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She holds her child on her lap, bouncing her on her knees as the little girl laughs and laughs. That sound—that joy—fills the room with a summer-like warmth and she feels herself relax. A tension she didn’t know she’d been carrying melts away as the little girl turns to her and beams a smile missing one of her front teeth.
“Tell me that story again, mama!” she squeals, and she bounces her higher until she’s mostly carrying the child from underneath her armpits.
“What?” she responds, unable to keep a grin from her own face. “I could have sworn I just told you that one!”
“Again!” she cries, flinging her chubby, toddler hands into the air. “Again!”
“Fine, fine. Down you go then.” She sets the girl onto the floor, watching fondly as she hits the ground running towards her bedroom. The door hits the wall as she flings it open, and it’s only a few thuds and thunks later that she stampedes back with a book clutched tight to her chest.
She hands it over almost imperiously, a demand from a determined young girl, and she thinks not for the first time that she cannot wait to watch this child grow up. But right now, she has a part to play, so she gives an exaggerated sigh that can’t hide her grin. “Are you sure you want me to read this one? I mean, you have so many other books…”
“Mama!” she complains, plopping her head onto her lap. She can’t help but run a hand through her daughter’s soft hair and smooth the furrow in her brow with a caring thumb.
“Alright then.” And she cracks the book open, spine creaking.
There once was a girl who only looked up.
She had to admit that the illustrator of this story had been a remarkable painter. Holding the book barely sideways, she runs her finger underneath the words as she says them, and lets her eyes trail along the images on the page. No matter how many times she’s read this, she finds her heart aching.
She loved the shapes of the clouds and the feel of the rain. She loved the sunrise and its pinks, its oranges, its golds. She loved the sun and the moon, but most of all, she loved the stars and their midnight dance.
Her daughter giggles and twirls, her sleep clothes billowing out like a skirt as she spins. “Dance, dance,” she murmurs as her mother continues:
One day, as she sat by her window watching the night sky, a brilliant light fell to the earth.
The house creaks. That’s… an unusual sound. It sounds like rocks grinding, like glass scraping. She shakes her head and reads on.
There, outside of her window, a star had landed. They waved to the girl, and offered a hand.
“We see you each night,” they said, “watching us dance across the sky. Won’t you come join us?”
The young girl, dizzy, grabs onto her leg to keep upright, her smile still fixed and her attention rapt. Something groans, like wood bending, and her heart skips another beat. Her palms sweat. She feels the back of her throat go dry but for some reason, she keeps reading the book.
The girl was honoured by the star’s invitation. She took their hand with a sad smile and said: “Oh, thank you, Star, but I fear I cannot fly as you do. I cannot dance as you do. And surely, I cannot leave my family alone to travel the sky as you do.”
It’s cold. Colder than it should be, with the hearth fire blazing and her daughter’s hands on her knees. Even that small contact feels like ice. Her breath fogs in front of her.
The star thought for a moment, then had an idea. From their own light, they pulled a cloak of pure star magic and offered it to the girl.
“This will allow you to fly with us for just one night,” they said. “We will teach you to dance, and then you can return home before the sun rises!”
Her limbs feel stiff. Her head feels heavy, and foggy. Her daughter is drifting into sleep, but she can’t reach out to tuck her hair behind her ear. Like her fingers are stuck to the book, she chokes out the final lines:
And so, cloaked in star magic, the girl rose into the sky and joined the stars in their dance. She ate the stars’ food and drank the stars’ drinks, and she found she loved the stars’ music more than anything she’d heard on earth. She had a wonderful night of song and play.
Her lungs wouldn’t fill right. Coughing, she tries to call her daughter’s name and the words that fall from her lips instead are:
And when the sun rose, the girl shed the star’s magic and returned to her home with a light heart and a new song to share.
Her vision dims. Oh, gods, she’s dying. The young girl’s eyes had closed, her breathing peaceful, and she can’t even tuck her in, oh gods. Something hot trickles down her cheek but instead of tears falling from her chin, small fragments of glass fall into her lap. Oh. Something is wrong. The house groans and the ceiling splinters and it’s cold, too cold, and—
— — —
“Tell me that story again, mama!” she squeals, and she bounces her higher until she’s mostly carrying the child from underneath her armpits.
“What?” she responds, unable to keep a grin from her own face. “I could have sworn I just told you that one!”
“Again!” she cries, throwing her chubby, toddler hands into the air. “Again!”
There once was a girl who only looked up.
Where she’s holding the child, blue-green crystals sprout like weeds from her fingers, her palms, and red blood pools in the subtle cracks. Yet the girl laughs even as her mother screams, voiceless and horrified, unable to let go as the crystals grow across the child’s body and across her own, through her lips and out of her eyes and—
— — —
She loved the sun and the moon, but most of all, she loved the stars and their midnight dance.
But most of all she loved… the star’s magic.
The door hits the wall as she flings it open, and it’s only a few thuds and thunks later that she stampedes back with a book clutched tight to her chest.
She hands it over almost imperiously, a demand from a determined young girl, and she thinks not for the first time that she cannot wait to watch this child grow up. The hearth blazes warm and welcoming, and she goes to crack the spine open when another door opens, the front door. Heavy footsteps, and a deep, familiar voice: “I see you’re doing story time without me!”
But that’s not right, because he died. Years ago, just after her daughter was born and he’ll never get to see that little girl grow into something more, something greater, and she turns to try and catch a glimpse of him but there’s nothing in the shadows except for the grinding of stone and the whistle of wind, like bells, and when she turns back the book is no longer in her hands and her daughter is gone and gods, how long has it been? How long has she been trapped here—?
— — —
Her daughter is asleep, at last. Carefully, she places the storybook back in its place and quietly leans over the bedframe to watch the subtle rise and fall of her chest in the dark. Sometimes she wonders if she can really do this all alone. Today, she knows she can, and she’ll do everything she can to make sure this child grows up happy and healthy and free from worry. It’s what she deserves.
“I love you, Coco,” she whispers like a prayer, the words keeping her here and not drifting into an endless, grey sea of grief. Because she can still feel that pull, sometimes in the dead of night with only the moon for company. Would he be proud to see them keeping on? See them doing well?
She clutches the fabric of her nightgown with a wavering lip, but she won’t cry. Not where she might see her. That wouldn’t be fair.
As she turns to leave the girl’s bedroom, there’s a figure in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hearth fire. A tall, willowy man with stark white hair and an odd pair of spectacles. He’s watching her daughter with an unreadable expression, but for some reason, she doesn’t feel afraid of this man.
“I know you.” The words bubble up from her throat, and she doesn’t know how they’re true but knows that they are. “I believe we’ve met before, but where?”
“Here,” the man replies, and his voice is nearly drowned out by the crackle and pop of flame. “Once. She’s coming for you. She never gave up on you.”
His words make her sag against the bedframe and she doesn’t even know why, but there are tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping down her neck. “I’ll wait. I’ve been waiting.”
But the man is gone. And the fire quenches with a sputter and hiss of steam. Still, a shadow remains splattered across the wall and she can’t quite decide if it looks more like a man or a monster when pain splits her open down the middle. There’s no blood, but it feels like there should be. And there’s no wound, but the swimming of her vision tells her that this moment too will vanish into smoke just like the last one, and the last one, and the last one, and the last—
— — —
“Mama!” she complains, plopping her head onto her lap. She can’t help but run a hand through her daughter’s soft hair and smooth the furrow in her brow with a caring thumb.
But the girl’s features round out and weather, and sand cascades through her fingertips until she can’t even remember what color her hair was. So. This is her fate, then. To hang on by threads until they snap, one by one, until she can’t even remember her own daughter’s face. That’s not fair! She wants to scream into the sky until her anger echoes back as thunder. It wasn’t her fault!
Blue-green crystals grow from each bone in her spine, and she curls over on herself in a spiraling pattern. Down, down, down where it’s dark and quiet and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t even worth it to stay. Magic can’t solve everything. In fact, sometimes it makes problems too large for even gods.
Oh gods, she prays as she falls. Let her know that I loved her more than life itself.
“Mom?”
Let her know that I thought of her. That she was my reason to pull myself out of bed each morning.
“Mom!”
Let her know that I gave her everything I could, even if it wasn’t the only thing she truly wanted. And that I’m sorry I could only give her memories.
“Mama!”
And she’s there. A thousand shards of crystalline glass shatter from the stone her body tries to become and forms the shape of a person. A girl. A young girl, with two small hands extended to her mother, and a smile missing one tooth.
“I came, mama,” she says. “I’m sorry, but I’m here now. Come home.”
And she takes the child’s hands.
— — — — —
It’s… bright. Too bright to be the middle of the night, because why else would she be standing on the doorstep in her night clothes holding a long burnt-out lantern aloft? As if by acknowledging it, that slips from her fingers—they feel stiff and sore and cold, gods, is winter around the corner? With a start, she finds she doesn’t remember what day it’s supposed to be. That won’t do. But… Coco will know, she figures, reaching up to her face and rubbing the bleariness and brightness from her eyes.
“Mom?”
Strange. This voice is familiar, and her gut tells her that it’s Coco speaking but. Coco doesn’t sound like that, like she’s a card tower close to collapse. Like she’s teetering on the edge of a cliff and looking down at certain doom. No, because her Coco speaks like the words are running away from her and she’s all too excited to chase them down. There are splotches of color ahead. Grey and black and teal-greens, all huddled together in a small group. And gods, her eyes won’t clear fast enough.
She goes to ask who’s there, that she’s not quite up to opening the shop today, but instead of words her breaths comes in a ragged gasp quickly followed by a cough. It burns in her chest, and she spots one of the teal splotches stumble a step forward before stopping. As if it’s afraid of her, a mother and a tailor of no significant renown. The thought makes a small smile form on her lips; they crack as the skin pulls.
“Apologies,” she says. Her voice sounds horrid—perhaps a hay fever creeping in. “I seem to be a little under the weather…”
The last smudge clears and her surroundings come into sharp focus, still too bright but she squints into the mid-morning light to see… her front yard. Yes, that’s as it should be, although she does note that the grass is a bit tall and overgrown towards the road. She’d have to take care of that. And the splotches are, in fact, people. Witches, as the hats so proudly proclaim: two young men and four even younger girls all wide-eyed like they’ve just seen a ghost. The one who stepped forward…
Her blood freezes. Cold already, but the sight of the girl in front of her makes her shiver because… that’s Coco. Her Coco. The same green-blonde hair and wide, gold eyes and furrow in her brow. But she’s too tall. And her hair is too long. And she’s wearing those teal-green robes and a witch’s hat like she’s some kind of apprentice but that can’t be right, because Coco should be asleep in the house waiting for her to wake her up…
The girl in front of her says, “Mom?”
Oh gods, that’s her daughter. She can feel it in her bones. And her legs and feet feel about a thousand pounds but she takes a few staggering steps forward as fast as she can. “…Coco?”
It’s as if a spell has broken. Immediately, tears overflow the girl’s eyes and she runs towards her, towards her outstretched arms. And when her body collides, it’s the warmest thing she’s ever felt, like she’s holding a fire against her chest. The girl is sobbing, loudly and openly, and she feels her bury her face into the crook of her neck and her arms clamp tighter around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” she wails. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Coco,” her mother breathes. She smells like flowers and fresh bread and some strange, earthy scent like paint or pigment. Something she can’t place. Distantly, she recalls spinning through her own memories and even more distantly, she recalls blue-green crystal. It’s been some time, she thinks, since she got to hold her daughter like this. Even if it feels like just yesterday to her. “Hush, now, everything is going to be okay.”
Her words only make the girl cry harder, but instead of letting the embrace continue, she pulls away a moment to hold her arms’ length. To get a good look at her. To see what she’s missed, and gods, it’s too much. Years, she thinks. Enough that her dear, precious daughter has started to grow into her gangly limbs and sprout a few more inches in height. Her chest tightens, equal parts pride and grief.
“You’ve gotten taller!” she says, and Coco giggles wetly.
“There’s so much I need to tell you,” she sniffles, “but I don’t know where to start.”
The crunch of gravel underfoot. A familiar man places a thin, pale hand on her girl’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “You’ll have time. For now, we need to make sure your mother is okay.” And to her, a single bright, blue eye crinkles with a small smile. “It’s good to see you again, madame.”
Ah. The witch from yesterday—well. From her yesterday. He looks much the same as she remembers, although she hadn’t really gotten a careful look at the man aside from noting his strange hair. Under her scrutiny, he stoops into a slight bow.
“Qifrey,” he introduces simply, and she thinks he’s already told her his name. “May I ask: how much do you remember?”
“It’s like…” she trails off. She doesn’t mean to, but her fingers twist into the thick fabric of her daughter’s robes. “Like we met just yesterday, but yesterday feels so long ago. I was… lost?”
“You were,” he answers. Coco nods fiercely, swiping at her eyes as she tries to stem the flow of tears. “We can explain more, but if it’s alright with you, would you mind terribly if you spent the night at our… my home? Just to make sure everything is okay. You’ve been… lost for quite some time.”
“Oh, please do!” A new, small voice calls out, and two teal blurs slam into the witch’s legs. He stumbles forward a step with a small oof, then steadies himself by placing his hands on the two girls’ heads. Pink and blue hair, and wide eyes. The pink-haired girl speaks again: “We made up the guest room and everything, so it’s all ready for you!”
The other girl doesn’t say anything, but her pale blue eyes shine with hope and worry. She doesn’t recognise these girls, but her daughter certainly does—she casts a grateful sort of look to each of them in turn. And how could she turn that down?
She lets her body sag, and even that brief moment of relief spurs on a wave of exhaustion. Nodding forward, she lets her head rest on Coco’s shoulder and tries to keep her eyes open. “Of course, how kind. I think that should be fine.”
The witch’s pale hand catches her as she half collapses, keeping her from hitting the ground. As if underwater, she hears her daughter’s voice bubbling with worry, and the man’s comforting tones following each concerned word.
Is she okay?
She’s fine, just sleeping. She’s been fighting to stay all this time, it’s no wonder she’s tired.
Warm, calloused hands hoist her into a comfortable carry. Her head lulls against a broad shoulder. Their heartbeat thumps, thumps next to her ear, and as her eyes close she catches a glimpse of a black cloak and dark blue eyes. She doesn’t know this man, but she can feel Coco’s hands clutching one of her own, and that’s enough to convince her to finally let her consciousness fade.
Don’t drop her, Olly.
I won’t! Ye of little faith—
— — — — —
She doesn’t know this ceiling. High rafters are draped with dried or drying herbs and little, shimmering ribbons that twirl in a slight draft. The sunlight drifts through a single, rounded window at an angle she’s not used to; it slants across her face as she blinks the sleep from her eyes.
The house is quiet—morning still early and all—except for the soft chirping of songbirds outside. She goes to sit up, but even just that slight movement jostles the young girl curled up at her side. The poor thing is still dressed in her robes and dress, as if she hadn’t moved since yesterday. But she’s fast asleep, now, and so she runs a careful hand through her hair, sweeping wayward locks off of her forehead. It’s then that her gaze snags on her hat, set carefully on the bedside table. It makes her heart ache, to know that somehow, her daughter was able to make her dream come true all on her own.
She’ll let her sleep, but her own mind is churning too much to return to bed. Slowly and silently, she wiggles out of the covers and inches to the door. Coco snorts softly in her sleep, but simply pulls the blankets tighter and turns over.
Only after the door is closed behind her does she let out her held breath. Then she turns to an unfamiliar hallway.
The witch’s house, she remembers distantly. Granted, she’s never been in a witch’s house, but it can’t be too different from those of regular people. Surely somewhere there’s a kitchen with a kettle; a nice cup of tea would work wonders on that last, spiteful chill still settled in her bones.
So she wanders, quiet as she can. Trails her hand on the railing as she pads downstairs and admires the little sprinkles of personality dotting the halls. A door—perhaps to a bedroom—with painted flowers. More ribbons pinned to the ceiling. A discarded set of slippers, haphazardly piled by what seems to be the front door. Blankets and pillow and a plush couch, and a small table littered with papers.
And beyond that, she finds as she crosses the next doorway, the kitchen. By far the largest room so far. Completely deserted. It smells of herbs and savory spices. A window by the washbasin looks out into a beautiful garden. And on the stove, or what seems to be a stove, is a kettle.
But there’s nowhere to light a fire. Instead, the stone oven is inlaid with magic circles. From the scorch marks marring the stone, those somehow flare to life, but magic items are so rare to common folk that she can’t begin to imagine how it works. And now that she thinks, she hasn’t seen a well either. Not in the garden or out of any windows. Nowhere to get water, then. Perhaps she’ll wait for folks to wake up. Perhaps she’ll admire that garden…
“Oh. Good morning.” A soft and pleasant voice. It only startles her a little bit, but she figures her flinch sort of blends into the way that she turns.
The white-haired witch. Qifrey—an odd name, but he seems a queer sort anyway—braces himself on the doorframe, his only visible eye crinkled into a smile.
“It’s good to see you on your feet. Can I offer you tea?” His footsteps are near inaudible as he all but floats into the kitchen and begins to pull small sachets of herbs from his cabinets. “I fear it’s a bit too early for breakfast, but I’ll get it started.”
She unconsciously grips her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “That would be lovely.” Her voice still sounded scratchy and faint.
“Perfect. One moment then.”
With practiced ease, he lifts a strange, brass contraption and turns the handle, lifting the lid. Immediately, a great orb of water forms, undulating with a phantom current. She finds herself watching his every movement as he pours from that strange device into the kettle, as he sets it on the magic stove and turns a handle she hadn’t noticed. The circle on the stone top flares to life with a kindly, orange flame.
“Oh.” The exclamation falls from her lips unbidden, and the witch beams.
“Coco was the same way.” He offered her the sachets. “Whichever you’d like; the water will be ready in just a moment.”
He closes the water orb as she studies the teas. None of them look like any she’s had before. At random, then, she sets one aside. It smells floral. She’s fond of floral teas.
“Here you are.” That stove must be powered by the sun. The witch hands her a steaming mug in record time, and almost in a daze, she drops the tea into the hot water and watches a delightful, purple shade bleed from the sachet.
He’s poured himself a cup as well, and snags a bundle from the ones she didn’t take to add to his own drink.
It’s strange, she thinks. In her mind, witches are untouchable beings: mystical and unknowable. But standing in this man’s kitchen, each of them blowing gently on their drinks, she realises just how much of a human he is.
He catches her staring, somehow, even as she stands on his blind side. His eye is a pale blue, almost grey.
“How long?” she blurts out. The words make her throat burn, her eyes sting.
A shadow crosses his face. “Two and a half years.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. Two years. That would make Coco… thirteen now? Fourteen? She doesn’t even know what month it is now, if she’s missed another one of her daughter’s birthdays.
“And who are you? To her, I mean.”
At that, he folds his fingers over his cup and squeezes; she can see the way his knuckles pale against the ceramic. His single eye shies away from her face and focuses deeply into his tea as he says, “I’m… a teacher, by trade. After what happened, I took your daughter in to help her find a way to undo the spell that was cast that night.” He sips his drink carefully, brow furrowed. “After… what happened, the law—our law—would have made it so Coco would have her memories erased. But she was so determined that I…”
It’s then that she catches the misting of his eye, the quick swipe of his finger beneath it. It shimmers with something like wistfulness, like grief, like… love. And at this sight, the last, frigid chill in her chest melts away with relief—that despite everything, despite the tragedy and the odds stacked against her, her daughter found someone who cares for her as much as her mother does.
She’s moving before she even knows what she needs to say, placing her hands over the witch’s. The action makes him startle, but he doesn’t pull away even as she stumbles through the words: “You… taught her magic.”
“I did,” he answers softly. “She’s brilliant, your daughter, and it’s been a great joy of mine to watch her grow.”
Her heart aches and she tries not to let it show as she chokes out: “Thank you.”
His eye widens as if he expected her to say something, anything else. There’s that mist again, like he’s about to shed tears, and that won’t do. Because if he cries, she knows the barely suppressed emotions bubbling inside her will spill out, and it’s too lovely a morning to be caught crying by children.
But it’s not one of the children that steps into the kitchen next. A gruff voice speaks up from the doorway, one she doesn’t really recognise. “Is there any hot water left?”
The white-haired witch glances over her shoulder and the tension in his shoulders lifts, his smile stretching just a bit wider. “Good morning, my dear! And yes, it’s on the stove.”
She releases his hands and turns to see the dark-haired man, the one with the tired eyes, whose arms she thinks are the ones that carried her here. He blinks tiredly in her direction as if still processing her presence in their kitchen. Once, twice. Then he yawns hugely and wanders towards the cupboards.
“Good to see you awake, ma’am,” he says as he roots through the shelves for a specific mug he can’t seem to find. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, thank you.” And she herself is surprised that it’s not a lie. Surely strong magic like that, magic that could encase her in crystal for years, would leave its mark. But she feels as well as she did the last day she remembers.
“And what about yourself, Olly?” Qifrey accuses. “It’s rare to see you up this early.”
“Didn’t sleep.” He finally pulls a lumpy, green mug from the back of the cupboard and polishes it with his sleeve.
There’s a name carved into the bottom of it. It looks like Coco’s.
As he pours himself some hot water, the white-haired witch chuckles humourlessly. “You set a terrible example for our girls and our guest.” He looks to her, and with a kinder tone: “If it’s alright with you, we can call a physician out from the Great Hall—ah, Olly and I’s prior home. She’s a dear friend, and uniquely pertinent to our atelier’s… oddities…”
The other man—Olly, it seems—snorts into his cup. “Understatement of the year. Of the decade, maybe.”
“…just to ensure there are no lingering issues. Then I suppose we’ll have to figure out what to do next…” he continues, heedless of his friend’s interruption.
His earlier words bounce around the inside of her head as if summoned by the pensive expression on the man’s face: memories erased. What does that mean for her? For Coco?
Those dammed emotions threaten to break free again, and she inhales deeply the smell of her drink to stave off the burning in her eyes. “I can’t just… return home, can I?” she asked carefully. Her life as she knew it was gone. In its place was a young girl who had grown up without her.
“I assure you, we will do everything in our power to make sure you can have whatever life you wish for yourself.”
She closes her eyes and sighs in the smell of the kitchen, the floral and herbed scents of their teas and clean water. Whatever life she wants, and all her mind can conjure is a simple hearth, an old storybook, a child balanced on her lap with a gap-toothed smile.
“I dreamed the whole time, I think,” she murmurs. It’s an abrupt change in subject, but neither man seems to mind. The dark-haired witch has selected a tea—something strong and bitter—and settled into a chair beside the other. They both watch her with a focus that should be reserved only for important stories. She thinks that hers is not that, but finds herself appreciating it nonetheless. “A lot of it was memories of better times, peaceful times. And then, it would all crash down around me.”
At this, Qifrey nodded. “It may not be reassuring to hear, but the horror you felt, the pain… it likely kept you here. Your mind, I mean. Forbidden magic is a wild sort of beast—it responds to emotion over reason, fiction over fact. It consumes you most when you are in comfort, and so it… digs up those memories from wherever they may have been buried.”
The dark-haired man rests a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. The pain on his face is something sharp and fresh, but beneath it there is something like sympathy. She thinks she remembers him there, near the end, in the doorway and yet, so far away. She never gave up on you. Maybe it doesn’t matter how he came to be there… and it certainly isn’t her place to ask…
So instead of addressing the questions steeping in her mind, she just nods. “When I dreamed, it was always her. My Coco.” The back of her throat burns. She can’t quite hide the tears that spill from the corners of her eyes, the ones she wipes quickly with the edge of her shawl, so she meets the two mens’ stares with a watery focus of her own: “Was she happy here?”
“Yes.” It’s not Qifrey who answers, but Olly, confidently. “Maybe not all the time, but it’s as much her home as it is ours. She’s family to us…”
It’s remarkably tender, and the instant he finishes he flushes deep red and mumbles something about not speaking before having caffeine into his mug. Coco’s name flashes once again before her eyes as he takes a deep swig. Her home.
“I’ll speak to your physician friend,” she says finally. “And I think that whatever happens next, I just want my daughter to be safe and happy.”
Qifrey pauses in the middle of trying to wrestle his friend into a half embrace with a solemn nod. “If it’s within my abilities, it will be done.” Something dark thunders behind his gaze. A severity, a determination that suddenly reminds her where she is, who she’s speaking to, and how small a simple tailor is in the face of unspeakable magicks… but it fades easily as he ropes the other man into a proper hug: “That’s downright sappy, my dear. You’re sure it’s Olly in there and not Tetia perfecting her light illusions?”
The man groans, but she can see the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She thinks that out of every witch in Zozah, she’s glad it was these two whom her daughter found.
— — — — —
Coco spots her mother in the garden, on the bench that Master Qifrey usually sits, and it’s like seeing a ghost. For a moment, it’s all she can do to stand and stare through the kitchen window. Her mother holds a steaming mug—one of Master Olly’s—in both hands. Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls: she’s breathing. She’s alive. Coco has to remind herself, finds herself pinching each of her fingers in turn. Not a dream. Not a dream, and her mother is right there.
And she can’t move. It’s been two and a half years, maybe closer to two and three-quarters. Coco’s… different than the scared, naïve girl Master Qifrey saved that day in a small, rural village of the Naakiwan Downs. Different than the Coco that this woman would remember. And to her fear, how much does she truly remember about her own mother, the woman who raised her? How much of it is stained black by her own mistakes, her own nightmares?
Hundreds of nights staring into her mother’s petrified face: It’s your fault. I won’t forgive you.
Her breath shakes. Throat tight, she scrubs at dry eyes and tries to take a step towards the back door. Can’t move. She’s faced down Brimmed Caps with more courage than this.
“What are you waiting for?”
Coco whips around at the familiar voice, but Agott just brushes past with her characteristic brusqueness. Her heart skips a beat because Agott is going outside, going to tell her mother everything when it should have been Coco explaining what happened, should have been Coco telling her every way she messed up, and—oh. She’s sorting through the fruit bowl for a ripe mountainapple. Right. That’s fine.
She exhales her worry with a sigh, loud enough that Agott turns and gives her a funny look. Then she realises: oh, she hasn’t answered.
“What?” she responds awkwardly.
The other girl huffs, fondly exasperated, though an onlooker probably wouldn’t notice that faint undercurrent of compassion amidst her icy expressions. It had taken a long time for even Coco to become used to the small ways that Agott shows affection. Now, she finds that uniqueness endearing.
Apple selected, she pulls out her palm quite and begins to sketch a spell onto the paper, just out of sight of someone who might be looking in through the window. “I asked what you were waiting for. Your mother is out there. You… did it, Coco.” A wind keystone, convergence to sharpen and control the gust, direction to tell it how to move. She closes the ring and carefully sets the apple inside. The wind cuts it into perfect slices, and the rest of the breeze blows harmlessly around the room as the spell completes. Agott offers her a part. “So why do you look so…”
She takes the proffered snack while trying to ignore the tremor in her hands. “Scared,” she finishes for her friend. Just admitting it… her stomach twists with something like grief or guilt. Maybe both. “I’m scared of what she’ll think of me. I’m scared she won’t forgive me.”
Outside of the window, her mother chats goodnaturedly with Master Qifrey as he rifles through a bush of late-season berries. A basket is balanced on his knees, close to tipping as he hands the woman a handful of the ripe fruits. She says something that makes him laugh, loud enough to hear just faintly through the glass. His only visible eye crinkles in a wide smile, a real smile, one that Coco still isn’t used to seeing yet. One that she hopes she’ll get to see more of. And her mother smiles brightly—it’s the same smile she remembers. And that’s real, she tries to tell herself. Not the nightmares, but this joy.
The apple slice muffles another sigh as she munches down. Agott scoffs as she arranges the remaining fruit onto a small plate.
“Well, it’s not useful for you to just… stand here,” she gestures halfly into the garden, face carefully neutral. “If she doesn’t forgive you, it does no good to avoid it. Better to hear it for yourself rather than.. than avoiding it.”
Coco takes a moment to talk herself out of setting the Arklaum family home on fire, then slumps with a groan. “I know. Just give me a few more minutes.”
Plate in one hand, Agott grabs her by the arm with the other and begins to pull. Coco staggers a few steps after her. Towards the door. Towards the garden. Towards her mother.
“Wait!”
“Let’s go. We’re going.”
The back door has never looked so ominous. And she can’t seem to affix a brave face as the back of her throat burns and her eyes begin to water and her hands shake as she tries to catch the doorframe.
“Wait!”
It’s a battle to balance the apple slices while holding on to a squirming tween and shouldering open the door, but Agott makes it work. She’s talented that way. All at once, the cool morning air washes over them, along with the smell of wet soil and brisk sunlight. The Downs are beautiful this morning. It feels like home.
The two adults halt their conversation as the girls burst outside, each equally puzzled by the commotion.
“Good morning Agott, Coco!” Master Qifrey tells each of them in turn, recovering quickly even as Coco freezes in place. Her mother stares at her, fingers tightening on her mug. She can’t read the look in her eyes. Anger? Disappointment? Whatever it is, it deepens the pit of dread punching holes through her stomach. It feels like she’s falling. Is she? It’s just like yesterday, seeing her mother standing on the stoop of their home—her first home—freed from her crystal tomb. She doubled over coughing and Coco’s feet felt a million pounds. Even as her body demanded she run to her, her mind froze.
Opening her mouth to apologise, she stumbles only through the syllables: “I’m sor—mmmf!” before another piece of mountain apple gets shoved into her jaw. Agott gives a flat look in response to her glare, a shrug. She lets go of Coco’s arm and uses the stepping stones—keeping her house slippers out of the mud—as she wanders to their professor’s side.
“Good morning, Master,” she tells him. She sounds so very far away. Master Qifrey watches Coco with a worried glance, one that makes her face flush red, but she can’t take her eyes off of the woman in front of her. Her mother stands. Sets the mug down. She’s wearing a pair of Master Olly’s slippers, the ones Richeh bought for him a few months ago when she had visited the Great Hall. And she’s still wearing the same clothes she was petrified in, shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Distantly, she wonders if it still has the same smell—like laundry soap and wood ash.
She doesn’t know what to say. She couldn’t even say it if she did know. Coco feels her bottom lip quiver, and she bites the inside of her cheek to make it stop; she won’t cry. Not yet. Not until she knows. So she balls her fists as her mother stops right in front of her, close enough to touch. Fixes what she hopes is a brave face as the woman kneels down onto the stepping stone path.
The words are trapped in her throat with an unmistakable burn. If she speaks first, she’ll cry. It’s too early in the morning to be seen crying by her mother.
But there are no words needed. Her mother carefully, tentatively raises her arms. Like she’s afraid Coco will disappear in the same way she’s afraid her mother will shatter into hundreds of thousands of pieces. Coco doesn’t disappear. And the arms that envelop her don’t break apart into blue-green crystal. And as soon as it’s certain that yes, they are here and they are together and it’s over, Coco buries her face into the crook of her mother’s neck and wails.
The funny part is, she doesn’t mean to. It’s just that as soon as that familiar weight settles over her shoulders, she loses her grip on the lid of the box that keeps everything in. She’s six years old, and the paving stones are alight beneath her feet. She’s eight, giggling as her mother cuts a bolt of fabric and throws it over her head. She’s eleven, watching crystals burst through their windows, watching the dragon stalk closer over the walls, watching Custas sprout…. She’s twelve, and the third test looms before her. She’s thirteen and she wants to kneecap Adina Arklaum. She’s fourteen and it’s Master Qifrey this time, growing roots and branches as he smiles that fake smile she’s glad to be rid of. Every single one of those girls bubbles to the surface, and each one finds herself in their mother’s embrace and there is only love. No hate, no judgement, no anger. Just… love.
“Oh, Coco,” her mother whispers into her hair and she sobs out a laugh. It’s wetter than she means for it to be.
She wants to apologise. She should apologise. Instead, she sniffles, “You’re okay. You’re alive. You’re okay,” over and over into a familiar, wool shawl.
A small chuckle trembles from her throat, and it’s then—that stutter—that tells Coco that her mother is crying, too. But she doesn’t let it show beyond the droplets gathered in her eyelashes. She pulls back just slightly so that they can make eye contact: watery hazel to brilliant gold. She smiles wide enough to squint: “I am. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
Tell me everything, my dear.”
Coco does.
— — — — —
She does not know the shape of her dreams anymore. Since waking from the stone, her hours asleep are filled with foggy memories and splotches of color without meaning. Things blur. When she wakes, it’s to a familiar ceiling in her home—her room, the one above her shop—and she decides after a moment of disorientation that no dream could be as sweet as the life she’s made since.
The day starts like any other. Quietly, calmly. She takes her time getting out of bed, getting dressed, opening windows to let in the spring air. It took a few weeks, but the stale, musty smell that had lingered with the spell had finally been replaced by familiar scents. Fresh bread. Pigment. Soaps and smoke. She breathes deep and feels them settle in her chest with a comfortable weight.
The house is empty, save for her. It’s taken some getting used to, but she’s never lonely for long. Coco visits every few days, sending letters via a strange contraption on days she doesn’t. Sometimes, the other girls visit alongside her, and the four of them crowd around the kitchen table with their study materials, arguing about primers and sigils and keystones. These things, she pretends not to hear, just as she pretends not to notice their pens scratching, drawing colorful lights or gentle mists from nothing but ink and paper. Plausible deniability, their teacher says pleasantly as he finds his usual spot in her sitting room. They’ve come for tea, Coco’s master and his scruffy partner, almost as much as the four girls.
This morning, she cuts a slice of a nut bread brought by yesterday’s visitor: a kind young lady from the Great Hall, wherever that is. One of the witch Knights, she thinks, with her red cloak and winged cap. She’s taken point on her rehabilitation, she explains each time she arrives before breaking into a grin, wishing her well. Come in, have some tea, she told her that first time, and it’s been a habit ever since.
Other witches stop by, too. The curious kind. She’s something of an enigma to them, she figures, as she fulfills arbitrary fabric orders and ignores their stares. A person with no interest in magic, content to live simply. The mother of one of the most talented young witches ever—a tailor, nothing more. They ask about her daughter, her daughter’s spells and her progress. The same answer every time: She makes me so proud. Have a nice day!
The bread is quite good. She spreads a little butter over it with a sprinkle of salt and chews, watching the clouds float lazily across a pale blue sky. Once she’s finished it—no doubt later today, when the girls dig into it—she’ll have to bake something in return. It’s no good to let a guest leave empty handed. Perhaps a tart.
The shape of her dreams are strange, but when she wakes, she knows it’s this life that she’s chosen for herself. And that’s enough.
A knock on the door downstairs, and a bubbling voice sings through the window: “Miss Coco’s Mom, good morning!”
Her daughter’s voice follows. “Mom, open up!”
It’s warm, the way pride and joy bloom in her chest like spring flowers. She licks the crumbs from her fingers, wipes her hands on her dress, and starts downstairs. She decides, as the door swings open and more than one pair of arms embrace her, that no dream could be as sweet as her life they’ve made anew.