Page 64 of Disenchanted

But this time, it was a name that only one person ever called her.

“Specs? Are you up there?”

Casimir. He had come back, just as he’d promised. He shouted breathlessly for Sage as he climbed the staircase at speed, his voice echoing around the stone. “If you’re not up there and this spell is making me climb all the way up for no good reason, I swear I’ll…Specs!”

He turned the corner of the final step, his eyes widening at the sight of the golden cage, then he ran and fell to his knees beside her. “Are you okay?” He grasped her face, stroking it with his thumbs before turning to look at Laurel. “Is…is the princess okay? She doesn’t look all that okay.”

Sage faltered. “The princess? You mean Laurel?”

“Who?”

“Laurel…You just called her the bloody princess.”

“Did I?” Casimir shook his head, fuzzy with confusion. “Sorry, sorry…Maybe it’s the altitude. Maybe it’s this pissing feather slowly but surely piercing my brain underneath this hideous hat.” He batted it out of his line of vision with a grimace.

Sage knew exactly what it was. She was rapidly running out of time to save him.

“Where have you been?” she asked gently. She hadn’t the energy to be frustrated or annoyed or confused that he had decided to take off. The soft tone of her voice towards him sounded quite uncharacteristic, even to her, but she was fast losing the adrenaline that had been keeping her spirit alight.

“Where have I been?” Casimir asked himself, straining to remember. “That’s a good question.” The enchantment was blurring his memories, Sage knew it. “Well, I tried to get on the train to bring in reinforcements. I have a contact in supernatural beasts, a chap I met at a Cambridge conference once who I’ve long suspected was magically inclined. Strange fellow, very grumpy, always wearing a Stetson, of all crimes, not that I can say much about headwear in my present state…Anyway, it struck me he might have some advice about this curse or at least negotiating peace talks with the giant. But I only ended up sitting on the train for ages, going endlessly in a loop around Port Sylvan for quite some time. It would seem that there’s no way in and no way out.” He visibly shuddered. “But worry not, a noble prince such as I is not short on bravery, no matter how public transport may try to thwart me. I assumed I’d find you at the museum, Specs, but you were gone, the archive still locked, and then—it probably sounds mad—but it was as though all of my instincts suddenly knew that there was a damsel nearby who may or may not be in distress…”

“ ‘Distress’ is one word for it,” Sage murmured. He wasn’t himself, reality and story blurring at the edges of his speech and movements, but it still felt good and right to have him nearby again, in any form he could manage.

“She’s only sleeping, isn’t she?” Casimir faltered, leaning over Laurel to check her pulse. “It’s faint. What about that bloody useless knight who we released? I know he’s still pottering around, the size of a walnut, but she’s the princess of the realm. Surely, we should be able to bank on him reappearing soon to save her?”

“Oh, come off it. Since when can one rely on men to do anything?” Sage said crossly, leaning back against her sister’s bed in a slump. “It’s the key charm we need to solve if we want to move towards any kind of conclusion. I still haven’t found a suitable explanation for it; it’s behaving differently than the rest. Like it wants us to go looking.”

Even in the most surreal of circumstances, it felt oddly comforting to have assumed their usual position. Backs slumped against the golden cage, they sat side by side on the floor, as they always did whenever time was ticking by and a deadline was imminent. Sage longed for the day, if it ever came, that they could be back in the dark cosy archive together, and the rest of the world would leave them well alone to each other’s comfortable, safe company.

“A key? I see where you were going with the tower. Good thinking, Specs,” he said. “But the spell wanted us to find Laurel easily; she’s not locked away. So, what could it be that is?”

Sage sat bolt upright. The motion of her brain cogs coming to life again, whirring with the electric spark of an idea, felt familiar, comforting and a reliable trail to follow. Her thoughts ran away from her at speed, and soon she could see the faint, flickering blossom of new possibility ripe for consideration. What was it in its purest form? What was the seed to be planted and nurtured?

She had to keep moving forwards to get closer; it would come more into focus as she approached. Just the same way that…

She grabbed Casimir by the front of his doublet. “Who do we know who’s locked up?” she breathed, drunk on the rush of inspiration.

“I think Terry who runs the newsagent did a few years once for drink-driving, now you mention it,” Casimir suggested.

Sage simply blinked at him. A sense of serenity washed over her with the confidence that she had come to a correct conclusion, and an immense glow of satisfaction flooded her veins. The high that she was forever chasing in her studies.

“No, Cas. I mean, who do we know who’s both literally and figuratively locked away, caught in the most impenetrable of entrapments?”

Casimir’s eyes widened. “Maggie.”

Sage and Casimir burst through the front door of the gingerbread cottage with such haste that one of the edges crumbled into pieces onto the doormat as it rebounded off the wall. The loud sound sent Mal’s ears scooting backwards and elicited an extremely unimpressed “Do you mind?” from his perch on a stack of books. He returned to his snooze with a hearty sigh, ignoring their continued panic entirely.

“Is it the curse making me woozy, or did that fell beast just talk?” Casimir asked uncertainly, creeping closer to Mal. “Pray, are you some kind of chimera? Manticore? Perhaps a small griffon?”

“Are you?” Mal asked, eyes still closed and highly unimpressed.

“Maggie? Maggs? Are you here?” Sage yelled through the house, speeding down the hallway to peer around the living room and then rush into the kitchen.

Maggie was at the kitchen counter, singing to herself while she shaped a batch of perfectly round and scored bread rolls. She dusted off the flour from her hands and threw them onto her hips, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Of course I’m here, Sage. When have I ever not been here? Prithee, why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost? Well, aside from”—she gestured down to herself—“the obvious answer to that, o’course.”

“We need to talk to you,” Sage said, panting, swinging around the kitchen doorframe, trying to steady herself.

Judging by the shock on Maggie’s face, she must look utterly insane. She caught her reflection in the dark of the evening window and saw that her pale skin was blotchy and tear-stained from having no choice but to leave Robin and Laurel behind again. Her hair was even more of a windswept tangle than usual. Angry scratches from the forest covered her face and mud was splattered everywhere. The bags under her eyes were frankly frightening.