The Sweet Far Thing

I swallow hard. Once this has begun, there is no turning back. And if I give her magic as she wants, who is to say that she can’t cause me harm? “Yes. I understand.”



“And you would give it…of your own free will?”



“What choice do I have?” I retort, and then I laugh bitterly, knowing full well what her response shall be. “Yes, I know, there is always a choice. Very well. I choose to give you what you want in exchange for what I need.”



“Of your own free will…”



“Yes, I give it of my own free will!” I snap.



“Then come to me,” she whispers, no more loudly than the rustling of silk.



I approach the well, where her body presses against the seal of water like a phantom. It takes every bit of strength I have to look into those staring eyes.



“Listen closely, Gemma,” she says in her slow, hoarse whisper. “Do exactly as I say, else you will kill me and know nothing.”



“I’m listening,” I say.



“Put your hand on the surface of the well and bestow it with life—”



“But I thought it would kill—”



“Just until the seal breaks and the water clears.”



My fingers linger on the edge of the well. Go on, then, Gemma. Get it over with. Slowly, I lower my trembling hands to the surface and rest them there. It is like a sheet of ice that melts at my touch. The water clears and Circe rises till her face is nearly breaking the surface.



“Good, good,” she whispers. “Now, place your palm over my heart and give me a small bit of magic—but only a small token. I am weak and cannot take more.”



My hand sinks into those waters until it is flush against the soggy fabric of Circe’s bodice, and I stifle a scream.



“Now,” she sighs.



Soon, the magic travels between us, an invisible thread. I feel nothing of her thoughts, only my own reflected to me.



“There,” I say, pulling quickly away.



Miss Moore rises until she’s floating peacefully on the surface. Her cheeks and lips show the palest hint of pink. Those unseeing eyes blink for the first time. Her voice gains strength.



“Thank you, Gemma,” she murmurs.



“I’ve done what you asked. Now I’ll have my answers.”



“Of course.”



I circle the well as I talk, not wanting to look at her. “What did you mean when you said the Order was plotting against me? How can I stop the Rakshana? What should I know about the realms, about the Winterlands creatures, and this magic? And Pippa. What do you know of—”



“So many questions,” she murmurs. “And yet, the answer is very straightforward. If you want to defend yourself against the Order and the Rakshana, you’d be best served to look inside yourself first, Gemma.”



“What do you mean?” I approach the well with caution.



“Learn to master yourself—to understand both your fears and your desires. That’s the key to the magic. Then, no one shall have any hold over you. Remember”—she takes a deep, wheezing breath—“the magic…is a living thing, joined to whomever it touches and changed by them as well.”



I pace the room, careful to avoid looking at her. “I am nearly seventeen. I should think I know myself.”



“You must come to know everything—even your darkest corners. Especially those.”



“Perhaps I have no dark corners.”



A thin rasp of a laugh comes from the well. “If that were true, I should be out there and you would be in here.”



I start to answer but no words come.



“You must know what the magic will cost you.”



“Cost me?” I repeat.



“Everything has its price.” She takes another shuddering breath. “I’ve not spoken so much…in ages. I must rest now.”



I hurry to the well, where she floats, her eyes closing. “Wait! But what about Tom and the Rakshana and Pippa and the Winterlands? I have more questions! You said you would help me!”



“And so I did,” she answers, drifting into the well’s depths. “Search those dark corners, Gemma. Before you find yourself caught there.”



I can’t believe I’ve given so much and gotten so little in return. I should never have thought to trust Circe in the first place.



“I won’t be back until the day I return the magic to the Temple—the day you die,” I say, storming from the room.



When I emerge from behind the curtain, Asha is there. She sits upon a small mat with her legs crossed, shelling bright orange peas into a bowl. Behind her, several Hajin sort through bushels of poppies, selecting only the brightest blooms, discarding the rest.