over you? Honestly.”

Melanie snatched her hand back, hiding the offending stains under the blanket. “Leave off, all of you’se. Just cause I’m the only one here who actually uses my hands.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “What do you think the rest of us do, exactly?”

“Fuck all,” she said back.

“She’s joking,” said Georgie. Then, “speaking of what you do, Jon,” and she stands, the blankets slipping from her lap as she goes over to the door, where she’d left her bag, “I have something. Potentially something. It’s, well – it’s a letter. So, it could be nothing.”

Martin’s eyes went wide. “A letter?”

“Yeah, got a stamp and everything,” said Melanie. “It’s fucking remarkable.”

“Will you stop?” said Georgie, smacking the back of her head as she passed, holding the letter out to Jon. He took it, holding it like he fears it. “The writings familiar, but – oh, let me shut up. Just open it, will you?”

Jon felt Martin shuffle in closer as he turned the thing over, the seal staring back at him like an unblinking eye. He swallowed, and rans his hand under the slit. The wax popped up, and the folded letter slipped out. He opened it. He reads it.

He waits. Because he can. He waits a little longer. Because he wants to.

Then, from Georgie, “For Christ sake, Jon! What does it say?”

His eyes went to Martin’s, flicked over to Georgie’s, then back to Martin. He grinned. “They want my book.”

The room erupted. There are arms around Jon, congratulations shouted out over one another. And then there are Martin’s lips, pressing against his own.

“Well done, love,” he said, and Jon could swear that there was no greater happiness in the whole world than that moment.