Page 52 of Disenchanted

“Magic is not meant for me. It never was.”

“You’re tired, Sage,” Mal said kindly but firmly, as only a good friend could. “It’ll look brighter in the morning. How about brushing me? That’ll help.”

It was so unlike her, but there was no mistaking such a clear, dire warning anymore. Proof, written in moonlight itself, that she must leave magic well alone if she wanted any chance at happiness or any kind of love.

Everything that Sage had ever suspected about herself was all but confirmed by the witch that she admired most. Who could know it better? She really was cursed—all witches were—and unlovable for it. It made sense that this was the price they all paid, in exchange for wielding this great power. Of course it couldn’t come for free. Laurel’s bruises flashed into her mind. Casimir’s cheek and Robin’s hand. All horribly close to real trouble. She must never let anybody else be harmed by the darkness of her magic.

She would not allow herself to cry, though exhaustion and bitter disappointment soaked straight through to her bones like heavy rain. The swell of humiliation was beyond anything as useless as tears.

Sage stroked the top of Mal’s head, lost in thought while her own brow rested against the cold window and she peered down onto the night below. Something had shifted. With this second correspondence from Lilara, it was as though the magic that had flooded the town for the past few days, dusting it in such a beautiful glitter, had changed from gold to a stark, icy silver. Port Sylvan suddenly looked cold.

21

Through the Glass

Maggie’s mild bullying tactics involved gentle nagging and purposefully dropping the temperature of the room by a good ten degrees with her haunting capabilities. It worked to coax Sage from her room and guide her closer to the fireplace downstairs. Sage finally joined her housekeeper at the kitchen table after being lured by roast potatoes and gravy, followed by a cup of tea and a game of cards. Sage’s heart wasn’t in it, though. Dismay was a painful, heavy knot in the pit of her stomach, and embarrassment ached in a red flush. It might have been almost midnight, but there was little point in trying to sleep.

“I wish you’d confide in me, Treasure. You really are terrible for keeping your troubles to yourself.” Maggie spoke softly, but Sage could hear the determination in her voice. “To drop three games on the trot, that’s most unlike you.”

“Do you think you’re a good person, Maggs?” Sage blurted it out before she could stop herself, throwing her hand of cards down onto the table.

Maggie startled at the question. “Beg pardon, madam?”

“By that, I mean…” Sage swallowed, trying to figure out how to end the sentence in a way that wasn’t entirely mortifying. “I mean, do you think some people are ever just…cursed? From the very beginning? That love isn’t meant for them. That they’re not supposed to be happy?”

Maggie tilted her head, then glanced out the window at the huge silhouette of the beanstalk. “Is this connected to all the bothersome antics of this pesky enchantment?”

Sage only shrugged.

Maggie smiled sadly, the silhouette of her silvery expression wavering in the candlelit kitchen. “Truth be told, I’ve wondered the same thing myself during many a night spent in contemplation.” She played with the hem of her apron. “Sometimes it has felt as though I must have committed some ghastly sin to end up living in such a strange loop. Ensnared the way that I am, bereft of a true love and void of companionship in a greater capacity than whoever claims this house. Surely such a fate would scarce befall a virtuous woman, would it?”

Sage flared with defensiveness for her dear friend, sweetness and generosity personified. “That’s not true. There was nothing you could have done to affect your fate, Maggs. Your death couldn’t be helped, for one. Tuberculosis was highly contagious and there was no effective treatment in your day. You’re not at fault for any part of your fate. It’s terrible, that’s for sure, but it’s entirely out of your control.”

Maggie nodded. “And I know that, deep down. It’s only in my darkest hours that such fancies take hold. My meaning, Sage, is that if you don’t think it of me and my fate, then why should it be any different for yourself?”

Sage didn’t have a response to that. It was not the same. Maggie had not wielded unforgivable dark magic against those she loved. Maggie was unfairly caught up in some kind of messy, fate-twisting mistake, while Sage’s curse was warranted and inevitable, as a witch.

The housekeeper leaned forwards and placed an ice-cold but comforting palm over Sage’s scrunched fist.

“Luck may be unknowable, but love is much simpler. It is not a proud critic, Sage. It is generous and good. We’re all of us supposed to find it along the way. It’s usually there for the taking, should we only pause to acknowledge the loveliness that we’ve discovered.”

“Usually there,” Sage said, echoing Maggie’s choice of words, “not always.”

A sad sort of quiet blanketed the kitchen. The candles flickered between the two women.

“Nobody, and I mean nobody—not even you, Treasure—is born cursed,” Maggie said softly. “Some folks find that dreadful things are written into their story, make no mistake.” She gestured down at herself, the shape of the chair visible behind her translucent arms and frilly apron. “This life in which we all find ourselves, whether ghostly or corporeal, can at the best of times be cruel and unkind and unfair, something rotten. You’re acquainted with such great grief, what with the loss that you’ve suffered,” Maggie said with a shake of her head, gathering the cards from the table to shuffle them together again. “But you hear this, Sage Hemlock: That casts no reflection on whether you yourself are made up of a good or a bad sort of magic.” She began to divide the cards between them again for a fresh game. “Some of us are dealt an unkind hand, but the cards you’re given aren’t up to you. What you do with them once they’re dealt, that part is yours to decide.”

Sage could only sniff and push up her glasses. “Sorry, Maggs. Don’t know what’s come over me, all of this deplorable pondering.” Maggie was doing her best to brighten her mood, but the ghost was fighting a losing battle. A sleepy headache drummed at Sage’s temples, and a sickly sort of sadness was making everything feel heavy. “I think I might go to bed. Do you mind? It’s been quite a day. Quite a week, actually.”

“Not at all, Treasure,” Maggie said kindly, rising to the faint outline of her feet. “But allow me to draw you a bath first, will you? Then you’ll retire straight to sleep. It’ll do you a world of good to warm your bones and fill your lungs with healing lavender.”

Maggie was right. She usually was, especially when it came to anything remotely comforting or good for the soul—neither of which were Sage’s speciality. Sage had never been particularly good at looking after herself. It had been a fortunate stroke of luck that her house had come with a benevolent and naturally maternal housekeeping ghost and that her best friend seemed to enjoy keeping a close, protective eye on her in the outside world.

Sage lay in the hot bath, tendrils of steam wrapping her limbs in a mist of herbal smells and warmth. She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, replaying the moments over and over from the past few hours that had changed everything so starkly. Casimir and her siblings felt a million miles away now. Lilara’s new words tangled with Maggie’s opinions until they all felt too loud, too contradictory, and Sage plunged herself under the water to try to clear her mind.

Eventually, she pulled herself out of the tub and gathered up the fluffy towel that Maggie had left for her on the radiator, droplets running down the back of her shoulders and damp red ringlets clinging to the nape of her neck.

She turned to the mirror to retie the scrunchie that was hopelessly attempting to keep her curls in one place.