A Far Wilder Magic

by Allison Saft

Last night’s rain streaks the glass and shimmers faintly in the sunlight, casting watercolor shadows across his face.

Wanting comfort is a weakness she can’t afford to coddle.

There is the first Evelyn, woven in rich, bright colors like a sunset—the one who’s easy to love. And there is the second Evelyn, faded and gray, who makes you wonder why you try.

“I believe you.” She doesn’t entirely mean it, but it does make her feel like they’re living in a world where it’s at all possible they’ll win.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about the fate of my immortal soul, too.” “I’m not. Only your mortal self.” “I’m fine. Honest. I won’t let you down. I know how to live with guilt at this point.”

“I see.” She doesn’t think her father would be content with a god who enjoys his own remoteness. And he certainly wouldn’t be content accepting another man’s account of the nature of the divine without testing it himself.

How can she tolerate this? Or maybe it’s that she’s tolerated it so long, it’s gotten easier. He balances on a knife’s edge of pity and anger at her passivity. Cruelty has worn her down,

His appeal is more than the easy smile and earnest eyes, more than his uncomplicated, almost overwhelming friendliness. He’s magnetic because he looks utterly in love with whoever and whatever is in front of him.

“I can’t figure out how you’ve managed to put a spell on everyone.” “It’s because I’m charming.” “Hardly.”

She resents him, unfair as it may be. Even though she knows she never will be, she wants to be something more than her grief and fear. But she won’t admit that to him.

Even if he’s experienced the same kind of rejection she has, even if she wanted to confide in him, what would she say? She has hidden behind too many locked doors to know how to open them anymore.

What matters is stopping power, the likeliness to debilitate a target. By itself, a bullet is a harmless object; it’s the transfer of energy from bullet to body that’s deadly. To maximize stopping power, maximize the amount of energy stored within it.

Far below him, the fields of rye shiver and shift in the wind. Something about being this high up makes it easier to sift through the churn of his thoughts.

But it’s not an option to quit, just as much as it’s not an option to abandon his family. It’s his life against a life worth living.

Wes has potential enough. He’s intelligent and determined and kind, but he is so … The word continues to elude her. All she knows is that it won’t do. She needs him to be more to justify her attachment.

Wes’s notes are scrawled in tottering handwriting without any semblance of order, slanting and sideways and starred at random. His thoughts seem to launch off like a hound unleashed for the chase. The chaos makes her skin crawl. Her world is governed by method and pattern—how to disassemble and clean a gun, how to skin a deer, how to train a hound—not this madness.

Margaret feels no guilt for needling him. No one ever granted her the luxury of preserving her feelings.

Soon, the smell of sulfur drowns out everything else. She cracks open the window to let in a rush of fresh air. The early-morning chill feels nice against her skin. Wrapped in the warmth of her wool socks and alchemy, it’s oddly … cozy.

Wes props himself up on his elbows and gives her a look that makes her feel oddly powerful. It’s not a weapon she wants or one she knows exactly how to wield.

Once, before all of the rejections and disappointment, Wes believed in himself. He believed that determination and good intentions and natural aptitude could carry him through.

But assuming she’s even here, he’s not sure he can face her. Wanting her, even her company, makes him feel small and pathetic and vulnerable. Now

He doesn’t want to want someone who consumes his thoughts this way, who expects anything of him, who would wound him if she denied him.

“You saw what happens when you stand up to him.” “Nothing,” he says sharply. “Nothing happens. All he did was spout more hateful nonsense. The only difference is that it’d be directed at you instead.” “And what should I have done? He’s my friend.” He can see she’s upset, but he can’t stop himself from pushing. “Maybe you should get better friends.”

Maybe he should’ve laughed it off or changed the topic. But he’s laughed off too many jokes at the Banvish’s expense over the years, and tonight, he couldn’t abide either of them pretending to be something they weren’t.

she feels tender and hopeful today—and strange for it.

His smile was so wide and guileless. Joyful. His free and easy affection reminds her too much of what she’s lost—and what she can lose again.

The truth is simple and amoral. She will live because the fox will die.

If she must be seen tonight, she will be incandescent.

For years, she has kept this house. It has been her refuge, even in its disrepair. Every corner, every nook, and every warm, sunlit spot is filled with memories—reminders that this was once a home full of life and joy and happiness. But right now, its emptiness is a bitter reminder that she’s the only one left. That if the shadows swallowed her whole, it wouldn’t matter at all because there’s no one here to mourn her.

What kind of life would they actually have together? Would she remain a shade, haunting a new grand house? Would she continue her days only half-lived, braced for some inevitable tragedy to steal her happiness away?

“Mad is angry about a lot of things, and you’re an easy outlet. I’m not saying either of you is right. I’m just saying what is.”

He didn’t want to worry her, but he never considered that closing himself off would hurt her worse.

He’s not sure when talking to her will feel less like tearing his own heart out. He’s not sure when he’ll begin feeling like he’s doing the right thing, or if he’ll ever be the kind of man who deserves his parents’ pride.

The sea is gray and restless beneath a darkening sky. Every now and again, a white-capped wave rears up, snarling, and breaks on the rocks—just enough bite to prove it’s not a tamed creature.

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.

What is there for her, beyond the looming wall of her mother’s return? Who is she without the ache of her absence and the fear of losing her again?

“I hope you know that.” “I do,” she lies.

It’s never been difficult to admit that he admires her: her quiet strength and conviction, her surprising wit and tenderness, her devotion and tenacity. More than anything, Wes wants her to be happy, to protect her—the same as he would his family. But is that love? Would he even know anymore, when he’s so thoroughly deluded himself at every turn?

The hala isn’t the only monster in these woods. Humans are far worse.

He will devote his days to learning the exact composition of Jaime’s life. It will be his obsession, his magnum opus, to destroy everything that matters to him. He will wither his orchards and tear down his mansion plank by plank. He will incinerate everything he owns until it’s nothing but caput mortuum to scatter on the wind.

Jaime may be a true-blooded New Albian, but he’s no alchemist. He’s never touched the divine. He’s never reached for anything beyond his limitations. He is painfully mortal and feebly unambitious.

I’m so sick of it, Wes told her the other night. I’m sick of enduring it. Aren’t you? She is. Jaime has circled her like a hungry dog for years, never biting hard enough to draw blood. A test of his power, a reminder of her powerlessness. But now that he’s finally sunk his teeth in, she will not roll over for him so easily.

“One moment, I was petrified. And then, suddenly, I didn’t feel afraid anymore. I didn’t feel anything anymore. Nothing felt real—not even me. I just did what I had to do.

Now that she’s scraped raw, now that she’s bared her soul to him, nothing remains but a feeble, stubborn anger. Anger that he dredged up her mother’s work. Anger that she was too much of a coward to trust him or face his compassion. Anger at herself because she can’t hold her feelings back anymore. With everything crumbling around her, how can she maintain her walls? She doesn’t want them anymore. She doesn’t want to be alone.

“We’ve already established that I’m thick, so you’re going to need to explain this to me. You’re angry with me. I want to do better, but I can’t if you won’t talk to me. So please, talk to me. Please don’t shut me out again.”

If the stone can theoretically create anything, down to the very last atom, who’s to say it couldn’t bring somebody back from the dead—or more accurately, re-create them from nothing but memory? Disgust sours his stomach. Even God couldn’t get humans right. Would whatever the stone made even be human, or would it be an empty vessel without a soul?

But what happened to you, what happened to her … None of that was your fault, and it wasn’t your job to keep her afloat. You were just a kid. You deserved to be taken care of, and someone should’ve done something. You deserve to be loved.” For a horrible moment, she looks at him as though he’s uttered something unthinkable. “I’m not so sure. Some days, I thought I was invisible. Eventually, I learned how to convince myself that I was—that I didn’t exist at all. I think that’s the only reason I’m still here.”

“I don’t think alchemy is good or evil, just as much as I think people aren’t good or evil. There’s something within me—within all of us—that could turn. God, when my dad died, I would’ve done anything to get him back. Maybe if I’d known about the stone when it happened, I would’ve tried it, too. But I know he’s gone, and all I have are the people still here.

Christine was a complete wreck since she was closest to Dad, so after the funeral, Mad and I decided we were going to hold it down together. For me, I guess that meant shutting a part of myself off. It was too scary to confront how much I missed him, and I thought it would be better if I was the one who was fine—the one my mom didn’t have to worry about.”

“I can’t punish you for my own fears. I won’t let your family suffer because I was too much of a coward to trust you. If there’s any shot that we can win, then we have to take it.”