The fire below the kettle crackles like a pendulum, metered and sure. The wizard pours the liquid into a bronzed goblet, moves it in a spiral motion twice, and adds a heaping dollop of powder, beautiful but deadly. He sets the goblet down and gazes at the full, sullen moon, thinking. Of what will happen. Of if he would care. Of if she would care. How it would feel. One minute after he drinks it, he feels a minor headache. Three minutes after he drinks it, his body is collapsing in nervous convulsions. Five minutes after he drinks it, he is dead. He raises the goblet and toasts the moon. He is ready.
There is a stunning field cicada glistening on the rusty old hubcap. She notices it immediately. In her frantic, downward spiral of a life, even a criminal has a sense of beauty. She’s been hibernating for days after the smuggle. For the fortnight before, she was as strong as she was fast. And boy, was she fast. She won all the town races when she was little, and now, she feels as dawdling and insignificant as the insect beside her. The moon glistens, dappling the bug with soft, velvety light. The contrast of the striking periwinkle shell and the oxidised, distorted metal reminds her constantly of her cowardice. ‘You’ve waited a lifetime to do this,’ she thinks. ‘And now, you’ve gone soft. Because of him.’ She reaches in the knot-hole and fingers the parchment. Apparently, it’s just a passage from book. But she knows the truth. It’s a snippet of her old life, her life with him. When he made all the decisions and all the mistakes. It is the past without truth, without clarity, as dark and mysterious as the night sky tonight. She has a power stronger than she dreamed. Curious enough to know what happened all those years ago, yet loyal enough to respect the past, after all these years elapsed. She strokes the zipper on her jacket. She has come to a crossroads and a decision must be made. Now. She seizes the document and runs lickety-split out of the woods, past the village, and into the Desperate Realms, where he lives. She approaches the rickety cabin. She knocks. She is ready.
Someone knocks on the wizard’s door. He opens it and she is there. Her voice is coarse and quiet when she speaks. ‘Father.’ She throws the scroll in the hearth and it burns like the fire inside her. She is ready to run again.
