A faerie,the moth says.
A faerie. A friend once, who built my family and hers. A creature that I had forgotten ever loved me, it has been so long, and I no longer look like something to love.
Take it,I say of the festering magic.
That will harm you,the moth replies.
I am already harmed.
You will die.
I will be free.
The moth beats its wings.I will think of this in the years to come. Your story has shaped mine.
It is an acknowledgment, an invitation back into the tapestry of woven lives. I no longer have chestnuts to grow or shade to offer, but I can speak this, as they give me my ending.
Everything has a voice,I say.You must learn to listen.
The moth flutters, landing on the last of my living fibers, forever squeezed by the dark magic. It brushes a leg against me—me, not the disease I’ve become. It is startling and gentle. It is a goodbye. The moth waits as I gather myself. Finally, I send my last message.
I am ready, faerie.
The moth flares with brightness, with warmth. As it flies toward the fungus, it transforms into a fiery creature. Then it descends. The parasite recoils, shrieks. The moth descends and descends, scorching off the disease, burning through the fever that’s ravished me for a millennium.
As the dark magic squeals and putrefies, it falls from my being and I am growing, expanding. I am floating, wandering, breathing, tall and lush and full again; I am life. As I waft away on a celestial wind, like a seed in a spring breeze, I say goodbye to this new friend.
And then I am cupped, held, in the familiar hands of my oldest friend once more, and we are together and we are content.
Chapter Thirty-two
Legs buckling, I slide downthe door to the ground. Magic spills away from me, returning to the plane, my muscles and genius depleted. Chest burning, eyes watering, I hang my head between my knees. It’s as if I’ve emerged from a long dream where I lived another life and loved and hurt but have no proof of any of it. Lila’s face enters my vision, and it is jarring and grating, this faerie whom I know, and I’m not sure why.
“Avery?”
I pant. “Where—”
“You were in a trance. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“The tree—”
“What’s in your hand?”
I glance down at my clenched fist. Something palpitates in its grasp, stinking of decay. Reign magic. Old, ancient, corruptive Reign magic, though I don’t understand how I know this, only that it doesn’t feel like the power that whooshed up from the drain days ago.
I release the magic, and it sizzles back into the plane, the return of something that had stayed away too long. As it evaporates, I can almost hear the word. Almost. But it is muffled and in a tongue I cannot recognize.
“You—” Lila looks at me, then the door. “You removed the magic that unlocks the door.”
“I did?”
“How?”
“I…” I cringe, the sensation of being stripped down, sanded. “The tree spoke to me.”
Lila’s eyes widened. “Spoke to you?”
“It sounds moonstruck, but—”
