In Which I Am Sore and Bruised in Some Excellent Ways, and In Which I Certainly See the Appeal of Having a Different Set of Plumbing.
Iwoke up smiling to myself. “Hello, fog,” I said, to the curls of white infiltrating the stone window slit. “Hello, rat stain on the floor. Hello, hard, shitty cot. Hello—” I paused, as something broke through my tranquility. A feeling of dampness on the bed beneath me. But I couldn’t have . . . I was an adult, for God’s sake!
Already plotting how I would hide this from the sorcerer, I pulled back the curtain I used as a blanket, and screamed.
I found the sorcerer in the kitchen, leaning over a pair of plates in nervous inspection. Breakfast for us, I assumed. Tiny kitchen constructs prodded at the eggs and bread, optimizing their placement; these scattered at my approach.
“Merulo,” I choked, drawing my blanket tighter around myself, “something’s wrong. I think I’m dying.”
“Is that my curtain?” The sorcerer stepped out from behind the table, squinting at my wrapping. At my choked sob, he paled, hands jumping into the air where they fluttered likesickly birds. “Calm down, calm down. What’s the matter?”
Unable to speak, I simply unwrapped my blanket to show him.
The sorcerer shouted, his panic, for a moment, reflecting my own. Then, he paused, and a change came over his face. Unbelievably, he snorted. “How can you be this poorly educated?”
“Merulo!” I wailed.
“Alright, alright! Damn you. This is what you wanted, yes, to be a woman? And not a vulture? So then . . .” He waved a hand, poorly masking his own discomfort. “Here are the consequences.”
“Merulo,” I moaned, clutching at him with a red-stained hand. “My insides are coming out.”
“No, they’re not. They’re—there must be a book for this. Sit there, I’ll find you a book. And don’t drip. You’re dripping everywhere.”
I lowered myself into a chair, barely containing a sob. “It hurts.”
The sorcerer—who had backtracked so hastily he nearly tripped over a bag of flour—placed himself at the opposite side of the table, looking ready to leap if I grabbed for him again. “Women go through this every month,” he said, his lopsided stare fixed on a hanging bundle of herbs. “Did you not . . . did your mother . . . ?”
“She died,” I said, fidgeting. The fabric of my dress felt uncomfortably damp, and it was driving me close to madness. “In childbirth. I don’t remember her much.”
The sorcerer’s face went through an odd series of contortions. “I’m sorry to hear that. Mine is . . . similarly disposed.”
“Yes, I assumed,” I said, wiping at my face. “Because of your age.”
“How old do you think I am? No, don’t answer that.” He brought his fingernails to his face, as if to claw his cheeks. “This entire thing was a terrible idea. Though it is a relief to know you’re not expecting.”
It took a moment to process that. Then: “WHAT!” I shot up from my seat, the blanket falling. “That was a possibility?”
“Yes, I mean . . . Cameron, when a man and a woman—”
A horror seized me, entirely distinct from the Fear. I slammed my hands down on the table, the plates jumping from the force. “Turn me back into a man. Right this moment.”
“Ah . . .” Merulo wavered in place. “The prophecy—”
“I’M BLEEDING OUT!” I roared.
“Yes, yes,” said the sorcerer, more flustered than I’d ever seen him. “Yes, alright, it’s just . . . alright.”
At his hesitation, something in me deflated. “You would still like me as a man, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s the prophecy. You do remember the prophecy, don’t you, Cameron? But,” he added hurriedly, as another sob built in my throat, “I would. That is to say, I would still appreciate you, as a man. Though the mechanics . . .”
“Oh,” I said, brightening. “I can teach you that.”
The sorcerer half turned from me, his face reddening; at the flashing of his eye, a pair of kitchen constructs toddled in. Heat drenched the room from the still-burning oven. Bending, the constructs seized either side of a large paddle and dipped it into the flames, fishing out a plump loaf. The scent of fresh bread and fire rose, almost drowning out the copper of blood.
Merulo’s eye flashed again, and I realized he was avoiding the interaction. “Merulo,” I insisted.
He jumped, before clearing his throat and drawing himself to his full sorcerous height. “We could, perhaps, restore you to your original form. My castle has remained unbreached for decades. That will not change, regardless of the bodily sex you walk about in. Some deviation may still be warranted to subvert the prophecy. A change in hair colour—”
