Chapter 18
Eighteen
“Who would you be if you weren’t who you are?” Cyrus asks. “This is a game Gertie and I play sometimes.”
You peek one eye open from the mass of blankets Cyrus insisted you rest upon.
He scurries about the kitchen, holding a cabinet door open with his wing while fetching two mugs with his hand.
The kettle whistles. He grabs a jar, places it in an open drawer, and then closes the drawer so the jar is held stuck between it and the countertop.
With his hand, he unscrews the lid. Clever.
You close your eye and nestle into the blankets, soothed by the domestic clatter.
He sets down a tray and settles against your legs.
Despite everything, a weak smile tugs at your mouth. “Surprised you didn’t sit on my chest,” you say, your voice rasping from the magic’s chokehold.
“Sorry—shall I move?”
“You’re fine.” You sit up. “Just remembering how it used to be.”
“Then I’ll consider it an invitation for the future.”
He hands you a mug that smells like lemon and honey and something floral. Which is strange, because you shouldn’t be able to smell it at all. And then you remember the potion, neglected in this morning’s rush to warn Cyrus in time.
Shit.
Two mornings in a row without it. Shit, shit, shit.
“What is the game you play with Gertie? ,” you ask.
“Fairly self-explanatory,” says Cyrus. “You just answer the question.”
You stare at him.
You don’t know what to say, and not only because your head feels like cotton and your throat still burns.
All the choices you’ve made… No, they weren’t choices.
They never felt like choices. Who would you have become if no one had ever forced your hand?
What kind of life would you have led if you’d had any say in it whatsoever?
What kind of life would you have led if you’d wrenched control of it back into your own hands years and years ago?
Cyrus’s smile softens.
“Make it up,” he says. “Tell me a story.”
“I’d be a… I am… I train dogs,” you say.
His eyes glint. “Do you now? To do what?”
“… Tricks?”
“Lovely. Really, people must love that.”
“The dogs I train can… talk.”
“No kidding. That’s brilliant.”
“My customers are… They seem to like it.”
“Who wouldn’t? Talking dogs. Marvelous. Is it magic?”
“I won’t disclose my secrets.”
“Not even to me?”
“Especially not to you.”
“Oooh, but I’ll get them out of you, one way or another.”
Cyrus winks, and your whole body goes hot. After a moment, you recover just enough to say: “Good luck.”
Cyrus claps his hand to his heart and bursts into delighted laughter. For the first time in—how long?—you smile. A real smile. Not a grimace. Not anything with sorrow or apology in it. A smile with all your shyness. A smile with all the best parts of you.
“Your turn,” you say. “Who would you be if you weren’t who you are?”
“Easy,” he says. “I’d be a bullfighter.”
The idea of this elongated twig of a man fighting bulls makes you guffaw. Soon he joins you, the two of you are laughing together, and it’s just so easy. This is who I’d want to be if I weren’t who I am, you think. Someone who could make you laugh like this every day.
Soon, the sound of your laughter wanes. He dabs tears from his eyes with his finger. Comfortable silence settles over you, though not for long.
“Gertie could look into breaking your curse,” he says, “if that’s what you want.”
“Not a curse,” you say. “Just magic.”
“Magic that binds you to silence,” he says, “is a curse.”
He looks at you like you should understand this. You sigh and lower your eyes.
“It’s not like what happened to Gertrude. I agreed to this. And there’s no way out of it. And-–even if it was a curse—I think I’m better off cursed, anyway.”
Cyrus’s gaze softens.
“I understand that feeling,” he says.
When he exhales, his shoulders slope downward.
You follow the curve of his neck down his shoulder to where his shirt ends, to where fabric ends and feather begins.
So many white feathers, all of them neatly preened, laying against each other in perfect rows.
I’m better off cursed. I understand the feeling.
This is where you’re supposed to say something. You’re certain of it.
Except you don’t have words. Just a feeling, in your chest, that this confusing truth he’s offered you means a great deal. Maybe you’re supposed to say something, but saying something would sully it. You both know that silence can hurt, but you both know it has value, too.
He takes a long, contemplative sip from his tea. The idea of drinking it makes the back of your neck break into a sweat. The idea of needing to explain why you’re not drinking it is enough to nearly make you break out in hives. Mirroring him, you bring the mug to your lips.
You never escaped the gingerbread house. Not really.
Maybe it’s time to try.
Slowly, carefully, slowly, carefully, slowly, slowly, slowly, you take the smallest sip possible. It doesn’t taste like nothing, but it’s as close to nothing as something can be.
What relief you feel. You can bear it. One sip at a time, you can bear it.