I set it on her stomach and opened one of Papa’s old books. It still smelled of him—of soot and flame, ink and age. I breathed in the scent.
I animated my voice as I read fables from the Wild Lands, of her ancestors taming snow leopards and riding mammoths, of communing with dragons and wielding magic deeper than Amouridia has ever known.
Asha drifted back to sleep, peace softening her expression. I collected the untouched sandwich, its weight settling into my palms. A lump formed in my throat.
I hoped she dreamed of what might have been for her—for all of us—on another path.
But the only future I longed for now was the one where she was well again.
“Master Carter, do you think I can heal others of the plague?”
We sat in the training room, shelves brimming with yellowed scrolls and the smell of musk and vanilla. In the corner, a simmering pot sent steam curling into the air. Glass bottles of neon, translucent liquids sat perched on a desk’s edge.
He scratched his cheek beneath his thick, brown beard. “Perhaps eventually, with some practice.”
I’d quickly shared my new magical discovery with Master Carter, whose brows had shot all the way up to his hairline. Like me, he was keen to experiment with time magic in whatever way possible.
But more importantly, and perhaps in poor form, I eagerly awaited the response of a certain prince. Not that I should care how he felt.
I certainly didn’t care, or at least told myself I didn’t.
Yet I wanted him to know what I had discovered. I wanted him to be proud of me, as silly and futile and embarrassing as the desire was.
With Master Carter’s assistance, I had so far unmade knitted stockings, so that they sat as a pool of brown yarn on the floor.We’d expected that much. After all, stockings required a few days of active creation to undo, like parchment. I attempted a sweater, which was slightly more challenging. In my mind, the spool of magic thread yanked itself from my soul’s grip, and I was left clinging to empty air. When I’d opened my eyes, the sweater was only half unravelled.
Today, we tried a potion, the very one simmering in the corner. Master Carter brought me a cup and I spent a good half-hour in battle with my thread, just like the fishermen who stood by the city river all morning with strings and hope. However, I’d come out victorious—when I opened my eyes, weak and weary as I was, the cup had broken in half, and the ingredients were pooled in separate areas of the desk: the shavings of a unicorn horn, lily petals, the blood of a flying bird, and a boiled dragon’s tooth.
And now he sat scribbling the results of our test furiously as I found myself lying outstretched on his sofa. I pondered what else I could do with my magic and how to use it to help others.
To help Asha.
“Using it to reverse this plague would be incredible.” He paused in his writings to squint at me. “But think of how exhausted you were by this afternoon’s simple exercise. To reverse a sickness that has simmered in the body for months? It would be incredibly draining to undo that amount of time.”
I already experienced nights of fitful sleep and foggy mornings after my magic shows. My current magic usage was an added weight that bore down on my bones.
“It would be worth it, though.” These days, Asha’s sleeping form was permanently etched in my mind. The fear that any day might be her last. Like Papa.
He watched me, and with a sigh, laid his pen down. “Now thatyou know you are doing time magic, and have discovered how to use it—”
“You mean my thread?”
“Yes, if you want to use contemporary thought, then your thread. How does it work in your mind?”
My brow furrowed. “Quite literally, actually, although I am still getting acquainted with its use. It is as if there is a spool inside my soul, and my fingers grasp the thread, and with a few tugs, my magic is enhanced.”
He came around and leaned back against his desk, his hands splayed to his sides. “Like our famed mage prince, I personally see a golden ball in my hands that I must throw with all my might. The more I use my magic amplifier, the higher I must throw it, in hopes it will still return to me.”
“Prince Thomas never told me he imagined it differently.”
Master Carter shrugged. “It is something he shared once after a Council Meeting. We all visualize our amplifiers uniquely, but it does seem that the thread is the most common metaphor that resonates with mages at the moment.” He gave a close-lipped smile. “Which leads me to ask… what happens if I throw my ball of magic too high? Or if you pull too much from your strand?”
“The thread snaps from my hand.”
“That is all?”
“Is something else meant to happen?”
He cleared his throat. “I am encouraged, to say the least. Your body clearly implements self-protective measures. This vision of thread snapping from your hand is a way to force the magic to lose its hold of you.”
