Page 48 of Disenchanted

A tiny heart-shaped flame bloomed above one birthday candle. She’d watched that little glowing orb dance above her cake until only a puddle of pink wax was left leaking over the icing. This, the tiniest of spells, made her heart soar with awe.

She had kept that natural curiosity, she supposed, in some form, but it had turned into something protective, even aggressive in its desperation to control. Once, it had been pure wonder. The past few days had shown her that perhaps there was still room for at least a small sprinkle of such joyful magic in her life. While she could never forgive herself entirely for what had happened to her parents at the hands of her powers, Lilara’s enchantment hinted that maybe it was finally time to relinquish at least some of the immeasurable guilt that had anchored her ever since. Perhaps she could finally begin to float again, at least once in a while.

Sage held out the palm of her right hand and glanced across to Casimir. He leaned in, an amused glint in his eyes. She hesitated for just a moment more before she pointed at the night air above her palm. Between a burst of burgundy sparks, a small heart-shaped flame appeared in mid-air.

The feeling was like the embrace of a loved one long missed. As though she had picked up the scent of a lost grandparent enveloped in the knit of an old cardigan. Or seen a forgotten photograph that had fallen behind a dresser decades ago, wiped a trail in the dust to reveal the face of an old friend when they were younger. It almost choked her, the nostalgia so sweet and so painful all at once. Suddenly she was fifteen again, delighted curiosity sweeping her up and carrying her forwards, without stumbling over uncertainty or fear or doubt, allowing her magic to take the lead.

“I’m afraid my spellwork is highly limited,” Sage said, apologizing for the pitiful, small-scale magic. “A witch can only perform spells without an incantation that she has—”

“Successfully knitted before,” Casimir finished. He rubbed his hands together and held them up to Sage’s flame to feel its warmth. “I’d say that’s a perfectly perfect spell, Specs.”

Despite herself, she beamed with pride.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while as they simply watched the impossible flame hovering in front of them and occasionally shared a knowing glance side by side. It felt so good to share it with him, a little glimpse into a side of herself that she had kept locked away her whole life, only dragged out by the collar and shoved into the light when absolutely necessary. For once, she had welcomed it gently, coaxed it out into the open. The waves of chatter and laughter of the bonfire crowds in the distance combined with the whisper of leaves that blew around the gazebo and scattered across its wooden floor at their feet. Their hands rested side by side on the wooden bench. The slightest touch of Casimir’s little finger brushed against her own.

“It’s always my pleasure to see you shine, Specs. You’re brilliant, you know that. But this is something else,” Casimir said finally. “Seeing your magic, it’s…” He swallowed hard. “You’ve only ever let me see it once or twice before, and—”

Sage bristled, a little embarrassed. “With good reason. It’s the whole point of this mess, isn’t it? I’m trying to be, you know, fun.”

“Will you let me finish?” Casimir said patiently. She caught a knowing glimmer of a smile. “I wanted to make sure I told you while it’s just the two of us. Watching that—watching you—is an honour.”

Sage scoffed.

“Seriously, Sage. You have absolutely no idea how remarkable you are.” For once, there was no trace of laughter or jibes in his voice. It was strangely thick, reckless even, unsteady as he turned to face her. “I mean, you’re remarkable at the best of times, whether you’re proving some form of supernatural theorem that nobody else on this plane would have considered possible. Or whether you’re somehow fixing the practicality of everybody else’s lives, as well as your own. Or whether you’re just peeling an apple all in one strip without even glancing up from your papers,” he said, sincerity giving way to a light laugh. “I always think you’re remarkable,” he finished, the last part a little quieter. It was framed by a particularly loud crackle from the bonfire as more wood was thrown on.

Sage was blushing so furiously that she had to break their blazing eye contact. She shrugged to hide her confusion. “This handsome Prince Charming lark is turning you into a sap.”

Casimir laughed and shook his head. “It’s only the uniform. The words are mine. Entirely. I don’t tell you often enough how brilliant you are, how I’ve come to expect the impossible from you, because you always prove me right. I think I take it for granted after all of these years, watching you do one extraordinary, defiant thing after the next.”

“Hardly,” Sage said, lowering her eyes again. “Look at the mess I’ve landed us in.”

“A curious, wonderful, beautiful mess of magic. Sounds like you, all right.”

With a gentle hand, Casimir turned her chin back to him, taking her gaze that was so determinedly fixed on the bonfire for himself. She forced herself to meet his eyes, reminding herself that this was Casimir. Just Cas. Why was he behaving like this—his confidence softened, voice strangely husky, eyes reverent? And why was she behaving so oddly to match, as though she’d forgotten how her own respiratory system worked? Her melted brain seemed to have fallen somewhere into her feet.

Casimir’s unguarded gaze dropped to her lips, then snapped back to her eyes, like he’d just caught himself doing something he shouldn’t. A shiver ran through her. It was a cold night, she told herself. Very cold.

Her glasses may have a strong prescription, but she was by no means blind. The first time Casimir had ever spoken properly to Sage, hurrying to catch up with her in the university courtyard, she had point-blank ignored him, had assumed that this painfully attractive, tall, floppy-haired academic / future catalogue model, with his perfectly soft sweatshirts and reading glasses hanging over his pocket, must have been talking to somebody else. When he’d persisted, she’d looked over her shoulder to see who it was he was trying to speak to because it couldn’t possibly have been her. Only on the third try, as she noticed for the first time how his incessant grin did that outrageous lopsided sort of thing, did she manage to close her mouth and shake a string of coherent thoughts into a row to answer. It had been far, far too easy to get lost in the way he looked at her over the years—embarrassingly so. She had long since trained herself out of it, in an effort to protect herself from the inevitable, toe-curling humiliation if she ever did something foolish about it.

Since then, his had become a face that she had learned by heart—every faint line and freckle, not to mention the frankly obscene dimple of his chin. But this time, really looking at him as he was lit by the bonfire and framed by the moon, she noticed a slight crease in his brow. And the sort of glint that she’d seen before over the years—his usual charming, daring arrogance, but coupled with a rare spark of hope and vulnerability. Any time she’d seen this look on his face before—late nights in the library, quiet dinners at the museum—she would always remind herself severely that it couldn’t possibly be real. She was exhausted or maybe delusional or maybe entirely insane, and actually, her infuriating friend gave that same look to every female he ever encountered.

There had been something…once. Before they’d become anything even like friends. In the second year of university, before their “academic rivals” thing had combusted on itself and turned to friendship instead. They had been the last two souls in the department, the whole university practically deserted over the Christmas break, and there’d been a power outage—possibly caused by her fractured magic, although she couldn’t be certain. Only a couple of candles burned against the quiet darkness. She’d felt his eyes on her from across the common room, as she often did back then, before he’d quite figured her out. Hate was still disguising something else, masking intrigue.

She’d stretched up onto her tiptoes, reached to grab a book from the top shelf and sensed him step in close behind her. His fingers had slipped over hers as he pulled the volume down for her.

“You’re very distracting.”

She felt his warm breath against the back of her neck, knee grazing the back of her thigh. Her breath stuttered. She determinedly did not turn around. Neither of them shifted for an excruciating moment.

“Your move,” he added eventually in a low voice.

His hand slipped down her side, leaving a delicious sort of electricity in its wake. Then she’d watched as he left the room without looking back, hands shoved deeply in his pockets, whistling as though nothing had happened.

Sage had, naturally, made no move whatsoever, then or ever since.

They had never spoken of the moment again. Sometimes she wondered whether she’d made the whole thing up, but then, she was never much one for imagination.

Tonight was like that: a brave shift. There was something about the electrical charge in the air—maybe her bolstered confidence, maybe her newfound bravery or maybe a current of magic that permeated the cold October night and nestled itself between them—that made things feel different this time.