Chapter II.17 #2
Miria immediately wished to take the words back, but something inside of her needed to know.
To know he still thought of her. To know he regretted not saving her.
To know that she could, at last, let go of all the pain and resentment and rage that she’d stored inside Yali’s magical jar over the years.
A shared burden was all she needed to release it for good.
All Hans had to do was look sad and show remorse. Admit he missed her. It didn’t seem like a large ask of the universe.
Yet the universe—her brother—did not oblige.
“I did,” Hans said, and he didn’t sound sad, just surprised.
Miria gave him the benefit of the doubt. It must be a most unexpected question. But surely, he would show something more akin to regret next.
“The witch stole her away, years ago,” Hans continued.
A lie, but perhaps that was the way he remembered it. And hadn’t Yali said her father could speak the truth of the matter to no one? Perhaps Hans had been taught to conceal the truth. Miria would overlook this, too.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Miria said after a moment. One ought to say something, even if she was the witch who recognized the lie. To not do so would seem strange. And besides, she wanted Hans to keep speaking until he gave her what she craved.
“It was a long time ago,” her brother said, and rather than sorrowful, he seemed unconcerned.
Dismissive of her condolences. “I tried to save her from the witch and her horrible oven, but I was only a boy. In the end, it might even have been a kindness. She was not a very useful girl—always daydreaming, very stubborn and willful. My father would not have been able to accomplish nearly so much with her underfoot and causing trouble.”
He uttered a few more excuses and platitudes after that, but Miria didn’t hear them.
Her heart pounded, and the fury that had simmered into a mild heat with age reignited into a wildfire, the sound of which drowned out the commotion of the solstice festival around her.
It burned hotter and brighter than the sun on its longest day.
She shouldn’t have asked, but how could she have not when she’d asked for so little?
Just a hint of regret and sadness; that was all.
How could he not even spare a single drop of concern?
What had happened to the brother who used to sneak her extra bread, who’d whispered stories to her in the dark when she was frightened, who’d held her hand tightly as they’d entered the woods that fateful day?
How could he have turned into their father? Callous. Compassionless.
But then, how could he have not done so when it had been just the two of them for the past thirteen years? When their father, alone, had been allowed to mold him into the man he’d become?
For thirteen years it had been the two of them, and the one wish spell bought by her life.
If Hans had regrets that day, if he’d later begged their father to return for Miria, how long might it have taken for Yali’s magic to distract him from his pain and soothe his heart? How long until he agreed with their father that the trade had been worthwhile?
Not long, she realized. Not long at all.
He might pretend he’d tried to save her that day, but he hadn’t waited for her.
He’d ran and saved himself, and left her behind without a backward glance.
In the years since, she’d mostly forgotten.
And “her horrible oven”—what did he even mean by that? It was lies piled onto lies.
Miria was burning from the inside out. Power was building under her skin.
She hadn’t come close to losing herself in rage for years.
Not only had time healed her (only temporarily, apparently), but she’d grown up.
Eighteen-year-old women did not throw tantrums like five-year-old girls did.
More to the point, nothing had challenged Miria’s self-control in such a way in years.
She’d been happy, but only because she’d been able to forget. And in forgetting, some part of her had been able to cling to scraps of a delusion.
Miria stormed through the crowds who were descending upon the town green, her hands curled into fists at her sides as she struggled to hold in her power.
She had no recollection of how she’d ended the conversation with Hans, and that was as it should be.
If only she could have no recollection of him at all.
Her skin felt hot, and sweat beaded on her neck.
The last time she’d felt so feverish, Nana had tucked her into bed and given her magical tea to drink.
But she was not sick this time, not in the same way.
Miria made it through the town gates and trampled partway through the wildflower field toward the woods before she let out a scream.
Power rushed out on her breath. She had no means to capture it here, no way to save the magic and stuff it into the jar on the cottage shelf, and it rose up on the wind.
The sky rumbled. Dark, heavy clouds churned out of nothingness.
The temperature dropped, and the light dimmed as the sun vanished behind the growing storm.
With a louder crash and a flash of light, the clouds unleashed their rain.
Fat, cold droplets smacked Miria on the head and turned the field to mud beneath her feet.
It cooled her, too. Smothered the fire in her blood, though not completely. Just enough that she could breathe again. Think. Do more than rage.
The storm didn’t let up for her entire walk home.
Yali didn’t chide Miria for summoning a storm, though Miria was certain her nana knew what she’d done. A storm like that was not natural, after all. But chiding was not Nana’s way, and perhaps she knew that it would only further foul Miria’s mood.
Neither of them spoke of the incident until that evening.
Miria was tired from the long day and all the spells she’d cast in the morning, and mostly she was worn down because anger was exhausting.
She had enough power left in her for one more spell, though, and she was determined to cast it this day—one of the most powerful days for magical works—before she crawled into bed.
Yali’s friend had left hours ago, and her nana sat before the hearth, taking advantage of the longest day’s light to make annotations in one of her many books.
She looked up as Miria took her jar of emotions from the highest shelf and carried it over to the table, marking her page but not yet inquiring as to Miria’s purpose.
Ever since Yali had shown her the blue charm she wore around her neck, Miria had been intrigued. Over the years, she’d peppered the older witch with questions about how to create such a thing, and after her studies, Miria was convinced she could do the same.
Her goal was simple: if she wore her rage and her pain around her neck, she could never forget. With a tangible reminder that would burn her when she touched it, she would never feel so caught off guard—so utterly shocked—by her family’s betrayal again.
This charm that she would create would have a practical purpose, too. If she couldn’t forget, she would be less inclined to lash out when she was reminded of what happened. No more letting her power get away from her. No more unintentional storms.
The spell was not complicated, but it did drain the last dregs of Miria’s remaining magic. She would sleep deeply tonight, despite her troubled mind.
“It is cruel to yourself to carry so much pain around with you,” Yali said as Miria held up the red stone. “But perhaps is it not unwise.”
Miria had the grace to blush. “I hope I didn’t ruin your outing with your friend.”
The charm glowed faintly in her fingers, like there was truly a fire inside it, and its heat seeped into her skin. She could feel the fury and pain churning beneath the smooth surface—strong enough to remind her, muted enough to ignore if she wasn’t focusing on it.
Her nana waved off her concern. “It was only water. Will you make a bead of it, so you may wear the magic?”
Miria nodded but found she was too tired to attempt even such a minor spell. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Here.” Yali held out a hand. “Let me do it for you.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can, child. But let me. And you can come sit with me and read me some poetry.”
Ah, so that’s what this was. Miria smiled. She handed the charm to Yali and curled up next to her like she used to do when she was younger and still learning her letters, and her nana wrapped a thin arm around her while Miria read until the solstice light finally dimmed.