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Ah—but this was odd, indeed! And not in a bad way!
“Qi-frey!” sang Beldaruit, peering through the half-open door. “You’ve got a letter!”
Qifrey’s unruly hair flopped to attention. “What?”
“A letter,” Beldaruit repeated. He trotted into Qifrey’s room, waving the little folded slip. “I’m terribly curious! If you do not wish to open it, I don’t mind—”
Qifrey leapt from his seat and snatched it from Beldaruit’s hand. The “Q” of his name had a smiley face drawn inside it. Qifrey blushed, uncomfortable with such positive recognition. In haste he tore it open and flattened the card against his desk.
With a widening smile, Beldaruit read over his shoulder, watching his finger trace the words. Qifrey whispered as he read, “Dear Qifrey…You’re…invited…to Alaira’s…birthday…party…”
Qifrey looked up again, fixing Beldaruit with a familiar expression, expectant and serious—impatient to comprehend. “Birthday party?”
“Do you remember mine, in January?” asked Beldaruit. Qifrey had hidden himself in his room. That did not mean he had not paid attention.
Qifrey frowned. “...That week we had weird cake for breakfast?” His nose wrinkled. “The whole week?”
“Indeed,” said Beldaruit. “Heavenly coconut cake! And before that, several dear friends paid a visit. We talked, we laughed, we reminisced…” He painted the scene with a sweeping hand. “We even played games! I look so forward to my birthday…every year seems more full of fondness than the last!”
Qifrey continued to scrutinize the invitation. “What’s R-S-V-P?” he murmured.
“It means to let Alaira know whether you plan to attend. Via return letter, customarily.” Beldaruit was delighted to oblige his inquiries. Friends! Parties! Socialization! His dreams for this child were fast coming true! He steepled his fingers against his chin. “...Shall we send back a ‘yes?’ ”
Qifrey unconsciously mimicked the gesture, propping his chin in one hand. Beldaruit heard his young mind racing, and Beldaruit yet struggled to understand precisely how it worked, but he indulged the notion that his insight was improving.
At length, Qifrey spoke. “...Am I allowed to go?”
Ever serious—ever inquiring. Beldaruit’s heart ached for him. What a question.
“Of course,” he said gently. “You have received an invitation. You are not merely allowed to attend. Your presence is welcome. It is desired.”
Qifrey, with hands as calloused and ink-stained as any apprentice’s and then some, lifted the cheerful note to his chest. He held it there, his eye wandering over his messy workstation—unsure of where to land, of how to manage his emotions.
“...yes,” he said.
Beldaruit leaned in. “Yes? You wish to go?”
Qifrey nodded.
“Splendid! Wonderful!” Beldaruit clopped in a jubilant circle. He clapped his hands. Qifrey drew back, bewildered. “You shall have a fine time there! A marvelous time! We must find an outfit for you—and a present—”
“Present?” Qifrey said. “What kind of present?”
“Something special that Alaira would enjoy,” Beldaruit said. “For instance, my dear friend Wymnir gifted me with a set of first edition textbooks, which his own father had written, on the subject of Zozah’s geography, as it has developed through the centuries…”
Qifrey, however annoyed and embarrassed, nevertheless fought a lopsided smile. The joy was infectious, it seemed—and this was odd in its own way, for Qifrey rarely found much about which to be joyful, rarely had something happy to which he might look forward. He slid his sketchbook toward himself and tucked the invitation into its front pocket. Then he flipped through it for a clean page and plopped into his chair.
“Maybe a spell,” he said to himself, “for a present. I don’t know what kind, but…” But spells were what Qifrey knew best, in the new life he’d led so far. Beldaruit’s elation swelled further.
“Might you require my assistance?” he asked, despite knowing the answer.
“No,” Qifrey said, already tapping his pencil against the page. He glanced at Beldaruit, restless. “...I can’t draw if you’re staring at me.”
“Very well,” said Beldaruit. “You have not hurt my feelings! Should you need any advice, I shall be in my study…do not hesitate!”
He took his gleeful leave, spurring his chair into a near-gallop, rattling the paintings on the walls, earning a loud and aggravated—and affectionate?—sigh from his dear apprentice.
Over the music it was hard to hear the bell, but Alaira heard it, anyway. She pushed past her friends and squeezed between food-laden tables, determined to answer the door and greet everybody. It was her party! They were here for her! And besides, whoever this was, they were late! She couldn’t wait to start the games! She hadn’t yet, because—
“Hold on!” cried Olruggio, stumbling to her side. “I’ll come with you!”
His bright orange party hat clashed with his green ensemble, but she wasn’t gonna tell him that. Maybe he was going for a pumpkin look. For Surface-autumn an’ all. Alaira rolled her eyes at him.
“You gotta teach him that it’s rude to be late,” she said.
Olly rubbed his neck. “Maybe he got the time wrong…”
“It was on the invitation!”
“Yeah, but y’know…”
“Believe me, I know!” They reached the door together, and Alaira seized the handle. “Hiya,” she began, “What took you so long—eep!” She gasped and threw herself into a bow. Olly did, too. “Ah—sorry about that! That was rude! Lord Bel!”
Lord Beldaruit waved a hand. “Please, you needn’t bow,” he said. “We three are quite well-acquainted by now.”
Alaira straightened up, adjusting her purple party hat. The flashing, multicolored lights from inside painted Lord Bel and made it hard to make out his expression. Maybe a tired smile.
“What a delightful scene,” he said, glancing beyond her. He forced his smile to widen. “I wish you a very happy birthday!”
“Thanks!” she said. This was awkward.
“Is Qifrey here?” Olly for the save. He fidgeted with hope.
But the question flattened Lord Bel’s glad façade. He sighed—dramatically, of course—and tilted his head back to gaze at the dark ocean ceiling.
“Ah,” he said. “I’m afraid he cannot make it tonight.”
Alaira’s face fell. Olly’s did, too. “Is he okay?” he asked. “Is he sick?”
Lord Bel sighed again, maudlin with apology. “He regrets it very much. I can attest to his excitement in the days leading up to this one…it pains us both, very deeply.”
Well, that wasn’t much of an answer.
“That’s okay,” said Alaira. She missed him, but a kid couldn’t help it if he got sick, and she had to get back to her party. “Tell him we hope he feels better.”
Lord Bel lowered his head. He lifted a small parcel from his lap, wrapped haphazardly with pale gold paper and tied with a red ribbon. He offered it to Alaira. “His gift to you,” he said.
Alaira took hold of the present. It felt more personal, somehow, and she wanted to unwrap it right away, not in front of her other friends. So she tugged off the ribbon and tore back the paper. Inside was a wooden box, plainly carved but still pretty.
“Open it,” said Olly, at her elbow, watching closely. Duh. She opened it.
“Whoa…”
From its velvet interior spun a stream of crystalline water. It rose and rose, in vine-like twists, and then with a flourish it bloomed into a bird. It resembled a sparrow, small and agile; transparent, so that it caught every light and cast a thousand, sparkling rainbows. It soared for a few moments more, before it dispersed in a collapsing mist.
“Good heavens,” breathed Lord Bel, “how exquisite!” He couldn’t help himself. He ushered his chair forward for a closer look. “How does it work?”
“Haven’t you seen it already?” asked Olly, likewise in awe, itching to examine the contraption. Alaira passed it to him. He held it up to the changing light, turning it reverently.
“I have not,” said Lord Bel. “Qifrey kept it all quite secret.”
“It looks like…” Olly cradled the box close to his chest, opening it and closing it three times. Each time, the glittering bird was born again, fresh with hope, fleeing the ether. “It looks like the ring closes when the lid is all the way open,” he finished, eyes shining. “It’s awesome…”
“It’s my present,” said Alaira, plucking it from his hands. He squawked in protest. But she agreed—it was super awesome. “I love it,” she declared. “Please tell Qifrey I love it!”
Lord Bel found a more genuine smile. “I will,” he assured her. “Thank you, dear Alaira.”
“Tell him I love it, too,” muttered Olly, embarrassed again, and for nothing. The whole Hall knew those two were BFFs. All three of them were, she thought.
“Oh yeah—one sec!” Alaira tumbled inside and returned in a literal second. She deposited a green gift bag and party hat into Lord Bel’s arms. “For Qifrey,” she said.
“He’ll be delighted,” said Lord Bel—and again, “Thank you.”
Alaira had a thought.
“When’s Qifrey’s birthday, anyway?” she asked. “We’ll come to his party and make up for it!”
“If he wants us there,” Olly groused, poking her arm. “Don’t just invite yourself.”
“You’re one to talk,” rejoined Alaira. She poked him back. “Having cake all by yourself and calling it a party—”
He angled away from her. “I don’t—need as much attention—as you—”
“Come to think of it…” Lord Bel frowned, rather suddenly dismayed. “...I do not know.”
Alaira and Olruggio disentangled their arms and exchanged a look of surprise. Alaira hadn’t thought about that, but based on what she knew about Qifrey…that made sense. But she’d been friends with Qifrey for at least a year by now. Whenever his birthday was—even if it was a mystery—they’d missed it at least once.
“That’s no good,” she said.
“I’ve never asked him,” Olly realized, spiraling with distress. He pulled off his party hat and turned it in his shaking hands, over and over. “It didn’t cross my mind…why didn’t it cross my mind…?!”
“The guilt belongs to me,” said Lord Bel, clutching his heart. “For I never thought to give him one—or indeed, to ask him if he wanted a new birthday—”
“What kind of friend am I?! What’s wrong with me?!”
“How I am fit to be his professor, his guardian, eludes me—”
Alaira looked between them. She tried not to laugh. Their angst-ridden remorse came across a little silly, with the blinking party lights and cheerful music spilling from the atelier. An enchanted balloon, one of several tied along the walkway, chose that moment to bob in the fake wind and bounce off Olly’s head. He swatted it away with tearful fervor. “Leave me alone—!”
Then another idea struck Alaira. She was on fire today. She spun toward Olly.
“What if we threw him a surprise birthday party?” she said.
Olly’s party hat hung by its string from his fingers. He said, “But we don’t know when his birthday is.”
“I mean we make it up,” Alaira said, matter-of-fact. “And if he doesn’t like the day we pick, we’ll still have a fun party.” She indulged a self-satisfied hum. This idea was fool-proof. “I bet he’ll like it, though,” she asserted. “Whaddaya think?”
Olruggio gazed at the box in her hands. Alaira watched him weigh the pros and cons in real time, battling his knee-jerk self-doubt, his typical worry—that he was unworthy to take on the task, or something like that. Well, the only advice that she had for the guy was to keep on trying, worthy or not.
“Would…” Olly addressed Lord Bel, gripping his hat so hard that the string cut off his circulation. His fingertips were white. “Would you trust us with that…sir?”
Lord Bel finished folding his soggy handkerchief. He sniffed. “Do I trust the two of you?” he asked, managing to find a bemused smile. “Most assuredly. You must know,” he added, “that the two of you have authored almost all of Qifrey’s happiness. I have faith that this plan will promote it even further.”
Alaira beamed. She nudged Olly, who ducked his head, flattered and blushing. “Alright, soot-for-brains! It’s up to you an’ me!” She struck a fighting pose. “Our surprise party planning starts now!”
Olruggio looked confused. “What about your party?”
“Oh, yeah.” Alaira laughed. “How could I forget? Party planning starts—tomorrow!” She waved over her shoulder. “Goodnight, Lord Bel! Thanks again for bringing Qifrey’s present!”
“Tomorrow,” Olruggio agreed. He half-bowed, hurrying after Alaira. “Thank you, sir. Goodnight!”
“Thank you,” Lord Bel said, lifting his hand, blessing their departure.
Qifrey dreaded study hall.
Normally, he loved it. Olruggio and Alaira met him there, and they would draw and chat while Qifrey drew and mostly listened, feeling weird, almost drowsy, even if he’d slept the night before. Weird in a good way. Comfortable, maybe. Safe.
Not today. He felt wretched, to steal a word from Beldaruit—wretched and miserable for missing Alaira’s party. He couldn’t explain what had happened. He had been so excited, for weeks, and he’d worked hard to make her present, and he’d RSVP’ed with a ‘yes’ and everything. But then out of the blue, the morning of the party, he had felt so sick—sick enough to vomit—and he couldn’t bring himself to leave the house, or his bed.
Beldaruit had tried to rally him, to encourage him through the door. Qifrey had hugged his pillow close and kept silent. He’d had enough volition to leave Alaira’s gift in the hall; eventually, Beldaruit had given up and offered to deliver it for him. Over this morning’s uneaten breakfast, Beldaruit had informed him with twinkling eyes that Alaira had loved her gift. And still Qifrey had not responded.
Now Qifrey lurked in the foyer of the library, leaning around the door, listening for the murmurs of his two friends. What should he say? What could he say? What could he do to make it up to Alaira, if that was even possible? He wrung his hands. His feet kept shuffling, pining for the exit, itching to flee. He heard Alaira’s voice. He strained to hear her.
“...late again. He’s always late.”
“He’s not always late.” Olruggio’s voice. “...I hope he’s feeling okay.”
“Yeah.”
Qifrey squirmed. He couldn’t interpret her tone. Was she truly worried? Or was it—was it when someone was actually making fun of you? What was it called? Sarcasm? Agh. Was she angry?
Of course she was angry. Qifrey paced back into the musty foyer, past the librarian’s solid, mahogany desk. This earned him another dubious look. Of course she was angry, but—but she had the right to take it out on him. He owed her that. And he could take the stupid present back. She probably didn’t want to keep it. Thus resolved, he made another about-face, and with a twirl of his cloak he motored into the library proper, past the dusty displays of antique contraptions, right to the array of long tables where apprentices—and disappointed friends—quietly congregated.
Alaira and Olruggio had not heard him approach. They sat with their heads together, bent over a pile of sketches and notes which did not quite resemble their usual homework. Olruggio was drawing something, with as much adept carefulness as ever, trying not to smear the ink. It appeared to be some sort of tower.
“What should go on top?” he muttered.
Alaira pinched her chin in thought. “Hm…stars? Trees, maybe?”
“Trees might work…” A drop of ink fell where Olruggio’s wand idled. He pushed it upward, in the shape of a trunk, of a branch. “They could double as cand—”
“OH-HEY-QIFREY!!”
Alaira slammed the sketchbook shut, crushing Olruggio’s hand. He yelped before scrambling to hide their papers, shoving them under his sketchbook, while Alaira twisted in her seat, grinning too brightly at Qifrey, blocking the mess with her body. Qifrey flinched.
“Qifrey!” Olruggio squeaked. His voice kept doing that lately. “D-don’t sneak up on us like that! H-how’re you feeling?!”
Confusion combined with contrition and left Qifrey speechless. He raked his hair over his scar, compulsively, longing to be invisible. Olruggio frowned. Certainly disappointed.
“Thanks for my present,” said Alaira. “Everybody loved it! They thought it was so cool!”
She made no move for Qifrey to sit down.
“I’m sorry,” he forced out, still tugging at his hair. “I wanted...” I wanted to go. I wanted to, I really did…
“Eh?” She waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it! Uh, but…” Her grin turned sheepish. “I’ve got this…kinda special assignment I’m working on, here! And Olly’s tutoring me…”
“I am?!” Olruggio gaped at her, and she gave him a pointed look, and he struggled to rein it in. “Ah—r-right…”
“But it’s really only supposed to be for my atelier…so Olly’s allowed to see it, because he’s tutoring me…but…you…” She shrugged. “Sorry…!”
She trailed off. Her grin faltered. Olruggio looked stricken. Why? Qifrey’s hand fell to his throat. His breath caught. All at once, claustrophobia smothered him.
Qifrey ran from the library. He clipped his shoulder on a column, and he scowled at the pain as he stormed through the streets. He had no words to describe how he felt. Wretched was earlier. It wasn’t quite like this. This was like…this was like drowning. Like he’d been discarded, tossed away and left to sink into thick mud and disappear. Like no one would ever look for him again. No, no—not just anyone. It didn’t feel this bad when other witches turned their backs. But this time—this time—
This time they’d been his friends.
Qifrey halted outside Beldaruit’s house, and he glared up at the ocean through his clouded eye, and he could barely breathe on account of the strangling feeling. He deserved it—deserved it—whatever it was.
(Some time would pass before Qifrey could name it. It was shame.)
Alaira and Olruggio kept their backs turned for days, for weeks, for nearly a month; and Qifrey could no longer breathe, and he felt like he was dying.
Appearing for dinner had never been a household rule. Yet for Beldaruit, it did act as a sort of gauge regarding Qifrey’s state of mind. The boy would almost always endure lessons, perhaps out of fear that to miss a lesson was to be left behind all over again—that to learn magic was his singular hope of survival. If he was agitated, though, or anxious or overwhelmed, he would not show his face otherwise. When a problem arose, Qifrey had a tendency to remove himself; or so it seemed to Beldaruit.
Was he hiding? Or was it his idea of a solution—removing the cause of the problem? Retaking the role of ‘Outsider?’ Either answer was frankly disheartening.
They were by now well into autumn, and the passage stars had surely fallen, winter whispering in their wake. The Great Hall had no weather; magic maintained its stuffy equilibrium. Nevertheless, estates and ateliers closer to the mist barrier—as Beldaruit’s happened to be—would oft absorb some of the ocean’s bitter chill. Beldaruit kept several fires going, and he’d taken care to give Qifrey a room with windows that faced the avenue, not the water. He wondered if Qifrey had ever noticed.
Beldaruit gazed at them now, at their heavy curtains and marble sills, laden with books and contraptions; there was the gift bag from Alaira, yet unopened, sagging in the corner. His eyes fell to the desk beneath them, likewise shambolic, with creased and dog-eared papers trailing from its shelves and drawers, onto the floor, across the rug and all the way to the unmade bed. Mess and clutter everywhere, but no sign of Qifrey.
Beldaruit sighed. He cleared a corner of the desk, leaving the tray of supper he had brought, and he backed out of the room and closed the door.
In his study, by the fireplace, he brooded. Again he wondered if his role in Qifrey’s life was simply one of grief, of hindrance or of harm. Whenever Beldaruit began to feel more confident, more at home as the boy’s guardian, he’d be humbled by yet another setback. Qifrey had withdrawn more and more since the birthday party debacle, behavior which recalled his first, bleak season here, so many months ago now. An overreaction, perhaps; but Beldaruit didn’t know why. He could only blunder his way through the trouble, dithering toward some shrouded resolution.
He turned a letter over in his lap. The children had written him this morning, asking him to bring Qifrey to the Surface tomorrow. They’d mailed him regular updates these past few weeks; their surprise party was finally in order. Beldaruit had been eager to see what they had concocted, for they were so very charming and clever. He’d been looking so forward to Qifrey’s reaction. Yet at this rate, he could not even locate the boy.
His heart sank. Perhaps he ought to go ahead and write to young Olruggio. He didn’t know a more long-suffering soul. He hoped the pair would understand, would forgive this declined invitation…would offer Qifrey yet another chance.
He turned his chair, and there was Qifrey, standing in the doorway.
Beldaruit captured his gasp of surprise, chiding his racing heart. He would never be used to these silent appearances, despite their regularity. He slipped the letter out of sight and summoned a careful smile.
“There you are,” he said. “Please, come in.”
Qifrey approached, strangely, without hesitation; and firelight revealed his ashen, anguished face.
Beldaruit gasped this time, struck with great pity. On instinct he opened his arms, offering an embrace, even as he remembered that Qifrey most often eschewed such offers of support. But in another astonishing turn, Qifrey ducked into the hug, kneeling to bury his face into Beldaruit’s shoulder.
Beldaruit wrapped his arms with utmost care around the child, a bit in shock. He hardly knew how to proceed. Qifrey trembled and took ragged breaths. He was crying.
“Whatever’s the matter?” Beldaruit murmured.
Qifrey’s arms tightened around Beldaruit’s neck, bunching his hair a bit painfully. He shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said, so quietly.
“You’ve no reason to apologize,” said Beldaruit. “What’s wrong?”
Qifrey didn’t answer right away. Beldaruit consoled him, rubbing circles into his back. Qifrey’s matted hair had wilted, and he did smell as though he’d not bathed in a while. Another tendency of his—another prohibitive fear. Another impulsion for Beldaruit’s pity, a solicitous twist of his heart.
“...I want to…” Qifrey swallowed and sniffled between every gasping phrase. “...I—but I…don’t know what to do…”
Beldaruit listened. He prompted, “About what?”
He could scarcely discern the garbled reply.
“...How do you…say you’re sorry…good enough to…be friends again?”
Oh, my child…
Realization descended upon Beldaruit, and the pieces at last fit together. Qifrey began to sob again, but Beldaruit took hold of his arms, gently separating from the hug, and regarded him with wistful compassion. Qifrey dragged his sleeve across his blemished face, completely miserable.
Beldaruit conjured him a handkerchief. “Dry your tears,” he said.
Qifrey sat on his heels with his back to the fire, head bowed as though in prayer, scrubbing his face.
“Listen, little one,” said Beldaruit. “I do not believe that you have lost your friends. In fact…” Briefly, he debated whether to ruin the surprise. How to say it? “...I have faith in quite the opposite. If you will trust me…”
That was what he wanted, was it not? That was his foolish wish. It was ludicrous to ask this child to put his trust in those who had wounded him, who had taken everything from him and left him for dead. To put his trust in witches. Yet from day one, Beldaruit had asked without ceasing. Even now, in lieu of platitudes, he laid a hand on Qifrey’s shoulder. Did the gesture comfort him or frighten him? And would it always frighten him? Regardless, Qifrey did not shrug him off.
Beldaruit felt renewed gratitude toward those children, toward Alaira and Olruggio. Their affection meant the world to Qifrey—clearly—if such misery was the result of a trifling misunderstanding. They had smiled at Qifrey and had reached out to him and had waited for him. They had listened until he was ready to speak. They had given his heart the space it required; the freedom it craved.
And they’d certainly finished their planning right in the nick of time…!
“Tomorrow,” Beldaruit said, “shall we take a day trip to the Surface? And afterward, shall we invite Alaira and Olruggio to dine with us?”
He added, with insistence, “You are welcome to decline the offer.”
Qifrey balled the handkerchief into his fists. He blinked at Beldaruit, squinting a little. He sat up a little straighter.
“...What about lessons?” he said.
“I declare them postponed,” said Beldaruit.
Qifrey fidgeted. “...D’you think they would come?”
Beldaruit couldn’t help but smile. He declared, “I am certain they will.”
Qifrey frowned at the handkerchief. Struggling, perhaps, to raise his hopes. He managed, though, to raise his weary head and mumble, “...Okay.”
Beldaruit’s heart shone, and his smile grew, and a slew of replies sprang to mind: Go and wash your face. Go and eat your supper, you’ll feel better. Go and do this or that. But Beldaruit held his tongue, and he allowed Qifrey to stand and depart on his own, and to go his own way.
What a privilege it was to be confided in. He wouldn’t spoil it.
It felt weird to sneak off. Well, technically, he wasn’t sneaking off, Olruggio reminded himself. He had permission to be here, thanks very much, Easthies. Still, though—it was just him and Alaira, soaring over the fields with packs full of supplies on their backs, and pretty darn far from the windowway they’d used. It felt sort-of adventurous. Like they were on a quest.
“You don’t think it’s too cold, do you?” he asked Alaira. She flew upside-down in a practiced little roll and zoomed ahead of him.
“Nope,” she said. “Aren’t you the one from the north? I thought you were tough!”
Olruggio scoffed. “I mean for the party!”
“Not too cold!”
“If you say so…”
They alighted at their chosen spot, an ochre swath of withered grass between copses of all-but-barren trees. Cold wind buffeted them, whistling through the trunks, and bleak clouds obscured the sun…but at least they weren’t rain clouds. Right? Olruggio surveyed the scene with his hands on his hips, trying not to succumb to nervous regret.
“This isn’t too grim, is it?” he said, scratching behind his ear. “Geez! It wasn’t this pitiful-looking last week, was it? It’s like everything died all at once…”
Alaira nudged him with her hip. He stumbled. “Ack!”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It's way better than the Hall.” She unfurled her pack with a flourish. “Qifrey’s the kind of kid who loves the Surface in every season. Right?”
“Right…”
Olruggio fussed with his decorations, with the food he’d prepared, only half-focused—worrying, worrying. It’d been so hard to keep all this a secret. He was so used to spending all his free time hanging out with Qifrey, but during party planning, they’d had no choice but to sequester Qifrey to the fringes…and the past few days, he hadn’t seen his friend at all.
A sinking feeling told him Qifrey didn’t understand the secretive dynamic. How could he? It was like his friends had suddenly moved on from him, had chosen one another’s confidence and shut him out. An image of him fleeing the library sprang dreadfully to Olruggio's mind. Olruggio wanted to tell him, It’s got nothing to do with you! Well, it’s got everything to do with you, I guess, but—but I mean, you didn’t do anything wrong! We’re still best friends! Right?
Would he show up today?
“Olly!” Alaira shouted from across the field. “Can you help me pin this to the tree?”
The wind had done a number on their green and gold banners and streamers already. Olruggio rapped his head with the heel of his palm, endeavoring to clear it. He crossed the field and took hold of the writhing fabric. With a sharp spell he welded the end to the trunk.
“Thanks!” Alaira rubbed her hands together. “A couple warming glyphs around the field might be a good idea,” she said. “It’s colder than I thought.”
“Mhm,” sighed Olruggio. “If there’s time…”
“Hey.” She peered into his face. “You alright? Are you nervous?”
He made an odd sound, sort-of a squawk, as anxiety broke through the dam.
“I dunno!” he cried. “I think we messed up, Alaira!”
Alaira’s eyebrows flew up. “Now you tell me? What do you mean?” Her deadpan tone disguised a measure of hurt. This had been her idea. Olruggio did nothing but screw up, huh? He tossed his hands in an abortive gesture.
“No, sorry. I don’t mean your idea,” he said. He swiped his hat’s fluttering ribbon from his face. “I mean…we haven’t really hung out with Qifrey lately. He might…” He gripped both sides of his head, glaring around at the field. “He might think we’re mad at ’im, or somethin’.”
“But we’re still friends,” Alaira said. “We’ve just been hiding the surprise. We still eat lunch together and stuff.” She shielded her face from another brisk gust. “Did he say something to you?”
“No, but…ugh!” Olruggio groaned. “You know how it is! Maybe he thinks you’re still upset with him for missing your party.”
“Don’t blame it on me!” said Alaira, less angry than perturbed. “I told him it was okay. I don’t want him to feel bad.”
“I know. But y’know.”
She did know. They frowned at each other.
They continued their setup in silence, drawing spells to enlarge a table and three chairs, cutlery and china, tablecloths and napkins. Olruggio fixed warming glyphs beneath their covered dishes, and Alaira put the finishing touches on an impressive decoration: a green model dragon, breathing genuine, (safe) little bursts of Olruggio-fire, with a hammock strung between its claws and tail to hold their presents.
The wind tore at the edges of their work. They loved him, was the thing. The thought that they had hurt him, even by accident, cut them to their hearts.
The last thing to set up, the pièce de résistance, was for if—when—Qifrey arrived. It required some skillful magic. Olruggio forwent a chair and sat right in the dirt. He pressed his knuckles into his forehead, counting tousled blades of grass and fallen leaves, counting out seconds between stinging breaths. He heard Alaira plop down next to him.
“Maybe things will work out,” she said. “We still gotta try.”
Olruggio said nothing, but she knew that he had heard. There was nothing left to do but try. Try not to worry…try not to fail. Try to show Qifrey just how much he meant to them both.
“Is it too cold?”
“No,” said Qifrey. He spread his arms out to prove it. His cloak flew back in the wind, and he almost lost his hat, and he almost smiled, too. It felt so nice.
Beldaruit did the smiling for him, chuckling at the display. They ambled along at a comfortable pace through the fields, over small knolls and through lilting valleys. Everything was a yellowish-brown color, for it was late autumn, Beldaruit said, and the foliage had died, so that it might be reborn in the spring. Qifrey missed the green of summer, but he liked this, too. He felt let in on one of nature’s secrets, privy to its less savory side. That meant it trusted him. That meant it wanted to be closer friends.
Thick and gloomy clouds charged across the sky. A cloudy day—but the sun was and would always be behind them, warm and shining. Qifrey closed his eye and cataloged the feeling.
Was it faith?
“Where are we going?” he asked after a while. They seemed to be venturing farther and farther afield.
Beldaruit shrugged beneath layers of blankets. “Oh…” he said lightly, eyes gleaming. “I imagine we’ll know when we arrive.”
Qifrey kicked up a little cloud of debris. He was used to such cryptic remarks. Story of his stupid life…not much made sense to him. For instance, the foliage at his feet—it appeared to be turning greener and greener with every step. But the grass was dead, right? It wasn’t supposed to turn green again until spring. Unless this was different? Some kind of special plant…
He opened his mouth to ask, just as Beldaruit said, “Good heavens…what on earth?”
Huh? Was this not supposed to happen? Qifrey looked up. He followed the glowing trail to a clearing, where it fanned out and burst into kaleidoscopic crystals, like miniature fireworks, encircling—
—encircling Alaira and Olly.
They stood back to back with their palm quires pointed in opposite directions, wherefrom the lights were pouring, the origin of the display. Their heads were turned, facing Qifrey, bright-eyed and determined. As soon as they made eye contact, Olruggio struck the ground with his heel—completing another seal, drawn in the dirt.
A tower of earth rose behind the pair, rising above their heads in narrowing tiers. And little birds of light sprang from the top, carrying ribbons in their beaks, and wrapped them all around the tower, flowing down, cascading down, scattering stars in their wake. Like a fountain. A fountain of light.
“Where’s the cake?!” cried Olruggio.
“What?!” said Alaira. “Did it fall off?!”
The pair of them threw down their palm quires. They raced to the tower, scrambling up the tiers, breaking through the fading ribbons. The stars collapsed; all the magic petered out.
“It was supposed to—koff—be on top!” Olruggio coughed from the dust as he climbed. “The birds—koff—were supposed to fly out of the cake—”
“I thought you were gonna put it there—”
“I thought you were gonna put it there!”
“Is this it?”
They looked down from their perilous perches. Beldaruit had approached the display and had scooped a sad-looking blob from among the debris. He held it aloft. Leaves and grass flaked off it in fluttering chunks.
“Aaah…” Olruggio’s whole body crumpled. His hands curled into fists. He whacked his head off of the tower. “Nooo…no! Stupid!”
Alaira slumped against the crumbling earth. “I knew something was missing!”
“Perhaps it can be salvaged,” Beldaruit said politely. On cue, the blob deflated even further with a sorry squelch.
“Yeah, right,” spat Olruggio. “Forget it. It’s ruined…”
“What…”
The three of them turned their heads.
Qifrey stared. He swayed in the high wind. He stammered, “What…what’s ruined?”
“Oh…” Alaira picked her way down the tower. She brushed the dust from her robes, rather fruitlessly, and announced with a dogged, chagrined smile: “Surprise! Happy birthday, Qifrey!”
…Huh?
Qifrey’s focus shifted. For the first time, he looked past them, to the trees strung with banners, with streamers and some kinds of colorful, floating orbs. To the games. To the food. To the dragon. What was all this…birthday? His birthday? But he didn’t…he didn’t…
“...have one,” he muttered. He swallowed. “I don’t…I don’t have a—”
“Well, do ya want one?” asked Alaira. She drew near to him. Her smile grew more natural and open. “We thought maybe you would want one.”
He stared at her.
“Qifrey—” Olruggio leapt from the tower, landing with a grunt. He jogged to meet them. “This is—well, it was s’posed to be a surprise party. For you.” Up close, he looked exhausted. “We had to keep it a secret. We thought it’d be fun, but then I realized—well—” He looked away. “You prob’ly thought that we were mad at you, or somethin’. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged a shoulder with a grimace. “We didn’t even ask you if you wanted one. We just went ahead and did it. And ignored you for a month…”
“They ran the risk of ruining their surprise if they spent too much time with you,” said Beldaruit, by way of gentle explanation. “So you see, their care for you has never waned.”
“No!” said Olruggio, dismayed. “Never! And I made you think that—!”
“We’re BFFs,” Alaira said, with a firm thumbs-up. “Right?”
There was too much inside of him. Too many thoughts and feelings, piling up, making Qifrey dizzy.
A sob burst from his chest, alarming him. He covered his face.
At once, he felt Olruggio’s warmth. He clung to Olly, relishing the hug, breathing in the scents of smoke and sweat and earth. He felt an extra push between his shoulder blades—Alaira’s steady hand. His head still hurt from crying yesterday. He was embarrassed. He was overwhelmed. But…
“Olly’s decorating is pretty upsetting, huh?” said Alaira with a sigh.
Qifrey cracked a crooked smile through his ugly tears.
“You can be honest,” Olruggio said, his voice muffled and close and good-natured. “I know it sucks…”
“I bet the cake tasted like soot, anyway!”
“Now that’s takin’ it too far, Alaira…”
The rhythmic hoofbeats of a sealchair fell close by.
“Am I correct,” said Beldaruit, “in wishing you a happy birthday?”
Qifrey didn’t have the means to muster up his voice. But he nodded.
Team Alaira-and-Beldaruit trounced Team him-and-Olly at just about every game. The three of them passed him plates—green plates, his favorite color—loaded with all his favorite foods. They handed him gifts that they’d made just for him. They smiled and laughed and sang for him, warmed by Olruggio’s glyphs and joyful spirits; and they tossed their arms around his neck with such immense, unreal affection.
And when the gray clouds cracked and fissured, freeing thin, bright rays of sunlight, Qifrey climbed onto the table, pushed his heels together, and shot upward—soaring higher and higher, spinning skyward—like a bird.
His friends called after him. But how could Qifrey hold in all this love?
END
❤️ Artwork by kozihug (@kozihug on Twitter):
❤️ Artwork by nuri (@nu_22_ri on Twitter):
