Page 41 of Blackwicket
It could be like this again.
I stood in the doorway, shaky, unsure of what I’d find. On this side of the house, the moon never cast its insistent light, so there were no shutters, no heavy curtains obscuring the silverylight of night beyond the two dormer windows that gave shadowy shape to the sparse furniture: a bed and two wardrobes. I searched the wall for the light switch, snapped it on, and the two sconces by the bed buzzed to life, their light golden and soft, illuminating the space with a warm calm, in contrast to the storm I carried inside.
No pictures or paintings hung here, the grass cloth papered walls bare. A single circular rug spanned the center of the room, once as green as summer trees, faded into the dusky color of drying moss. The bedding was white cotton, not as comforting or whimsical as our old quilts. It appeared sterile, hospital-like in its austere setup. It smelled sweet here, the high tart redolence of summer fruit before it turned, and I covered my nose. But it must have been my heightened senses causing the overwhelming aroma, because as I stepped in, it dissipated, making space for the fainter scents of dust and old wood.
I’d wanted the riot of my sister’s life to exist here, an unmade bed, clothes strewn across every surface, left in small piles as she’d done every day of our lives. I’d been eager for a moment spent in the comfort of her disorderly housekeeping, which had frustrated me. But nothing of my Fiona, nor my mother, remained here.
The house shuddered, alive with anticipation of what I’d do with my magic now it was free. I seethed as I approached the wardrobe by the windows, flinging open the heavy doors to reveal rows of impeccably arranged garments—luxurious fabrics like organdie and silk hanging neatly alongside moiré and velvet. This was where my sister stored her clothes, all those stunning outfits I’d seen in the pictures adorning the walls. They represented a life she’d chosen to live without me, filled with choices we’d sworn we’d never make, and in a sudden fit of anger, I reached in, seizing handfuls of fabric, pulling down countless dresses and skirts. I channeled my power to ignite eachin an incinerating magical flame, tossing them to the floor to burn.
The room brightened, shadows retreating like innocents cowering from violence as an aspect of my sister’s unknowable world disintegrated. I would have destroyed everything, but my magic twisted in grotesque response to my fury, and the silk gown I held slipped away, hovering as though draped over an unseen figure. As the enchanted flame engulfed it, the invisible form writhed and stumbled toward me as charred pieces fell away, seeping red smoke.
“No,” I whispered to nothing, realizing what I’d done. “No, no.”
The sleeve of the gown raised, an invisible arm reaching in desperation as the remnants of the dress collapsed, squirming as though in agony. When the flames subsided, there were only charred debris, the results of my loss of composure, and the ever-rising rust-colored smog of transforming magic.
I dropped to my knees, immersing my hands in the smoldering pile, attempting to fix the pitiless thing I’d done, to revoke my anger and my actions. The newly formed Drudge still rose through my fingers, ghastly and vaporous, retreating from me, its creator. It tumbled, stretched, and darted in frantic directions to escape. I crawled after it like a supplicant, begging for forgiveness, but it slipped into the narrow gap between the doors of the second wardrobe.
Grabbing the ornately carved handles, I pulled myself up and opened it, expecting to dig through more of Fiona’s clothes to find where the poor thing had gone to hide, but there were no women’s clothes inside. Instead, an array of children’s toys and games lined several inlaid shelves. Among the paraphernalia of youth were a bag of marbles and jacks, a deck of cards, and a puppy whose velveteen ears were worn bare from petting. On the right, an assortment of children’s trousers and shirts, all invarying sizes, were arranged from smallest to largest, creating a detailed map of their owner’s growth. Below the clothes, a quilt similar to the ones my mother had made for my sister and me, was neatly folded, an uproar of colors and varying fabrics, ragged and worn practically to bits. In the corner, stitched in small letters by a careful hand, was a name.
Roark.
As I touched the name, heart leaden in my chest, the claw-like hand of something long dead darted from the darkness at the back of the wardrobe, seizing my elbow. The grip burned like a harsh frostbite, and I instinctively recoiled. The Drudge hiding in the gloomy corner released me with little resistance, emerging partly from amidst the clothes, hanging from the shadows like a primate from a tree branch. This creature was old; not as ancient as Auntie, but old enough to assume a vaguely humanlike form. It was a habit of most Drudge to adopt the appearance of those they tormented, or as my mother used to believe, those they sought help from.
This creature possessed only a suggestion of features: the vague contours of cheekbones and brow, the hollows where eyes might be, and the slash of a mouth, like a tattered rip in a curtain.
The tainted power I’d generated had flown to the nearest of its kin to be absorbed. There’d be no mending it, not unless I cared to take on this Drudge alone. Considering how I’d handled the much smaller one I’d stolen from Ms. Rosley, I didn’t trust myself to try, especially with magic weakened by the act of forging a curse.
Sensing my reluctance to engage with it, the Drudge extended its rangy limbs, sloth-like, four fingerlike talons folding around the edges of the doors and pulling them shut. Its fingers disappeared last, like smoke from an open window.
Eyes still locked on the wardrobe, I retreated until my legs collided with the bed and gave out.
I remained still until sitting became unbearable for my weary body, and I lay down, resting my head on pillows that smelled of lye and honeysuckle. I stared into the dark, listening to the sounds of the house, which had returned to the natural noises of a lifeless structure, battered by winter. The horrible use of my magic appeared to have shocked it silent, and it was a silence I regretted deeply.
In my twenty-six years, I’d never misused my magic, never given it reason to distort and turn to something ugly and hurt. Pain made tangible. A piece of myself was irrevocably gone, and I felt hollow, not better.
I evaluated the damage, my magic moving sluggishly and thick, fatigued from the incident. To invigorate it, I positioned my right hand by my face, palm up, invoking my power—not to heal a curse or protect myself, but to create, to make beauty from nothing as I’d once done at every opportunity.
A frail thread of magic formed in my palm, stabilized with recollections of Fiona’s sweet smile, her delicate mannerisms concealing a passion for curse work and music. I imagined her face as she played the chords of my mother’s favorite song. Hearing the ghost melody, I sang the words to myself.
Oh, Moira, my love, I meant not to stray…
I had nothing in mind for what I was making, only sang to the emerging magic lacing itself together, tentative and delicate. I would let it form itself how it pleased, giving no more orders, releasing my will. But the shape it took didn’t comfort me, the edges rounding into silky crimson petals, mimicking both the flower William had given me and those I’d tended as a child.
I brought the bloom to my nose and breathed in.
“Your garden is strange. The plants are all black, even the lilies. Are they dying?”
“No,” I’d said, barely eight, so sure of myself as I packed morerich dirt at the base of a vine I’d newly transplanted from the house. “They’re not all black. They’re red. Look, hold this one in the sun.”
Thomas was a few years older than I, but was still all curls and boyish softness. His meek demeanor encouraged me to attempt friendship. I handed him a small clay pot with a dark blossom perfectly unfolded and he took it skeptically, holding it up.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, amused at the novelty of it. “Are you feeding them magic to make them this color?”
“You’re not supposed to know I use magic, remember?” Grouching, I scanned the cliffside ahead and the lawn behind for signs of my mother. I’d be in trouble if she discovered I’d told someone.
“It’s just us here.” He was unapologetic, putting the pot back. “And I use magic too. I don’t get to do this stuff, you know, make things grow.”
“What do you get to do?”
