But that won’t stop her from drowning in guilt if I don’t.
I tap her chin, gently asking her to look up at me. When she does, I see her eyes are red-rimmed.
“I’m the Catholic, not you.”
“You don’t have a monopoly on guilt.”
“It’s not your fault,” I whisper.None of it.
“I know.” Her voice cracks. “But…”
What I want to do next will be.
It’s her voice, but it’s in my mind. Fighting with her made me more in tune with her thoughts, and this one is especially present.
“What are you planning?” I ask. Shivering, I grab my shirt and pull it over my head. At least I’m a little cleaner now.
“Nothing!” Her eyes go wide, fearful—not of me, I think, but of herself.
“Nothing…yet?” I guess.
Her gaze slides away. “I don’t know. Things…are not right. I don’t know what the right thing to do is anymore.”
“What are the options?” I ask. This is magic, and I don’t understand the varied paths it may take. I only know that no matter what, I will be by her side.
“The Origin Tree acts like a dam, ensuring that only so much magic is released into the world, accessed exclusively by the witches who prove their intent with the spells and rituals…” Her voice trails off, and I can tell these thoughts have been swirling inside her for a while. “And what Dieter wants to do iswrong, I know that, Ibelievethat.”
Destroying all the safeguards in place and flooding the world with power in a vain attempt to seize it all for himself.
“But…we can’t keep living under the traditional way of doing magic. It isn’t enough anymore,” Fritzi says, her voice so small I barely catch her words.
“The others speak of wild magic as if it’s evil,” I tell her. “But you use wild magic, and it’s not evil.”
“I know.”
“Magic is power,” I continue. Ifeltthat power, filling my muscles, giving me the strength to fight the statues. Toprotectthe person I love. “How you use that power is what makes a thing good or evil. Not the power itself.”
“Are you sure of that?” Fritzi asks. Her eyes are beseeching, and I can see the war happening in her mind, the questions she barely has the courage to ask while we’re alone.
“No,” I tell her truthfully. I am not a witch. I do not understand her world, even when I live in it. “But,” I add, and hope fills her face, “I believe in you.”
She leans her body against mine, her head over my tattoo, listening, I think, for my heartbeat. I want to wrap my arms around her, I want to show her my love, but I also know that the reason why she’s letting me support her weight right now is because she is still exhausted from being so drained of magic, and it is my fault. So, instead of pulling her into an embrace, instead of tilting her chin up so I can claim her kisses and calm her mind, I hold her shoulders and push her gently back.
“Can you teach me?” I ask her.
“Teach you what?”
“How to use your magic without draining you. I am your warrior, but I’d rather fight beside you instead of in front of you.”
What we don’t say is that facing goddess-sent monsters will be nothing against facing Fritzi’s brother, and we are not ready for that battle.
“I don’t really know how to teach you about magic,” Fritzi says in a low, worried voice. “But I can at least show you how I do it.”
Fritzi pulls me to a tree near the well, and we sit under its branches, tightly closed buds and new leaves unfurling above us, speckling the light with shadow. The oval leaves are slightly pointed, still small, but I’m pretty sure this is a fruit tree. Perhaps some wanderer tossed an apple core after finishing a snack, and, since this area isn’t populated, a tree grew from the seeds, far too close to the well.
We sit so that we face each other, legs crossed, hands open in our laps. I have seen monks pray like this—not the kneeled prayers beforethe altar, but the quiet personal prayers during a pause in gardening or at the beginning of the day before duty calls, or when alone.
“Magic is like the trees,” Fritzi tells me, and I smile, because of course she would use a plant to explain a part of herself. “It takes time to grow new leaves.”
