A Spell for Softness and Sleep
Open Book
This piece is carved into the edges and top of a bedside table.
It’s a deceptively simple design with the edges of the table carved to look like pages of a book.
At the bottom, it’s slightly wider, creating the sense of a cover while the lines for the pages are softer.
The seam down the center creates the illusion that the tabletop is an open book and the wood has been polished until the wood grain could be mistaken for some mysteriously blurred text.
Various creatures have been etched as well, adding to the impression that this is a picture book instead of a piece of furniture.
But the mood of the creatures captured thus is dark and ominous.
Their postures are tense; they are caged in the confines of these pages when they yearn to be anywhere else.
Kerboros
I have never been this angry.
Incandescent with rage—that’s the phrase. And I do feel so hot that I might be glowing strong enough to be used as a light source. Clenching my teeth, I pace, seven strides forward, three across, seven back to where I started. Trapped.
In a bottle. On the deck of a tiny ship.
I can’t blame this on Thea either, because she was about to warn me not to touch anything, I think.
But I saw what looked like an altar on the ground, a fascinating array of objects, including this ship in a bottle.
I sensed no ominous magic, nothing that would have warned me that I could become part of the display.
And now I’m an exhibition. I’ve already tried to open a portal, but I have no access to any of my abilities.
Whatever pulled me in also neutralized my natural talents.
The same sick helplessness that I experienced in the dungeons so long ago spills through me in a dreadful wave.
I have not been this powerless since I came of age in my cousin’s court.
With great effort, I stifle the panic and gaze past the cloudy glass of my ridiculous prison. Thea is unfathomably huge, looking around the area, presumably for me.
“In here!” I call.
My voice bounces off the walls, and I can’t tell if she hears me. I don’t have a good grasp of what her magic can achieve, but she moves around, until—oh. She’s kneeling. I think she sees me. Feeling so foolish that it nauseates me, I wave both my arms, trying to attract her attention.
She says something, but the sound is muffled, so it’s like the burbling of a brook.
Or perhaps that’s the actual water nearby; I can’t be certain.
Pausing, she seems to be waiting for my response, so I shake my head and cross my forearms to signal that I don’t understand.
I don’t want to reveal my knowledge of the wild fae’s secret sign, but the situation is too urgent for me to prioritize hidden advantages over personal freedom.
I do hope I’m not too small for her to follow my gestures.
The bottle is dampening all sound, I sign. I can’t hear you.
She signs back, Again? At your size, it’s a little hard to follow.
I repeat the gestures, slower this time. Thea seems able to understand me, but it might not be enough to secure my freedom. Panic and terror battle in my mind, and I must control myself. I must stay focused on my current predicament. I can’t get lost in the dark. I can control this. I can. I can.
I can’t.
The dark behind my closed eyes is full of fluttery things, and the sound of sweeping wings carries me into the past—that dark dungeon where my family waits. And when I arrive, I’m forced to concede that part of me has never left that place.
The cell is minuscule, and it smells of copper and misery.
When they came for my father, I didn’t get to say farewell.
He maintained his facade, insouciant until the bitter end, pretending that we would be delivered by his allies, pretending that all would be well, and so he denied me a final moment of closure, a word of advice, or a single reassurance.
Instead he said, “I’ll see you soon,” as if his rebellion had not entirely failed.
He never acknowledged Geraint’s sacrifice.
I lose track of how long I wait in silence with my mother.
She sits on the cold stone floor, weeping.
I kneel beside her, and she reaches for me, holding on with desperate intensity.
Her arms are like iron bars, and they do burn like cold iron, a desperate and terrible grip; she squeezes until I can’t breathe, as if she might drain the life from me in her grief because she knows something dreadful.
They don’t bring us food or water, and the thirst is terrible. One prisoner is screaming. Someone else is crying. Other than my mother.
When she finally lets go of me, she’s left bruises on my shoulders. “Ori. When I am gone, you will be alone. You will not be able to trust anyone. And your life may become difficult. But promise me—”
The cell door clangs open, revealing two figures in hooded cloaks. They stride in, knocking me to the floor as they jerk her upright.
“Mathair!” The high fae word for mother escapes me, and I feel ashamed by it.
While my father yearned only for power, my brother dreamed of a world undivided by such rigid castes, where one didn’t need to speak high fae to rise in social status.
It feels as if I’ve let him down, just as I’m failing her.
I push to my feet shakily and rush at them, but I’m too small.
Too young. Too weak to stop them from taking her.
They knock me down, and the door clangs shut, leaving me alone in the darkness.
Always. Alone in the darkness.
Tremors set in, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pulling my arms around my knees. I won’t look at the walls or touch the hash marks my mother carved. It doesn’t matter what happens to me. There’s no one left to care if I live or die.
Warmth. There’s warmth now. That’s different. In this nightmare, it is always cold, and I wake with tears on my face. But there’s a deviation in the pattern.
Someone is speaking to me. And I think—
When I open my eyes, still shuddering, Thea is on the ground beside me, arms about my shoulders.
She’s hugging me, gentle but firm, and she rubs slow circles on my back.
Nausea roils within me, and I don’t know if I can contain it.
The only thing that would make this day more humiliating is if I cast up my morning meal.
Her voice is quiet. And kind. “It’s okay. It will be okay.”
She doesn’t know. She can’t tell that I’ve just relived the worst aspect of my continued existence. While it’s not ideal, I can live with this level of vulnerability.
“I fear confined spaces.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds rough.
I let out an unsteady breath, and suddenly, my arms wind around her too. It’s not a rational decision, more of an instinctual need. I am starved for touch, and I fight the urge to bury my face in the soft skin between her neck and shoulder.
“Me too,” she admits. “That’s part of why I hate it at court so much.”
“Because you feel trapped?”
“Yeah. I like it much better in the wild.” She’s still rubbing my back, patient and kind.
I can’t contain the words. “My entire family died for my father’s ambition.
Liskaal’s soldiers cut down my brother, Geraint.
I wasn’t supposed to be there, but…I saw everything.
Those who had promised to support my father did not appear on the battlefield.
Liskaal might even have ordered them to raise Father’s hopes so my cousin had an excuse to purge us. ”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
“Geraint was”—I pause—“not like me. People loved him. I loved him.”
Tears sting my eyes, and I loathe that I’ve been rendered so pitiable with such impunity. There’s nothing I can do to make the swamp witch regret this; most likely, it’s incidental to whatever purpose she had in mind when she set this snare.
“I have five parents,” she says then.
“What?” It’s not a secret that she’s a changeling, but I didn’t expect her to speak so candidly. The shock steadies my emotions, and I stare at Thea, waiting for her to continue.
“My mortal, biological parents. I’m not even sure if they noticed that I’d been swapped. Then there are Rain and Fen, who don’t want me either. They’ve been looking for their real daughter for as long as I can remember.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
She smiles slightly, though there’s a bitterness in the twist of her lips. “So you won’t feel exposed. A secret for a secret.”
“I appreciate what you did. Intervening. I was trapped in a memory. The dungeon. My mother, before her execution.” I swallow hard. “She called me Ori.”
Thea repeats, “Ori. It’s cute, I like it.”
Cute. No one has ever applied that word to me.
While I appreciated her fierceness before, the way she brooks no tethers to her freedom, her sweetness speaks to my soul. I’m as afraid now as I was trapped in the cell. Because I’m starting to care for Thea as a person, not an avatar of freedom, so much that I ache when she pulls back at last.
And that gives me something to lose.