She nodded. “Yes, I saw it, and I’m telling you you’re making a mistake.”
“Let’s go inside,” he said, stepping past her to open the door. His arm brushed against hers. He wore a scent, regal and bright, like lily-of-the-valley.
Inside, he turned a knob to light the gaslights by the door, dimly illuminating the cramped space. Anya had never seen so much useless junk in her life. The floor was covered in spent ink pots and old pens, papers stacked and crumbled, books open to the ceiling or turned over on their face. Elegant clothes, like the ones he wore, draped every available surface. The walls were plastered with colorful paintings and charcoal sketches, and the room smelled of cheap tobacco and fine perfume.
There were only two places to sit: an armchair and the unmade bed. The wizard removed his coat but left on hisgloves, leather with the fingertips cut out. He took the bed. Anya perched primly on the edge of the armchair seat, laying her hatchet across her lap.
He didn’t apologize for the mess; he didn’t say anything at all. He regarded her hatchet, then her, coolly. He offered her a cigarette, which she declined, before unearthing a green glass ashtray from beneath a pile of crumbled papers and lighting one of his own.
She didn’t like the way he looked at her. A false impassivity. Like an owl, ready to swoop.
“Would you mind opening the window?” she began.
“Not at all,” he murmured, obliging. He lingered by the window, leaning a languid elbow on the sill. The evening air soothed her, helped her center her thoughts.
She had gone over it all in the back of the lumber wagon she’d hitched a ride on, the scent of sawdust sharp in her nose. She was not going to do the bidding of some forest harpy, and she was going to keep this hapless fool out of the forest’s clutches. If this idiot was going to attempt finding the phoenix, he would soon run afoul of Mira, or some other merciless creature, and get himself killed, or worse – not to mention, by parading his idiocy in the paper, bring the entire city into the waiting trees.
She moved, she acted, as if blown listlessly by the wind, never giving much thought to her own future, or to her curse, or any curse, other than a vague idea that doing good deeds was supposed to be good for breaking them, and then a less vague one thatthatwas only true in stories. In reality, nothing – no magic, no counterspell or charm – could break a curse except meeting the terms set by the caster. Terms she was currently eliding. But though she had been frightened beyond reason under Mira’s gaze, she had passed the night and most of the morning feeling no change but a distracted unease.
Then, as she traveled, she felt it.
Vines of twisting ivy. Thorns lashing to her bones, to every drop of blood. To her very sense of herself. Oh, it was subtle magic; if she hadn’t had so much time to think, tonotice, in the back of that wagon, she might not have noticed it at all.
But she did notice it. For the first time in her life, as those vines crept through her, she became keenly aware of her flesh and blood. How they were her, and they weren’t. A part of her, and apart from her.
And she felt them altering. As if she was a doll, woven of straw, and the straw was unweaving. As if there was a hand hovering over and behind her, always out of sight, no matter where or how quickly she turned. And when she wasn’t looking, the invisible hand plucked and pulled and unwove, and all she could do was let it.
Once, as a girl, she found a cocoon on a blackberry bush on the edge of the wood. Having seen unspeakable things already, even on the very edge of the forest, as far as Johanna would take her until she was older, she was crueler in her curiosity than even the most curious child – and her curiosity, even then, was insatiable.
She cut open the cocoon, hoping to find a beautiful butterfly, perhaps to keep what she found as a pet. Inside was nothing but wet mush.
The worm spun itself a snug home to protect itself while it transformed. She’d thought it was to shield its delicate, pretty wings, but those wings weren’t even a dream yet. All there was in that little cocoon was slime. Formless, faceless. All that protected it easily separated with a dull garden knife.
Would it happen all at once? Would she wake up one morning without hands or feet, unable to speak, knowing she had failed before she even began? Would her bones dissolve into slime? She didn’t know, and she didn’t ever want to know. Already, the vines, the hand, the straw – the easy unmaking of her body, of her self, for one simple mistake – she could not unknow these things.
But she could stay human. Stay alive.
She could find the wizard, trick him into helping her. His magic would be paltry against the forest’s, but it was better than no magic at all. Wizards weren’t stupid – you couldn’t be and finish the training – but really all you needed to get in was enough coin and a fancy pedigree. After surviving that crucible, they coasted on their money and status. He and his pen would be easy enough to manipulate.
But just as she’d been about to knock on the door, her accursed conscience got the better of her. How many huntshad she finished herself, all alone? She’d faced much more dangerous creatures than phoenixes or magicians.
If she died? Well. She was going to die anyway. Snatched from the air by a bat. Wings plucked by a child’s fat fingers. Cut open and spilled like goo.
If she dragged someone else along, she may be condemning them to the same fate. A worse one.
And now she saw him. Pale, slim, dainty fingered and dressed in finery. Perfumed.
It would be like betraying a kitten.
He drew thoughtfully from his cigarette, sensing her hesitation and waiting for her to speak. But what could she say? Would he even believe her?
“You’re making a mistake,” she said again. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“And what do you think I’m getting myself into?”
“You’re looking for the phoenix.” His placid expression did not change. She went on. “You’ll never find it, and even if you could, the Lichtenwald is too dangerous.”
“I am hiring someone to help me find it,” he said, ashing his cigarette lazily out the window, “but if you don’t think you’re equipped for the task–”
