I had seen inside myself, to my warmth and litheness and the intelligence of my lips and limbs, which had known exactly what to do without prompting, as wisely formed as any creature of the woods.
But it was morning now, and, despite myself, I felt that new knowledge retreating. I had been magical in the night and was no more; he was magical always.
We had been warm and laughing by the flattering fire. Looking down at my skin, exposed and with goose pimples, I could see every blemish, every hair, every vein, every pimple and dimple and roll. Would the sorcerer regret it, this morning, seeing me in this unforgiving gray light?
My bladder woke up and protested. I wiggled myself out of the sorcerer’s embrace as slowly as I could, managing miraculously to extricate myself without waking him. I stood, my cold bones creaking, and looked back at him.
He was perfect, of course. His skin was completely smooth and unblemished, hairless even, featureless, and pale as bone. His hair was tousled, like mine, but where mine had turned into a bird’s nest at the back, complete with twigs and leaves, his was merely artfully disheveled.
I made my way through the underbrush as quietly as I could to a secluded spot and squatted to relieve myself. When I had finished, I dressed myself as best I could with my chilly fingers, struggling a bit with the buttoning. It was a relief to feel the warm flannel against my skin, but also a sorrow to muffle the new, singing awareness of my naked skin.
I sank my hands into my pockets to warm them as I walked back to our little camp, and my fingers closed about the little raven seal. I froze. Was it my imagination, or did it feel denser, heavier? I remembered the Weftwitch’s words and let go of the seal.
What if I willed it to work by accident, thinking of the king and the sorceresses in anger, and unwittingly destroyed Sylvester as well? Perhaps it would be best to throw it into the woods now and be done with it, as I certainly didn’t ever plan to use it.
Or did I?
The thought startled me. Of course I didn’t plan to use it, I told myself. Using it would mean annihilating Sylvester along with the rest of his so-called family. It was all or none, as the Weftwitch had said.
The little spell—or rather the enormous spell, contained in a tiny package—would kill all the users of heart magic, and there was no way around it. Sylvester was one of them. I couldn’t spare him and eliminate the rest. I wasn’t too keen on murdering the lot of them either, truth be told, despite how hateful they all were. It was so big, so grave an act.
I heard Sylvester sigh and yawn behind me, and I put my thoughts to one side. I brushed myself down and smoothed my hair as best I could, which wasn’t much, and turned.
I was prepared for discomfort. I was prepared for embarrassment on his part, even shame, seeing me in the cold light.
What I was not prepared for was the smile that followed his yawn, an open, unfettered smile that turned his otherworldly beauty into something warmer and more human. I realized how seldom I had seen him smile or laugh before.
“Good morning,” he said, without a shadow of awkwardness.
“Good morning,” I replied, the words catching in my throat a little. I coughed, to cover it up. The sorcerer yawned again and stretched like Cornelius, seemingly completely unembarrassed by his nakedness. Of course, if I looked like him, I’d have been unembarrassed by my nakedness too. When he had finished his lengthy and luxurious stretch, he reached a hand to me.
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
“I am never cold,” he said, and smiled.
We stared at each other for a long moment. I did not take his hand, and after a few beats, he dropped it.
“We had better go,” I said, a little gruffly. “Cornelius will be waiting.”
“And so is my father,” he said with a sigh. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared into space, his mouth set in a tight line. “Who knows how many hearts he has harvested by now.”
“And who knows how many he has harvested while we sat here dallying this morning.”
“I’m not sure how much use I would be, even if I were there right now. Me alone, against my father and all my sisters.”
“Not just you,” I said. “For all the good I’ll do. But we need to get back. Even if it is a hopeless case. We need to try.” Without thinking, I put my hand in my pocket and touched the little seal again, then flinched away as if it had burned me.
“Very well,” he said, and stood, exposing his full glory. I had to avert my eyes, so I didn’t turn into a beetroot. “Let us go.”
We retraced our steps through the woods, back to the very edge where we had entered. We walked side by side, the sorcerer with his long stride and me with my usual small steps.
After a few moments, I felt something brush my hand. I looked down and saw the sorcerer’s hand, palm up, welcoming, hinting. I put mine into it, and we walked that way, hand in hand, until we reached the edge of the forest. I dared not look at him, or speak, but our hands held their own kind of conversation.
The path ended just ahead, and there were our carriage and the magical horses, steaming a little in the cold.
It might have been my imagination, but I could almost see the air at the edge of the wood shimmering a little, like a mirage.Magic. Not heart magic but magic all the same. I halted and let Sylvester’s hand drop.
“What is wrong?” asked Sylvester. He had a spring in his step, eager to get out of this forest that must have felt deadening and wrong to him, hobbling his powers. Probably also eager to get some proper clothes back on, to be fair.
