A Far Wilder Magic

by Allison Saft

Alchemy is neither progress nor salvation. It’s the stench of sulfur she can’t scrub out of her hair. It’s packed suitcases and locked doors. It’s blood and ink on the floorboards.

No one knows how to hurt you if you always play the fool. No one can truly be disappointed in you if they don’t expect any better.

Girls like her don’t get to dream. Girls like her get to survive. Most days, that’s enough. Today, she doesn’t think it is.

period

The phantom sensation of his hand on her skin returns like a slow-blossoming bruise. It’s an ache she craves and hates in equal measure.

She likes to file things away, to pin their skin back to understand them. To keep everything orderly, inside and out.

Love is not the sharp-edged thing she’s always believed it to be. It’s not like the sea, liable to slip through her fingers if she holds on too tight. It’s not a currency, something to be earned or denied or bartered for. Love can be steadfast. It can be certain and safe, or as wild as an open flame. It’s a slice of buttered bread at a dinner table. It’s a grudge born of worry. It’s broken skin pulled over swelling knuckles.

But if lust is so perverse, why would God make girls like Margaret?

She’s beautiful but so remote, like a distant star.

Wes tentatively closes the gap between them, until the barrel of her gun is nestled against his chest, right above his heart. “I love you. Please, let me.”

Or did you always love the memory of him more than you loved the reality of me?”