A Fragile Enchantment

by Allison Saft

Keeping track of things had never exactly been her strong suit.

For the first time, Niamh feared that Gran was right. Perhaps she really had never learned that the world was cruel.

The very sight of it took her breath away. It was magnificent, but in truth, it rather hurt to look at. In the ruthless glare of sunlight, everything shone.

In the morning light, his golden eyes burned with an intensity just north of hostile.

Well, she’d call him dangerous, but in truth, he was built like a sewing needle. She could break him in half if she really set her mind to it.

little in the world made her happier than making other people happy.

“I like beautiful things, and I like making things that make people feel beautiful.”

Oh, how she hated that she cried whenever she was stressed or angry. But once she’d begun, she could not stop.

The Avlish called it a terrible accident. The Machlish called it slaughter.

All her life, she’d wanted to lighten her family’s burdens, to drive away the past that haunted them still. She chose to be happy each day precisely because she knew how much worse things could be.

It was such a small thing to try to give them the comfort they’d never had as children. It was such a small thing to be good.

She’d always been too credulous—too inclined to see the best in people.

Anytime she paused to enjoy something, anytime she indulged herself, something terrible happened.

He was lucky his voice was as nice as his eyes, or no one would be able to stand him at all.

“Very well, my…” She caught herself before the very regrettable words my Kit left her mouth.

Her own method of organization was … Well, she supposed calling it a method would be a stretch of the imagination.

If only she could stop noticing him. Never in her life had she felt so self-sabotaging.

As much as she yearned for it, she couldn’t fathom something so bright and wild. It would burn her up like kindling. Life was too painfully short.

No good ever came from loving fragile things.

But she’d spent many nights as a girl paging through a book of fairy tales imported from Jaille: stories about peasant girls who snuck off to balls in glass slippers, who married princes because of their goodness and beauty, who loved fiercely enough to break terrible curses. They were impossible, wondrous, romantic stories, and they’d filled her up with hopeless yearning.

Perhaps she didn’t know the bite of cruelty herself, but she recognized the shape of the scars it left behind.

She very well might be silly and absentminded, but she was not a fool.

Most days, Niamh believed she’d accepted her lot in life: that her own body had betrayed her. There was a grim sort of comfort in knowing how she would die, even if she did not know exactly when.

What would it be like, she wondered, to be so self-assured? Or maybe, more accurately, to not care about anything at all?

She’d hoped for a better life here. But a better life, she realized now, came with a thousand smaller hardships.

Balls, it seemed, were far less romantic and far more humiliating than she’d expected.

“No. I’ve never cared what other people thought of me. I have no desire to twist myself into knots to please people I don’t even respect.”

As she made a beeline for the exit, it occurred to her, quite belatedly, that Kit Carmine had made a spectacle of himself to protect her reputation.

In his way, he’d comforted her. And then, he’d saved her from her own ruin.

She’d never had the gift for concealing her emotions. Whatever she thought or felt showed plainly on her face. It flowed from her like water from a broken vase.

She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, opened a pot of ink, and promptly spilled half of it across her desk.

But the longer she stared at him, that almost boyish hesitation on his face laid bare in the candlelight, it occurred to her that he must’ve been quite lonely here. Why else would someone like him want to speak to someone like her? For her own sake, she should tell him to call on Sinclair and leave her alone. But, well … Maybe she was a little lonely, too. The realization settled heavily over her.

She took care of others; she did not ask to be cared for. What good was she otherwise?

Niamh had spent all of her life sorry for taking up space, guilty for inconveniencing anyone with her emotions or needs.

Kit, she imagined, had never once apologized for existing exactly as he was.

“I can only imagine how difficult it is to live among those who have hurt your people so deeply. But you do not have to suffer just because others have. Your dream sounds very noble to me.”

She couldn’t face all the things that would catch up to her. No matter what she did, it would never be enough.

There was no way to know for certain when she would die, and even if there were, it wasn’t as though she could change anything by worrying.

She’d extracted his approval at last. And, it seemed, his friendship. Was that really what this was?

To be so dismissed—by your own husband, no less … It seemed a cruel fate indeed.

I don’t argue with you for my health, you know. One of these days, you’re going to crumple from lugging all this weight around alone.”

But no comfort or hope awaited her there. No matter how bleak it got, surviving in a country that disdained them was better than starving to death with pride. She had to stay here.

Niamh couldn’t imagine how awful it would be, to be stranded in a place where she knew no one, save a man who did not value her. A man who was supposed to love her, not isolate her in the process of isolating himself.

You have a way of drawing things out of people, of bringing what they wish to keep hidden into the light.”

“You are the very worst of both our parents, Kit. From the day you were born, you have done nothing but create problems for me to solve.”

All his anger and aggression were the sword and shield in the hands of his fear.

it. Her head ached. Everything ached. The inside of her chest felt as though it’d been hollowed out, like a well tapped too deep.

You’re not sick until you’re sick, she reminded herself. And yet, it was getting so much harder to convince herself that she was well. If only she had not pushed herself so recklessly. If only she did not have to worry about pushing herself at all.

“Of course they do. It is not enough to exist. It is my duty to be perfect.

am so afraid, Kit. I am afraid that I will fail, despite all the pains I have taken. I am afraid I will let everyone down. And deep down, I am afraid that I am horribly, irredeemably selfish because I am so afraid that I will die without having let myself live at all.”