Chapter 43
Forty-Three
You take him to the place where your story entwined with his, and the lake is the same but the hovel is even more decrepit. Still, there is a hearth inside, and after he swallows his potion, you tuck both vials into the unused hearth for safekeeping.
You spend the whole afternoon watching the water part for him, the ripples he makes.
In the evening you whisper Cook, little pot, cook, and you eat on the shore while he sinks his elegant neck beneath the surface of the water to eat delicacies he has not tasted in years.
He survives his first night of swanhood.
He survives the second, too. And the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth.
On the morning of the seventh day, you decide it’s time.
There is a kiss goodbye, except this last kiss is like the first kiss: you press your mouth to his beak, slide your palms over his feathers, and neither of you changes shape.
This is why I wanted one horse, you don’t say. You knew you’d be going home alone. The second horse is now a reminder of the husband who isn’t with you.
In the woods, you look back and watch him on the water, a blob of white all by himself. Tears prick your eyes.
You thought this was where the story would end, but it’s not.
There are still other things to do.