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26
When Qifrey gives up on travelling and returns to Olruggio, freshly withered branches of silverwood in his satchel and with sword calluses on his palms, they get drunk.
"You know," Olruggio slurs, his face red from happiness and drink, "I kinda thought you'd either die out there or come back a woman."
"I learned how to fight off the beasts," Qifrey replies. "It was quite the poor showing at first, though."
Olruggio laughs. "I don't believe that for a second! You're graceful… real graceful, like water…" His head dips and Qifrey watches him fall asleep. His drunken snores fill the hollowness in Qifrey's chest, and he lets that be enough for now.
In the morning, Olruggio does not remember, and for once Qifrey had nothing to do with that.
Watching a girl grow up is strange. Watching Agott Arklaum grow up is surely stranger than most. She is prickly to the most, quick to lash out and even quicker to hide somewhere and lick her wounds. Qifrey finds her in the kitchen cupboards, under desks, in the hollow of the stairs to the windowway.
"That doesn't look comfortable," he says each time he finds her. "Why don't we go sit in the sun?"
"I'm fine," she replies shortly. Her long, beautiful hair is dusty from the spaces she's squeezed into. Qifrey itches to wash it, perhaps even braid it, but Agott does not like being touched by adults. He learned this early on. Agott catches him looking and hides her hair behind her back. Qifrey flexes his hands and steps away to give her space.
"I'll bring you some fruit," he offers. "I just cut some up."
The discarded gem of the Arklaum family does not reply, and Qifrey pretends that he is not hurt by the silence of an eleven year old.
The next time he sees her, her hair has been clumsily shorn by her own hand. She looks like a boy, her curls licking her cheeks and forehead like impish kittens, and Qifrey finds himself so heartbroken that he has to excuse himself from the breakfast table.
"Are you alright?" Olruggio asks, finding him under the stairs by the windowway. Qifrey is clutching clumps of Agott's hair, the locks cut with impatience.
"Where did she get the blade?" Qifrey asks him. "She could've hurt herself."
"Probably used something in the kitchen," Olruggio muses, looking at the strands Qifrey is twisting between his fingers. "Must be a real weight off, though – literally."
Qifrey takes a breath and exhales it slowly. "It must," he agrees. "I'll go see if she wants it neatened up."
"I think she'd like that," Olruggio says.
"I need a cut too, I think." Sometimes Qifrey forgets how much punishment is necessary; sometimes he indulges in it like sucking on a rotten tooth. "Will you come and help us?"
Olruggio gives him a sideways glance, and Qifrey summons a smile. "Sure," Olruggio says finally.
Agott trusts Olruggio more than she trusts Qifrey, and perhaps that is because Qifrey's longing is occasionally too big to be silent. He imagines that it hangs in the air like a sour smell when he takes her shopping for robes or watches her curtsy neatly to the farmers when they buy freshly milled wheat. It is humiliating and shameful to covet girlhood like this, and every time he catches himself at it, a fear runs through him so sharp that it leaves bruises on his soul – the idea that anyone might see this as perversion is more than enough to keep his nights restless and his calm superficial. Qifrey is convinced that even Olruggio, whose comments over the years have ranged from endearingly naive to knowingly supportive, would be unable to bear witness to these tendencies without misunderstanding the root of the desire.
Agott draws near and pulls away, draws near and pulls away, and Qifrey learns to let go. He burns his lesson plans and gives her the choice of what and when to study, and his only task is to make sure she remembers to eat, sleep, and to prioritise understanding above the rote memorisation that her family favoured.
She is not the girl he would have been, though the shadow of himself still looms large over her in his mind's eye. It is safer for them both if he keeps it there, blows on the embers of his bitterness to ensure they stay aglow in his chest. So much was lost. So much was wasted. He cannot forget that, even when it feels like he has everything he needs.
14
"You can make an illusion look like anything you want?" Qifrey repeated. His head was tilted away, but he watched his teacher out of the corner of his eye.
Beldaruit smiled, gathering his hands. "That's right! Go on, now, give it a try. I've given you my basic form to copy - how would you make it look like yourself?"
Qifrey looked down at the glyph, which was so complex that it looked more like a weaving than anything drawn. The sigils were carefully crafted and overwhelmed him when he first tried to make sense of them.
"Let's start with the centre," Beldaruit said, gentle and patient, and together they watched Qifrey's illusion start to take shape. He took away some of the inconveniences he had had to deal with lately, the same inconveniences that made Olly strut with shy pride, and what manifested in the room looked like how he felt when he fell asleep or in the mornings, just before he opened his eye: a pretty tomboy, a girl with a distrustful expression clad in apprentice robes that didn't quite fit. The sight made his chest hurt in that strange, now-familiar way, and he rubbed it absently, unable to tear his gaze away.
The spell faded almost instantly, the keystones and sigils not clean enough to hold the figure for long, and the mist cleared away. Qifrey looked to his teacher for the kind praise he'd come to accept, but instead he found Beldaruit in silence. Sadness aged him, and for the first time, Qifrey thought his teacher looked old.
"Oh, dear child," Beldaruit said softly. "None of that. It needs to look like you."
"It did look like me," Qifrey protested.
Beldaruit shook his head. "Draw it again. Make sure to copy these." He tapped a few of the central sigils on his own glyph.
Qifrey bit his cheek and bent his head. The next apparition was a foul thing, hairy and angular, and Beldaruit dismissed him out of exasperation.
"Qifrey," he said in parting, "make sure not to cultivate difference beyond what is necessary. I know you think it is harmless when they talk about you, but it may not always be so."
Qifrey left. He never got the hang of illusion magic, but Beldaruit seemed content to leave that part of his education behind.
27
Qifrey did not intend on acquiring another apprentice. He still feels like he has his hands full with the first one – Agott is more than capable of worrying him to an early grave – but when Tetia sneaks through the windowway and comes back with them from the Great Hall, he knows he has very little choice.
Two apprentices, he discovers to some surprise, is in some ways easier than one. Agott is not kind to Tetia, but neither is she cruel, and Tetia's charm smooths over several lessons that Qifrey thought would end in tears. She is a delight to teach, eager to please and easy to amuse, and she brings a fresh breath into the atelier.
She is also, undeniably, a feminine girl. Where Agott rejects clothes, keeps her hair unbrushed and has begun to shed the proper manners of a lady in favour of sprawling, hunching and sitting with her legs spread, Tetia is the exact opposite: she loves fashion, brushing her hair, and writing her notes in pink flowery script. Qifrey kept away from the other girls at the Great Hall, and he did not know girlhood such as this existed outside of novels about noblewomen.
"Another hair," Olruggio grumbles, picking pink strands off his cloak on his way out to a commission. The girls are studying in their rooms, Qifrey working a dough at the kitchen counter for lunch. "How does it get everywhere? Can you tell her to cut it like Agott did?"
"Absolutely not," Qifrey replies cheerfully. "Isn't it wonderful to see? She's a darling."
Olruggio glances at him. "Remember," he says, "a teacher's not supposed to have favourites."
Qifrey's smile turns strained and he looks down at the dough. His fingers sink deep into it, pushing out the air. "Of course," he says.
Olruggio sighs and comes over, bumping his shoulder against him amiably. "Didn't mean anythin' by it," he says. "Ignore me."
"No, it is a good point." Qifrey starts to move the dough again, overworking it. "I am very fond of them both. I wouldn't want Agott to get the wrong impression, particularly not after what she's been through. Thank you, Olly."
There is a pause. Qifrey can feel Olruggio's gaze on him without looking up. Finally he leaves, and Qifrey lets out a slow sigh, partitioning the dough into dinner rolls.
There is still something sore and envious in him when he sees Agott coming into her own, but getting to know Tetia is an uncomplicated joy, and he cannot deny that that colours his interactions with them both. She is generous with her femininity, including Qifrey in it without question; she lets him brush and braid her hair, and has several times sought out his advice on her outfit for the day.
It is such a day that brings havoc to the atelier.
The weather has turned, and Tetia has spent the evening worrying about her winter wardrobe despite Qifrey's best efforts to reassure her that magic can keep her warm and cozy throughout the season. Every shape is wrong, every texture is harsh, and every lining is either too hot or too cold. Even the offer of borrowing Qifrey's woollens and furs, which he only wears on rare occasions, is found unsatisfactory. Agott gave up on the endeavour several clockmarks ago, retreating to her room to continue her studies, and it is only Qifrey and Tetia in front of the fire. With the kind of ingenuity that can only be born from desperation, Qifrey turns to illusion magic, dredging up dusty memories. "If you describe to me what you would like," Qifrey says, "I can make it appear as though you are wearing it, and if you still like it, we can go to a seamstress who lives a day away and offer our custom."
Tetia looks at him. She is bordering on overtired, having worked herself into a tizzy over the clothes, and she is in that first bloom of awareness that awakens her to when adults are sincere and when they are speaking platitudes to pacify a cross child. "Do you promise?" she asks warily.
Qifrey nods. "I promise. Now, describe to me what you would wear, and I will do my best to replicate it."
Over the course of the next hour, Tetia makes him remember forms he never even knew he had learned, but they finally settled on a garment: a fur-lined frock with wide sleeves and fine cotton lining. Qifrey has no idea how he will afford such a thing, but Tetia's smile – relieved and awed – when she sees herself in the mirror makes him determined to try. "Master Qifrey, master Qifrey, make me a princess dress now!" she tells him.
"I believe it's bedtime," he says gently, but she gives him such a beseeching look that he instantly caves. "Oh, very well."
Soon after, Tetia is draped in finery, an illusion of lace and velvet in pink and white covering her. The cut is suitable for a young girl such as herself, making her look both modest and regal, and she squeals in delight when she sees it. "I look like a real princess!"
"What does that make me, then?" Qifrey gives her an amused smile, capping his pen.
"My handmaiden, of course!" Tetia looks at him, eyes narrowing. "In fact… Master Qifrey, you need a dress too! We're at court together, you should look the part."
Qifrey looks down at himself, pushing the shoulders of his dress back on his shoulders from where they've slipped to his waist. "Surely this will do for a servant?"
"Absolutely not," Tetia says, shaking her head. "Those are witch's robes. Won't you make something pretty?"
Qifrey worries at his cheek. It is a balancing act, this like any other, and the idea of giving in to her makes him frightful and anxious. He is careful to keep his clothes neutral, though he cannot help his affection for skirts and tunics over shirts and trousers, and this would tip the scale, if only for an evening. But if he is careful enough, and keeps in mind that it is just a pretense, surely there is no harm in indulging her this once? Sometimes, he has learned, it is good to pursue what he cannot have, because to have loved and lost is altogether more painful than to never have loved at all. The well of bitterness in his chest is too close to drying up these days, and perhaps this will create a new groundspring for him to nurse on peaceful afternoons. "If you insist," he says finally. "Come here, then, princess Tetia – will you tell me what the glyph should look like?"
It is a late and unorthodox lesson, but after another clockmark, Qifrey is wrapped in the illusion of a simple lady's dress. The sleeves are tight over his biceps and flare at the forearms, which would be very impractical for doing chores, but Tetia is insistent that they match. A trained eye would be able to tell the illusion at once, crafted as it is by a child's hand, but when she brings out a mirror for him to see the two of them together, Qifrey still loses his breath.
She does not look quite as wonderful as Tetia, the woman in the mirror, but there is an unbearably warm smile on her face, a shy look in her blue eye. She is not quite a woman in the way that he imagines himself in his mind's eye, but she is a woman nonetheless, tall and statuesque in her angles. The dress veils her in femininity and makes the jut of her chin daring instead of masculine, her short hair shorn out of practicality only. Her throat bobs with emotion as she meets Qifrey's eye, and he is frustrated that this sight – this sight which was supposed to fuel his discontent, show him the ways in which he is lacking – only makes him feel warm and floating. Tetia squeals with happiness and hugs the woman tightly, and Qifrey turns to her, looking away from the mirror. He holds her back, closing his eye and stemming the emotion as best he can. "We look amazing!" she tells him, and then she insists on taking his hands in hers to dance around the living room, giggling all the while.
This is how Olruggio finds them a few moments later, out of breath from waltzing and laughing to each other. Qifrey is too busy to hear him approach, so the clearing of his throat startles them both out of their reverie, and Tetia immediately darts behind him like she has done something wrong.
"Havin' fun?" Olruggio says. "Isn't it bedtime for little witches?" He has a bowl of food in his hands, and Qifrey raises his eyebrow in amusement at his hypocrisy.
"We were just playing," Tetia mumbles behind Qifrey, her hands holding onto his real skirts under the illusion. He rests a hand between her twin pigtails, urging her gently forward.
"Olruggio is right," Qifrey says patiently, "we should certainly get to bed soon, but finding ways to have fun with magic can be the most valuable kind of lesson. Do you want to show Olruggio your dress?"
Olruggio steps forward, putting the bowl aside so he can kneel. Tetia hesitantly moves forward, wringing her hands behind her back. "That's a mighty fine piece of magic," Olruggio says. "Did you do it yourself?"
Tetia shakes her head. "Master Qifrey did it," she mumbles.
"Ah, but it would not work half as well without such a good model," Qifrey says with a smile. "And Tetia helped with – this." Abruptly, he realises the illusion that still clothes him.
Olruggio looks up at him, still half-kneeling on the floor like a knight in a fairytale, his eyes slowly moving over the dress. Qifrey brushes through the illusion, dispersing some of it with a shaky laugh.
"It looks good," Olruggio says simply, straightening up. "Excellent work, Tetia." His cheeks turn pink, voice low as he leans in slightly. "And you suit it, Qifrey."
Qifrey squeezes his eye shut tightly, but a pained gasp wrenches itself from his lungs and he curls in on himself. No, no, no– "Tell me you didn't mean it, Olly," he forces out, trying to grind his teeth to stop the feeling of warmth spreading out from his chest, the acceptance that feels like poison.
"What– are you okay? Of course I mean it..! You look nice, you know I always thought that you're – well, and I don't mind it, anyway – Qifrey, please let me help, what's happening to you?"
"Master Qifrey?" Tetia asks at his side, rubbing her hand over his back, voice high and anxious. The fear is almost enough to bring him back, but then he thinks again of Olruggio's acceptance – cannot pull himself away from it, even as branches push his hair aside and tear gaps in his clothing. The relief of it is overwhelming, a waterfall that he is trying to hold back with nothing more than parchment. "Master Qifrey, I'm scared!"
His left arm is overtaken by the tree, roots writhing under his skin, but he manages to reach his hat with his right hand, shambling, half-man and half-tree. "It's a silverwood," Olruggio breathes. "Qifrey, what is this…?"
"It's what the brimhats left me with," Qifrey says, sounding like bark rubbing against bark, and completes the seal on the flap of his hat.
In the aftermath, he goes outside and looks at the stars. This is the first time he has interfered with the memory of a child, and Tetia's soft, sleeping face makes him sick to the bone. Guilt roils in his stomach, nauseating and bitter, and he knows that it will keep him going for a long time.
He leaves Olruggio sleeping on the couch – it's not rare for him to pass out there, after all – and carries Tetia to her room. Her head lolls against his shoulder, breath soft against where his top ripped as the tree forced itself through the fabric. He puts her down gently on her bed, and she does not stir at all.
Qifrey looks in on Agott, who is sprawled on her bed with a book still in her hand, sleeping peacefully. She has been rewarded for her distance to him, and he cannot help but think of what a different atelier would make of her. Tomorrow, he will give her the choice to leave – her as well as Tetia. Damn his selfish reasons for taking them in in the first place, damn his wishes, damn his name! What justice is there in making him live this way, like he is being haunted by his own desires? Are his transgressions so great that he deserves a lifetime marred by anxiety or no lifetime at all?
He thinks again of Olruggio's face, the soft warmth on his cheeks, the way his voice had been gentle and full of promise should Qifrey only dare to take the leap. Only once has he talked about the matter of his identity with Olruggio – as teens, before he learned of the silverwood and the door to the rest of his life closed in his face – and it was a knotty, frustrating conversation that Qifrey abandoned in a rage. Olruggio's reaction would be different now, he knows – he has made enough comments over the years to make that clear – but to have it expressed so clearly was more soothing than he could have ever expected. You suit it.
Qifrey gets very little sleep that night.
Neither Tetia nor Agott wish to leave the atelier, and Agott gives him a queer look for suggesting it while Tetia looks frightened at the possibility that she might be sent away, which derails the day's lesson in favour of reassurances and both of the girls decorating their rooms. Olruggio sleeps until the afternoon and has three portions of stew for dinner, complaining that he feels like he hasn't eaten in days.
Since two were easier than one, it stands to reason that three are easier than two. Olruggio is the one who comes to Qifrey, pleading on Richehlette's behalf, though the girl has no knowledge that he is advocating for her. "I know it's not my atelier, it's yours," Olruggio is saying, "but she needs somewhere else to go, and you're good with these… these kinds of girls."
"These kinds of girls?" Qifrey asks, tilting his head. He is not reprimanding him, merely curious, though Olruggio blushes with embarrassment.
"Girls who're different," he says. "Who've been through some things. You're the best teacher they could ask for."
Qifrey thinks of erasing Tetia's memory and tastes bile, but he nods and gives Olruggio a small smile. When they go together to offer Richehlette a new atelier – Richeh, as she quietly but sternly corrects him – her brother stands and watches them go. Qifrey catches his eye for a moment, and what he sees is achingly familiar. "Olruggio, take Richeh and help her get settled, will you?" he asks, distracted, and steps closer to the boy-girl, but Richeh's brother scurries away. Qifrey lingers for another clockmark, waiting to see if he will reappear, but the tall, cold hallways of the Great Hall atelier remain quiet. Eventually he leaves, abandoning the matter except for a short note he writes to Beldaruit, asking him to ensure that the disgraced master's students are all placed in ateliers suitable to their temperament. It is no easy matter, he writes in quiet reprimand of days long gone, to learn under one who believes the student's true temperament is ill-fit for society. He speaks out of bounds, he knows – a young upstart of a teacher with only a year of running his own atelier under his belt, scolding the Wise in Teachings – and Beldaruit does not respond.
Richeh, it turns out, is impossible to teach. She is marvellously gifted, but her interest is so narrow, and Qifrey finds no purchase from which he can introduce new concepts. Agott, in comparison, was a dream – though she did not wish to follow his plans, she wanted to learn, while the very concept seems abhorrent to Richeh. After several weeks of frustration, forcing his most patient smiles on during the day and drowning his sorrows in tea in the evenings, Olruggio forces him out on a midnight walk.
"I just don't understand why she wants to be a witch at all," Qifrey rages. "If all she wants to do is play with rocks, perhaps she should be a mason!"
"She loves magic," Olruggio says, after he's listened to Qifrey's breathless rant as they walk uphill. He leans against a cairn, catching his own breath. "She's just tired of being told what to do. I'm not sayin' it's the right thing – hell, if I was you, I'd not be half as patient with her as you are. But doesn't it remind you of someone?"
"I was never so stubborn," Qifrey sniffs. Olruggio looks at him and laughs. "And I cared to learn, I just…"
"You needed the right motivation, right?" Olruggio smiles. He gestures out at the starlit fields. "This was what you dreamed of, and you made it happen. You just have to find out what she dreams of, and show her how to accomplish it. It's kinda like when a client is commissioning something, but they have no idea what they want."
"All she wants is to stay a child," Qifrey says. "There's no way for me to do that."
Olruggio shrugs. "Then I guess you have to show her that adulthood isn't so scary."
Qifrey watches him. The night wind rustles through the cairn stones, stirring the old bones of the earth. It is not fright that holds Richeh at bay from the education she needs, it is disdain. The gulf of what she does not know makes her feel powerless, and she hates that, so she avoids it. Qifrey can see it clearly, a younger version of himself in her shoes, just as Olruggio can no doubt see a younger version of himself: a child who was given too much responsibility and buckled under the strain, and now shies away from anything like it. Who is to say which of them have the truth of Richeh in their mind's eye? Perhaps she is neither, her own person entirely, but Qifrey struggles to see anything clearly these days.
He would do Richeh a disservice to let the ghost of himself haunt her, but perhaps Olruggio has some idea of what he is talking about. Qifrey remembers those early months with Beldaruit, when magic seemed pointless and vapid, and he knows that no one could have forced him to take the first steps towards becoming a real witch before Olruggio did. If Qifrey is bound to play the role of Beldaruit, he may at least do it with grace and let the girl play while she still wishes to.
"I am giving up," Qifrey says.
Olruggio startles. "That is not what I meant at all! She still needs you–"
"Not forever," Qifrey clarifies. "And I am not sending her away. I simply mean… forcing the issue doesn't seem to be helping either of us. You're right, Olly. If I just force her to grow up before she's ready, I am not making adulthood less frightening at all."
"That's not quite what I meant," Olruggio says thoughtfully, "but I guess you're the teacher."
Qifrey leans on the other side of the cairn. It is too soon for him to allow himself Olruggio's touch, the guilt of the memory glyph making his skin crawl, but he imagines the warmth of his body travelling through the stones and touching Olruggio on the other side. He would gladly give up all of it if he knew it would reach him. "Thank you," he says. "You're always good at getting me out of my head."
"The benefit of having brought you to your wit's end so often is that I've become good at spotting it," Olruggio replies, smiling.
"You bring me much more than that," Qifrey says softly. Olruggio does not reply, an awkward breath hanging in the air between them, and Qifrey starts down the hill again. He hears Olruggio's shoes a few steps behind him, both of them quiet.
So it goes.
It is a peaceful existence for the five of them. The three girls do not always play together, but they rarely fight, and Qifrey begins to see a way in which they can all graduate as fine witches in some years' time. He watches them with the envy he is forced to nurse, but even that feels bearable.
Then comes the unknowing child.
Coco brings with her a whirlwind of chaos, investigations from the Knights Moralis and clues to the Brimhats. Qifrey has no need to stoke old hatred when she introduces fresh anxiety into his heart near every day, and he is grateful for it.
What he is less grateful for is the way she seems intent on exposing the underbelly of witch society, the soft writhing ugliness that everyone else has agreed to look away from. It is summer, and Qifrey and the four girls are helping the local farmers shear their sheepcows. There is no magic in this beyond the wonderful magic of the mundane, but Qifrey has been promised several bags of freshly milled flour for the trouble, and he is more than happy to lend five pairs of hands to the job. Richeh and Tetia are both enamoured with the sheepcows while Agott stares longingly at the liongoat kids gambolling in the green fields. Coco and Qifrey are helping with the biggest sheepcow, which means nothing more than standing by her head and giving her soothing pets whenever she looks bothered by the scissors. She is the oldest, and the farmer told them that this would be her last season; her leg is lame, and she'll rejoin the wheel once she's been shorn. "I understand why the Pact was made," Coco tells him quietly, her eyes on that of the sheepcow. Qifrey looks down at her, frowning. "But is there really no way to use magic on people without it turning so… evil?"
"That is what the Wise decided," Qifrey says carefully.
"But what if the person says it's okay?"
"There are many reasons one might be coerced into saying it's okay, when it actually is not. Or there may be unintended consequences for them to suffer."
Coco tangles her hair in the sheepcow's fringe, anxious. She bears burdens beyond her years, and Qifrey aches to take them off her, but she is still the key to the rest of his life; he needs her to carry them for just a little longer. "But if they're sick," she says, "and magic could help them. Maybe they're not physically sick, even, but they're sick in the soul. Why is magic still not allowed then?"
"Because magic would interfere where nature cannot," Qifrey says. "And we have to make rules for ourselves, lest we lose sight of the value of nature's boundaries."
"I don't understand," Coco replies, swallowing hard. "Is that because I used to be an outsider?"
"It can be hard for any witch to grasp," Qifrey says carefully. Coco has only been a witch for a couple of months, and he is reluctant to expose her to anything that could shake her faith in her choice to stay at the atelier. "What's important is that we adhere to it, even when we don't understand it."
"What if there's some part of yourself that you're unhappy with? And magic could change it, and you wouldn't hurt anyone by doing so?"
"Every part of you is just as it should be, Coco," Qifrey says gently. She has only just made friends with Tartah, and he is sure hearing about silverwash syndrome weighs heavily on her. "We must all learn to be happy with the way we are."
Coco exhales, nibbling on a few strands of her hair. "What if you can't?" she asks. Qifrey looks away from the possibility that she might be talking about someone else.
"Then you endure the fact of its existence," he says.
"You said magic was for making people happy," she says quietly, expression downcast and mournful. He reaches over to pet the top of her head.
"I'm sorry," he says. "It's the way of it."
Coco stays silent, looking into the sheepcow's docile eye.
18
It had been Olruggio's idea, to sneak out to a bar for outsiders. Qifrey had no particular interest in mingling with any society, witch or unknowing, but he felt like he owed Olruggio this for all the times he had spent time with Qifrey instead of attending this or that gathering, so he agreed to meet by Olruggio's atelier at a late clockmark to sneak out. He wore his cloak and his sylph shoes – he had left his apprentice robes and hat behind, and the smoke robes and pale dress that Beldaruit had helped him commission recently, in anticipation of him passing the fourth test, felt like the perfect garment for this outing.
Olruggio disagreed. "Well, you can't wear that," he said with exasperation when he saw Qifrey.
Qifrey looked down at himself. The outfit was fetching, he thought, and he said so.
"You look like a witch!" Olruggio said. "You need to wear something else – hold on, I've got something you can borrow. It'll be a bit short, but you can manage." He darted back inside and came out with a bundle of clothes. "Here you go, trousers and a shirt."
Ice water ran down Qifrey's spine. "No, thank you," he managed. "I'll wear this."
"Qifrey, you can't," Olruggio said, pushing the bundle on him. "Everyone will be able to tell you're a witch, and the ruse will be up."
"I can't wear these," Qifrey insisted, trying to give the clothes back. "I can't, Olly."
Olruggio let out a frustrated noise, letting go and stepping back. The trousers and shirt, made of dark and soft cotton, fell to the floor. "If you don't want to go, just say you don't want to go, don't make up something random like this!"
"I'm not!" Qifrey said, voice thin. "I'm not making it up, I just don't want to wear those clothes!"
"It's not like I have germs," Olruggio said, exasperated. "I didn't think you cared much about looking nice, but if it's so important to you, you can come to my room and pick something else."
Qifrey gripped his new smoke robe tightly. He could see the rest of Olruggio's closet in his mind's eye, and none of them were the wide silhouettes he had grown to prefer. He knew what unknowing people dressed like, but he had not thought that he would be forced to dress like them, and the idea made his skin feel like it was too small, like he was struggling for air in a coffin. "No," he said.
Olruggio looked heartbroken. "It's my birthday," he said softly. "You said you'd do it."
"I can't," Qifrey replied. "I can't, I can't, I can't! I'm sorry!" His voice rang through the empty halls, trembling and too-high. He could not stop the feeling of everything being too close and too loud, imagining himself in some unknowing man's outfit at a bar full of people who looked at him and thought they knew what he was, being approached by girls who would expect something from him, who would expect him to act like he was just like everyone else, just like every other man they'd met–
He turned and ran until his lungs hurt, all the way through the Great Hall and back to Beldaruit's atelier, finding a small closet near the bathroom where he wedged himself. If he could not be out under the sky, this was the next best thing to force himself back into his skin, and he took deep, gulping breaths. Olruggio had found him here before, and he expected to hear the clack of his shoes outside the closet's door, but even as his breath calmed and his blood stopped pounding quite so loudly in his ears, it remained still. Olruggio did not come.
29
"What's this?" Coco asks curiously, watching Tetia put a stool in the middle of the kitchen floor.
"It's time for our hair trims!" Tetia says, beaming at her. Qifrey can hear them from where he was fetching his scissors and brush, and he pauses in the stairs to listen. "Since it's almost Silver Eve, master Qifrey's going to cut my and Richeh's hair to make sure we look our best! I'm sure he'd do yours too, if you'd like?"
"That might be nice," Coco says, hesitant. "If you're sure he won't mind."
"Oh, not at all," Tetia says. "He likes it, and he's really good at it! He helped me a lot with my hair when I first came here, though now I'm an expert at doing it myself." Qifrey comes into the room to see her strike a pose, two fingers against her cheek as she smiles. "Ah, there you are, master Qifrey! I set up the stool and the vapor bubble."
"Excellent work, Tetia." Qifrey smiles at her and turns to Coco. "It's completely up to you, of course, but I'd happily cut yours too – we have to make sure you look your best for the stall, right?"
Coco looks at him and nods, smiling. "Yes, please! Oh, I'll go ask Agott if she wants her hair cut too, she's been talking about how important Silver Eve is!" She darts off before Qifrey can tell her otherwise, and he sighs to watch her go.
"Master Qifrey?" Tetia asks curiously. He shakes his head in lieu of an answer and begins to section her curls, dragging his wide-toothed comb through the strands.
While he cuts her hair, Tetia tells him about the outfit she's planning to wear to Silver Eve. Qifrey hums to show he's listening, focusing on tidying up the ends without brushing her hair too much – he's learned his lesson about trying to cut her hair while it's straight or wet.
Richeh comes to the chair next, closing her eyes obediently as Qifrey carefully cuts her fringe. Her hair is thin and fine, not like his own coarse curls, even though she has the closest colour of all of them. He snips some split ends off her length as well, but otherwise doesn't touch it, and she inspects his work in the mirror with a pleased noise when he's done.
"And what'll it be for you, miss Coco?" he asks, a towel draped over his arm. She clambers onto the stool, laughing shyly.
"The same just… a bit shorter, please!"
Qifrey smiles at her. "No problem." He wets his brush in the vapour bubble and runs it through her hair, putting his mind back to the length her hair was when they first met. His eye is beginning to ache, focusing on such detailed work, but there is a sweetness in that as well. "Don't forget to breathe," he tells Coco when she sits too still, and she exhales in a rush.
"My mother used to do this," she says. "She had really long, pretty hair. It was dark, not like mine."
"I remember," Qifrey says. "It was braided, wasn't it?"
Coco's breath hitches and she bends her head. The lock Qifrey was about to cut slips out of his fingers, but he lets her be for a moment, resting his hand instead on her trembling shoulder. Then, with determination, she raises her head again, looking straight ahead. "It is," she says. "It is braided."
"Indeed," Qifrey says, and goes back to cutting.
The afternoon light is beginning to fade when he finishes and sends Coco off, and he is just sweeping up the hair with a wind spell when Agott comes into the room. She takes a few steps, decisive, and uses her sylph shoes to get into the stool without having to climb. Qifrey pauses, looking over at her.
"Will you cut my hair too?" Agott asks.
Qifrey swallows and straightens. Ever since that first fateful week, Agott has always cut her own hair in the privacy of her room. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," Agott says, a bit of Arklaum haughtiness in her voice. She is afraid too, he realises, and that makes him relax. If there is one thing he wishes to be good at, it is to make sure his students are never afraid.
"How would you like it?" he asks, wetting his brush again. Her curls are not as tight as Tetia's, but he'll still have to keep them in mind – if anything, they are more like his own.
"Short."
Qifrey nods. This is a test, transparent in its simplicity, and he does not plan to fail it.
He cuts her hair in silence, lighting a lamp when the light from the kitchen window is no longer enough to see by.
"When I first arrived," Agott says, breaking the silence, "you always looked at my hair."
"It was beautiful," Qifrey replies, cutting the hair at her nape carefully. "I must say, though, this suits you much better."
Agott worries at her lip, her head shifting slightly with the movement, and he patiently waits for her to sit still again. "You reminded me a bit of my mother, when you looked at it," she says. "That's strange, isn't it? Because you're a man."
There is something questioning in her tone, an uncertainty that signals a willingness to be corrected. Qifrey ignores it, unsure whether it is his heart or the silverwood writhing in his chest. "Very strange," he says instead. "Do I still remind you of her?"
"No," says Agott, voice low but firm. "You don't, master Qifrey."
Qifrey smiles to himself and lowers the scissors. "All done," he says. "It will still be a clock mark or so until dinner, if you wish to go see the others."
There is some clatter from the hallway and a muffled curse before Olruggio appears out of the upper doorway, looking tired but proud – he must have finished his latest project. "I heard there was some friseurin' going on," he says, crossing the living room and walking down the stairs to the kitchen. Agott jumps off the stool, and Olruggio rubs her hair when he comes close. "Looking good, kid."
"Thank you," Agott says, cheeks pink.
"Would you like a haircut as well?" Qifrey asks him. Olruggio also tends to cut his own hair, usually using whatever's nearby in hurried, inelegant chops. Qifrey's head is pulsing, a throb that signals much worse is yet to come, but he refuses to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.
"If you wouldn't mind," Olruggio says.
"I think I can fit in one last client." Qifrey adjusts the height of the stool with a spell and gestures to it. "What'll it be, good sir?"
"Oh, do whatever you like," Olruggio replies with a tired laugh, taking a seat. "Just make sure it keeps out of my face. It's getting annoying again."
Qifrey is careful not to run his fingers through his hair too much as he settles in to cut it. He can hear the girls in the living room, imagining them sprawling out among their books and quires. Olruggio is quiet and content under his scissors. "Agott came, as you saw," Qifrey tells him quietly.
"I did see that, aye," Olruggio says, keeping his voice just as low. "Seems like she was happy with it."
Qifrey hums, comparing the length of one lock with another. "I think so." He falls quiet, watching the nape of Olruggio's neck more than the hair he's cutting. The pale curve of it is so rarely revealed to him, and he wonders what it tastes like. On a day like this, with Olruggio sleepy and warm with pride, would it be sweet victory on his tongue, or tangy with the lingering taste of effort expended? The distraction leads him to cut a section at the back of Olruggio's head much shorter than intended, but he makes sure to brush over it to keep it hidden when Olruggio goes to inspect his work.
"Much better than I could do myself," Olruggio praises. "Want me to cut yours, while you've got all your stuff out?"
Qifrey runs his hand through his hair. "I think I'll leave it for a bit longer," he says.
Olruggio smiles a little. He does not say anything, merely nods, and for that Qifrey is grateful.
"I didn't realise it would hurt so much, but it's really bothersome," Tetia complains, curled up around a cushion in front of the fire. Herbal tea is scenting the living room, and the girls have abandoned their studies for a small snack. Qifrey can hear them from where he is standing in the kitchen, refreshing old seals on cookware, bent nearly in half to see the lines clearly.
"It shouldn't hurt that much," Richeh says. "If it hurts too much, we need to go to a doctor. My mother told me."
Tetia sighs. "It's not so bad," she says, "just… a little painful."
"It's fine if it's painful," Agott says. "Don't let it stop you doing anything, though. You can't be rendered useless every month."
"Agott, be kind," Coco scolds, "she's in pain."
Tetia laughs a little and then lets out a groan, curling up tighter.
Qifrey clears his throat, lifting his head to look across the room and up the stairs. The four of them are no more than colourful shapes at this distance, their features rendered only by memory and not by sight. "I do not mean to eavesdrop on personal matters," he says. "I can get you some more tea, Tetia, then I can leave you alone."
Tetia sits up and disturbs Richeh, who's been stroking her hair. "It's fine, master Qifrey," she says, "you're not a boy!"
Qifrey's throat snares shut and his teeth clack. She means that she does not see him as a peer, of course – that's what she means, that's what she must mean, that a boy would be a peer and he is not a peer, he is a trusted adult. That is all she is referring to. He is an adult and thus he is not beholden to the humiliations of navigating puberty alongside the opposite sex. He is an adult, he is not a boy, but a m–
There is no need to think the word. The phantom pain in his chest has settled. He exhales carefully. In his blurry vision, the green-gold shape twists towards him, and he imagines Coco's clever eyes narrowing in thought. He does not meet them. "Very well," he says lamely, unable to fit the riot of his emotions into any kind of language. "I'll make you some more tea, at least. I've heard it helps."
He busies himself with the tea and tries to close his ears to the girls' conversation, but all that does is make Tetia's words ring like a bell through him again and again. Surely they cannot know. He has worked so hard denying himself, made an art of repressing the silverwood and everything that entails, and even Olruggio does not know, only suspect. The girls are children, even if they are clever ones, and they should not be able to see through him… but children have a way of cutting to the heart of things.
Qifrey finishes re-sealing his pots, but the work is shoddy and uneven, and the glyphs won't even last half a year. He makes a list of everything in the atelier that needs tending or fixing, and only when he's remembered at least thirty things and ruminated on them to the point of anxiety does he feel like he can safely put Tetia's words behind him. There is no way they can know, he tells himself. There are few words for this kind of thing, and even fewer of them are kind. They would not think of him in such a way. She simply meant that he is not a peer.
That is all.
It takes several months for Beldaruit to return from the clutches of Ezrest, and Richeh is the first in the atelier to learn about it.
"I want to go see Rili," she tells him over lunch. "I want to go to the Great Hall."
Richeh is much slower to voice what she wants than what she does not want, and Qifrey has learned to take note accordingly. "Riliphin is back, then?" he asks, and she nods, looking solemn. "I see. Give me a couple of days to make arrangements, and then we can go."
Olruggio stays behind with the other three girls. "I trust you to think of some suitable activities," Qifrey says to him, and Olruggio says something half-hearted about not being their teacher that neither of them give much credence to. The travel is easy and quiet. Richeh seems anxious to see her sibling again, and Qifrey's only way of soothing her is to leave her alone. He sent a letter to Beldaruit to let him know they were coming, and when they touch down at the bottom of the great stairwell, Richeh is immediately hurrying down the hall.
"We could get something to eat first," Qifrey suggests, following her, but she ignores him, only stopping at a crossroads when she realises she doesn't know the way. Qifrey laughs a little and guides her down the right hall, his hand hovering between her shoulderblades.
They are received in the front room of Beldaruit's atelier. Riliphin is sitting on a recliner next to a Beldaruit mirage, hands knotted in his robes, but he stands as soon as he sees Richeh, taking a step forward. Richeh is quicker than him, throwing herself into his arms and squeezing him tightly. "Rili!" she exclaims into his chest, muffled.
Qifrey watches them for a moment, standing back. He catches Beldaruit's eye, who gives him a small smile and tilts his head towards the wall of doorknobs next to them. Qifrey nods and bends forward, speaking to Richeh. "I'll be back soon, okay? I just need to speak to Beldaruit." Richeh barely registers him, still clutching her sibling tightly, and Qifrey turns and twists the doorknob that leads to Beldaruit's bedroom.
The room still has a dusty, unused feel to it, though it mostly smells like exactly like it did when Qifrey was younger – lavender to help Beldaruit sleep and iron to help him focus. The man looks more frail in person than his apparition, and Qifrey pours them both cups of tea in silence. "You look better," he offers.
Beldaruit lets out a low laugh. "Do I? I feel like age robs what little was left of me. And that King Deanreldy…" He sighs and takes the cup from Qifrey's hand, the tacky one that coils the water into the shape of a dragon.
"He seemed an interesting figure," Qifrey says mildly, sitting back.
"That is the kindest thing one can say about that man," Beldaruit replies, sipping his tea.
There is a moment of silence, heavy and long. They have not spent time alone for many years – Olruggio, at the very least, has been a barnacle at Qifrey's side even before he had apprentices to look after. Qifrey clears his throat, and both of them speak at once.
"About Riliphin–"
"I should apologise–"
They both stop. Beldaruit's smoke eyes are wide. "Apologise?" he asks. "Whatever for?"
"I overstepped," Qifrey says. He drinks from his cup of tea, stifling a wince at the bitterness of the herb. Overbrewed. Beldaruit always did steep his leaves for too long. He looks at the man in the bed, studying the fine thin hair that spreads out onto the pillows below him. As his vision dims every day, Qifrey comes closer to understanding the man he studied under, though he wonders at how Beldaruit can believe in the Pact so utterly that he denies himself the solutions they both know are out there. Perhaps it does not bother him in the same way, because he was born with knowledge of where he would end up – but it must be frustrating nonetheless, to live in a cold castle full of hallways that are too narrow for his sealchair and with shelves too high for him to reach.
Beldaruit waves a hand as if dispelling one of his own mirages. "You've always been a stubborn one," he says. "I would've had to cast you out long ago if I was hurt by such a silly thing as that!"
"It was out of turn," Qifrey says. He is angry – of course, he will always be angry. He must be angry. But he can also see the precarity of Beldaruit's standing, now that they are in some way peers. How could he have asked him to dismantle his social status further than he already had just by fostering an unknowing apprentice?
And yet, and yet. If one of the girls turned out to have some queer inclination, he does not know if he could have given them the same advice Beldaruit gave him without choking on the words.
"In any case, you were right," Beldaruit says lightly, as if discussing the weather rather than admitting to one of the great hurts of Qifrey's life. "I was too cautious. You've done well for yourself, even with everything that haunts you. I should have known you could do it."
The tea sticks in his throat and Qifrey looks at him, wide-eyed. He feels young again, learning the balm of praise even as thorns bloom within him. Beldaruit gives him a small, sad smile.
"And your point about Riliphin was well made. If that was out of turn, I should hope you remain so." He brings his cup down to reunite it with its saucer. At the sight of the dragon, his smile turns warmer. "You have always been very brave."
"No one else would describe me as such," Qifrey replies, sore. His eye is hot. The lavender in the room makes his nose sting, or perhaps it is the iron.
"Well, who would you rather believe?" Beldaruit asks dryly. "Some random witch on the street who can barely tell his air keystones from his wind sigils, or one of the three Wise?"
Qifrey tries to laugh, but his throat is too tight with emotion, so he drinks his tea instead.
"Riliphin is just the same," Beldaruit says, as if it is an afterthought. "Very brave, but very reluctant to see it."
"How is he?" Qifrey asks.
"Brilliant," Beldaruit says. "Wounded, as I imagine Richeh is as well. The things masters get away with, even after all we've done…" His lips twist. "Nevertheless. About my new apprentice… I was wondering if I could offer you as a person to talk to, should Riliphin have any questions."
Qifrey's throat closes entirely. He shakes his head and his whole body moves with it, lukewarm tea spilling over his robes.
"Qifrey! Are you quite alright?" Beldaruit reaches out, concern on his face.
With an unsteady hand, Qifrey gets out his palm quire and cleans up the mess with a spell. "No," he says. "I'm sorry. I cannot speak to him about this." Happiness is too close these days, and recognising Riliphin as like-minded – answering questions about it like he had anything to offer – might bring him all too close to a thorny precipice.
Beldaruit's concern melts into disappointment. "If you are still holding out a grudge against me, I ask that you leave Riliphin out of it–"
"That's not it," Qifrey says quickly. "I simply cannot. I apologise." He stands up, leaving the dregs of his tea on the bedside table. "Take care, master Beldaruit. I need to go make sure Richeh is alright."
He turns and leaves the room, soaked with guilty relief that Beldaruit cannot easily follow.
Some say that the third test is the hardest of all five, and Qifrey sows patience in each of his apprentices. Even Richeh has become eager to progress now, hurrying towards a life that will bring her closer to Riliphin again, and Qifrey feels like he has to tell them every day: it will take time. We shouldn't rush.
Thus passes many moons. He lets his hair grow until Tetia asks to braid it, and then he reaches for his scissors. He is called sister witch by a woman who is dazed and near death from blood loss after bringing her to the hospital in Kalhn; he wears trousers for a week. It is a balancing act, and one he has become good at – or so he imagines.
Coco is fond of cutting through the fabric of his lies, and it was only a matter of time before she cut through to the core of him.
It is a chilly autumn's morning and Qifrey is out harvesting the squash. The fields are glittering with dew, a hair's breadth away from frosting over, and the squash is soft and overripe in his basket. The season passed without telling him, and he is quietly berating himself for letting the good work go to waste. Perhaps he can make some sort of pie tonight, or add it to his stew…
"Master Qifrey?" Coco says from behind him, making him jump and put his hand through one of the squashes still on the field. "Oh, no, I'm so sorry!"
"I'm the one who's sorry, Coco, you just startled me," Qifrey says, turning to her and delicately wiping his hand on a leaf. "I thought you were all inside. Didn't Tetia make hot chocolate?"
"I wanted to see if you needed help." Coco shifts her weight, cheeks already reddening from the cold, dressed as she is in only her apprentice robes.
"I'm almost done, but thank you. You should go inside before you get sick."
"But I'm sure I can help!" Coco says. "Picking up the squash, right? I can help – oh, it's so soft…" She grimaces as she bends to pick one up. Qifrey laughs a little, holding out the basket so she can lay it down gently among its brethren.
"Yes, I'm afraid I've left it a little bit too late. But they'll still be good for something, I just haven't decided what." He looks at her. "Are you alright, Coco?"
Coco rubs her cheek. The mark from Silver Eve still lingers, stubborn beyond reason – just like the girl herself. "I've decided something," she says. "And it's important to me that you agree, so maybe you could agree to it before I've told you what it is?"
Qifrey straightens, wary. "You know I can't do that," he says. He reaches out, cupping her shoulder carefully and feeling her tremble from the cold. "Dear girl, you're freezing. Get on inside, I'll be right there."
"N-no, this is important," Coco stutters. "I've decided that we need to break the Pact."
In his horror, Qifrey accidentally squeezes her shoulder hard enough that she winces. He lets go immediately, but she does not step back, her feet planted among the squashes and her eyes determined. "Coco–"
"Everyone needs to break it," Coco says. "It's the only way to save my mother, it's the only way to save you. I've found something that will keep the silverwood down, but it would be forbidden. But – how can it be forbidden if I'm alright with doing it and you're alright with having it be done? It makes no sense!"
Her hat still lies inside, but Qifrey imagines the weight of a brim on her head. Weakly, he says, "I'm not alright with having it be done, and Olruggio wouldn't let this happen – he'd report us both."
Coco looks down at the basket full of squash. She looks older than her years. "We will talk to him," she says. "If he understands everything you've given up, everything that's at risk, he'll agree. The Pact must be broken. He must agree."
Some part of Qifrey lives forever in the moment of erasure; bringing his cap down on Olruggio's head, on Tetia's, on Nolnoa's. Every time he has to do it, more of him stays behind. If Coco is wrong, if Olruggio decides that this is the first time he will turn away from Qifrey and he tells the girls – stars above, if he tells the girls and Qifrey has to erase their memories as well, he does not know if he could bear it. "I'm happy enough," he insists. "I have the four of you, we have our beautiful atelier – the silverwood inhibits me, but not so much that my life is not perfectly suitable as it is. I don't know what ideas you've got in your head, but this is not necessary."
"Master Qifrey," Coco says, "you flinch whenever anyone calls you mister. You have ever since I met you at my mother's shop. I don't really know what it means, but I know that you're not living the way you want to live. And it–" her voice breaks and she covers her mouth, eyes wet, "–it hurts! It's not nice to see you have to live like this, without getting to have the things you want. It's not nice for us to see people call you mister when it's not right. So we need to stop the silverwood, so that we can tell them to stop!"
Qifrey had forgotten that he still cries on his right side. He wipes his cheeks quietly and reaches out for Coco, holding her close and feeling her slight shoulders hitch with sobs. He never could have imagined that this would affect her or the other apprentices. "What have you told the others?" he asks quietly. His voice is empty and cold, but Coco does not pull away.
"Nothing," she says wetly. "They don't know why you are the way you are, only I know. But Richeh's really – really sad about it, and Agott and Tetia too. You had to cut your hair! And only I knew why!" She starts crying again, the full-blown sobs of childhood. Qifrey kneels in the dirt to hold her closer, remembering this time to suffuse his voice with warmth even as he feels like choking.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "It's okay."
Qifrey has known he is loved for a long time, ever since a boy forced him to make a promise on the banks of the Tower of Tomes. But that was a selfish love, one that – while he has yet to understand it – he can accept, and do what he can to repay even if he cannot reciprocate. But this is a protective love like he has never felt before, and as he holds Coco close, he almost feels as if he is the teen girl sobbing into her master's skirts, and Coco the benevolent teacher holding him close. He did not ever think someone would be able to see this hurt, and he certainly did not think that it would bring them to tears.
Her arms come up to hold him, and Qifrey realises that she is stroking his back just as he was stroking hers, and that he is letting out soft wet breaths.
"It's okay," she tells him, still choked with tears. "I'm going to go talk to master Olruggio now, while the others are drinking their hot chocolate. Will you look at this spell for me?" She pulls out her notebook from her satchel and opens it to a page, pushing the book into his hands, and then she leaves, rubbing at her face as she goes.
Qifrey stays kneeling in the dirt among the rotting squash for a long time.
30
Upon waking, the first thing Qifrey notices is how heavy her limbs are. She sits up and winces, her head feeling like a battered melon.
As she massages her temple, the pronoun rolls around in her mouth, a pebble bursting with flavour. Her. She steels herself for the inevitable bloom, the rustle of branches, but nothing stirs within her. She opens her eye. The world is blurry and bright, and she reaches blindly for her glasses only for someone to put them in her searching hand.
"Here," Olly says. Qifrey puts the glasses on her nose and he comes into focus, sitting on a wicker chair by her bedside. His hair is flat and unwashed, creases from his shirt ties on his cheek like he's been sleeping on his arms. When Qifrey meets his eyes, he smiles. "Can you still see me?"
Qifrey nods. Her voice has gone someplace else at the sight of his smile, tired yet pleased.
"That's good. I adjusted your glasses a bit while you were out, but it's hard to know what's going to happen with your eye now that the silverwood is dormant."
"I imagine it'll cease to function entirely," Qifrey says slowly. Olruggio winces.
"Perhaps." Somewhat peeved, he says, "Coco only explained all that after we'd already started."
"She knew what I'd rather give up," Qifrey says. Even as she says it, it stings – not like a lie, but a reminder of unfairness. No matter what she chooses, she has to lose something – she either gets to have herself or she gets to have magic, the only thing she has been able to love with her whole heart since she was a teenager. Some blind witches still practice, and she has always been deft at drawing without looking, so perhaps there is some hope, but…
Olruggio reaches out to take her hand, squeezing it. His face is still and his eyes are deep. Does he mourn the loss alongside her? Does he think her a fool, for giving up her magic? Does this mean an end to their adventure? These anxious spirals are no longer of any use to her, but they still arrest her breath in her chest. She looks at Olruggio again, the kind slant of his mouth.
Unaware of her turmoil, Olruggio says, "No one can know we did this." He is still holding her hand. The glyph is radiating heat where it has been drawn over Qifrey's left-side ribs, and she feels her pulse in its warmth.
We, he says. Not you. Not you and Coco.
Who held the pen while Qifrey lay unconscious, she wonders. Who drew the glyph that gave her a future?
"And they'll gossip about you, if you… well. Change."
At that, Qifrey is startled into a laugh. "Nothing new on that front, then," she says. "Though I imagine it'll be even more heinous than when I was younger. Your reputation will be in tatters for being associated with me."
"I've never cared about that," Olruggio says. He looks calm, even as his fingers on his right hand – yes, she can see it where his hand is resting over hers – are still dark with ink from forbidden magic. He must have worked through things while she was asleep. Some part of Qifrey is sad to have missed the last time he'll ever learn about the silverwood, after having seen it so many times in moments that didn't last. He does not know about the lies she has told and the secrets she has kept, but she has time now to confess to every sin that's blackened her soul over the years. "Besides, you exaggerate. If it could withstand moving out here with you in the first place and taking in Coco, my reputation can take this too."
Qifrey bites her lip. Her fingers, her mouth, all of her being is trembling with joy, a sensation that would be frightful if it did not feel so good. She squeezes his hand and makes her way out of the bed on foal's legs, Olruggio standing to hover by her side. "I'm okay," she tells him, "I just want to see the fields."
"You really love this place, don't you?" Olruggio asks. His hand is by her lower back, but it is not quite touching. She is not wearing her turtleneck, only bandages under her white dress, and she imagines the touch so vividly – his calloused fingers, his broad palm. Then she realises, with another zap of excitement that leaves her breathless, that there is no need to imagine. Qifrey can simply lean back and close the gap.
"I do," she says. "Ever since you showed it to me." She turns her head, smiling at him. "It was the most beautiful place I'd ever seen."
Olruggio looks at her. Nothing has changed about her besides her self-perception, but he looks at her as if she knows. He never missed much.
"Do you remember," she says, "when I returned from my travels?"
"I do." Olruggio steps closer. His hand is on her waist now, having traversed the small of her back like a ray of sunlight moves across a meadow – light, warm, leaving blooming flowers in its wake. She wants him to touch her everywhere. The silverwood is dormant, but Qifrey has spent so long blooming for Olruggio that she no longer knows how to stop.
"You said you thought I'd either come back dead or a woman."
Olruggio winces, his grip tightening for a moment in embarrassment. "What a thing to say…"
Qifrey laughs. "I liked it, though it frightened me something fierce. Even then, I knew – I already was one, I just couldn't tell you." She looks at him. Her eye is doomed to fail, and she wants to memorise each plane of his face, the wrinkles beginning to show like old riverbeds by the corners of his eyes. "Does it change anything?"
"No," Olruggio says. "Not for me, at least. Even if you never told me, I think I knew." His other hand mirrors his first one, both of them resting on the curve of her waist. He is looking up at her, and he is so close that she can see the specks of brown that dance through the blue of his eyes. "Um. Does it change anything for you?"
She cannot say how many times she has thought of this gap between their lips, but she has never once closed it before. She does it now, and emotion immediately turns it clumsy – the feeling of his beard rasping against her cheek punches the air from her lungs and she has to pull away again, instinctively fearful of old branches stirring. Olruggio looks at her, concerned, but does not let go of her waist. "No," she says with a small laugh when she has gotten herself under control, and she kisses him again. It goes better this time, and they both sway when they part. "No, nothing's changed for me."
"Good," Olruggio says quietly, and he pulls her into a hug. She strokes his back, resting her cheek against his hair as she gazes out onto the fields. They are white and blue with frost, brushstrokes of pale colour, and the sky is dull and overcast. Dying light skates across the wood of the windowsill. Nature is hibernating, folding in on itself as it waits for spring, but Qifrey has never felt more alive.