Page 67 of Disenchanted

If Maggie was right, this changed everything. Sage had always pictured Lilara as a serious solitary figure and had been so inspired. Reassured by that. A woman of independence and selfless sacrifice. Someone who had rejected both societal and supernatural power to claim her own kind of power instead, with the very decision that Sage had admired and used as fuel for so long.

But the story had been rewritten.

Maggie shot to her feet. There was a look of hesitation on her face, a little dazed as she changed her mind and sat back down again. She fell back against the cushions, momentarily rebuffed by her own mind, but then bolted up again.

“Maggs?” Casimir asked.

The ghost hoisted up her translucent skirts and hotfooted it upstairs, muttering busily under her breath as she bolted for the back bedroom. It was something like a bedroom anyway—ghosts weren’t exactly in the market for a dedicated space to sleep, but Sage had always insisted that Maggie needed a private space for herself, nonetheless. On the odd occasion that Maggie left the door ajar while spending time inside, Sage had seen her at the window seat gazing out longingly onto Port Sylvan, watching the world go by without her. How peculiar and confusing it must be, to watch society change through that small pane of glass without being able to step out into it and understand more.

It was also where Maggie kept all of her crafty equipment: her knitting, her darning, her very old-fashioned, hand-wheeled sewing machine. Sage had always admired it—a beautiful antique thing built into a small wooden table with cast-iron legs, curving lines and painted golden details.

That was it.

Sage shot after her, knocking Casimir out of the way and swinging frantically around the banister to take the stairs two at a time. She had just about enough presence of mind to call back to him. “Cas! The spinning wheel!”

She heard him sigh and mutter something about peace and quiet with a glass of red wine.

Sage burst into Maggie’s room behind her. The ghost had pulled out the small drawer which made up the base of her sewing machine, and the contents had been emptied out onto the desk. Amongst it all, Sage spotted an embroidered handkerchief, scalloped at the edges. A small dried corsage, a tiny glass elephant, a Bible no bigger than Maggie’s little finger with pretty gold edges, and in her hand, the housekeeper held a bunch of slightly crumpled yellowing envelopes.

“I had long forgotten the existence of this drawer, but her bracelet…” Maggie said self-consciously. Sage reached out to squeeze her upper arm and encourage her. “Things I have from my past. Little things. A heap of old rubbish, really. I know they don’t look as though they could possibly have meant much, but they must have done. Once. And among it all…” Maggie swallowed, looking, entirely baffled, from the contents of her hand back to Sage. “I kept her final letters.”

Saturday 14 October

Dearest Magnolia,

Oh, how I have dreaded picking up my pen to begin this letter to you. I know you are going to be plain furious with me. I can see your disapproving look, even from across the town. Promise to still be my treasured friend and confidante after this letter is done?

Despite all of your wisest warnings, to heed caution above all else, I confess I cannot keep my wonderful secret from him any longer. Maggie, you know how it has weighed on me for so long now, surely you can understand and see it from my eyes? I have to share the truth that plagues my mind, body and soul each night, the one that sends my mind spinning like a top and that runs through my veins like a stream of fire.

The answer to every question he has ever wondered about me. Don’t you see? It isn’t fair to keep it from him anymore. Why shouldn’t I share this beauty, this precious special blessing, with the one I love?

“Lily,” he whispered in my ear just last night, his breath sweet with wine, “you beguile me, you charm me, your sweet strangeness would never allow me to leave here without you. There will never be another that compares.” It was the finest promise I have ever heard. Perhaps a greater woman would have kept the secret for herself, but I have never claimed to be great. I am simply a girl who, for reasons I know not, has found herself with a dazzling gift. You were so welcoming of it. I know he shall be too.

Your dear friend,

Lily

Sunday 15 October

Dearest Magnolia,

I told him. As soon as the moonlight came—and it really was the most beautiful moonlight—I knelt at his feet and bloomed a single rose from the air. Just as I have shown you before. The perfect rich shade of red, with petals like silk and thorns that could mark a diamond.

I presented it between my hands as an offering, a simple display that I had hoped would impress him with the wonder that lays at my hands, for it has always been such a beautiful miracle to me. I pleaded that he take my gift to show me that he will accept me for who I really am, the way that you have done and the way that Mama and Papa cannot. If they had only permitted me to know the other witches, others like me, I may have known better.

Maggie, the answer is too painful to make permanent with ink upon these pages. My cheek is scratched from the thorns, a single petal still entwined in my matted hair. His face was thunder and fright, his voice louder still. I felt the spittle land upon my face, and even with closed eyes, I felt the accusatory finger pointing straight at my soul.

Please do not visit. I cannot face your disappointment as a final blow. I will write again when I can bring myself to form the words to tell you more and when my heart is not so splintered. I fear it may never be whole again.

Your dear friend,

Lily

Friday 20 October

Dear M,

I know you are worried about me. You have always been a woman of the kindest heart and softest sympathies. I am dreadfully sorry for ignoring your gentle letters and for sending your brother away with no word for you as to my state. But I have nothing to offer in the way of friendship or kindness. I am weak and tired and…Mere sadness does not brush against the feelings that weigh upon me. I can barely bring myself to write this note, but as my oldest and most cherished friend, I owe you as much as the news that I am still here, however much I may wish otherwise. I wish the same could be said for him.