Page 72 of Disenchanted

Maggie chuckled as she took the pan to the sink. “Pray tell, did sleep bring any clarity? Or at least, I hope, a burst of renewed resolve?”

Sage swallowed a giant bite of pancake and washed it down with the black coffee that her guardian angel Maggie had already prepared. “Well, I suppose I should start to throw together something that vaguely resembles a plan, don’t you agree, Maggs? You know, considering the whole town is smothered in thorns and I have discovered that my destiny was warped around a twisted witch’s heartbroken curse, I feel surprisingly buoyant.”

“That’ll be the sugar, Treasure,” Maggie replied happily. “Its own sort of magic, I’ve always thought. Icing, syrup, cinnamon spice—it’s all rather important in its own—”

Her theory was interrupted by the arrival of Casimir, who stumbled into the kitchen, still bleary-eyed and looking distinctly grumpy. He paused in the kitchen doorway and glanced at Maggie leaning against the sink and then at Sage still devouring her food. Out of the corner of her eye, Sage could have sworn she saw his whole body tighten, the fingers of his left hand flexing ever so slightly at his waist, where the sword was sheathed on his belt.

She set down her cutlery with a clatter and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin as she turned to him. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed. Come on, there’s work to be done.”

Casimir said nothing, only continued staring her down.

Sage gave a scowl at his rudeness—she did not have time for his theatrics when there was a plan to be hatched. “I know you’re sleepy and this is exhausting, but that’s no excuse for being an arse. Sit, eat something, drink caffeine. It’ll do you good.” She gestured to the pancake stack.

“Work, indeed. Then let us begin.” Casimir spoke solemnly as he snatched the second chair out from the table, scraping the legs across the kitchen floor, and slumped down tensely across from her.

“When you’ve quite finished,” Sage said, dismissing his morning mood with a wave, “there are only two charms left on the chain, so I’m relieved to say we must finally be near some form of conclusion. Penultimately, following the spinning wheel, I’ve woken to a wilted rose in the eleventh spot, which”—she gestured to every window of the kitchen, all of which were clouded over into darkness by the dense presence of endless thorns and roses, the beanstalk’s bright green trunk no longer visible—“should be a fairly self-explanatory chapter, I would hope. Particularly apt too, given Lilara’s letter, which documented her gifting her lover his own enchanted rose. A rather poetic, if not extremely depressing, addition to the curse, I’ll give her that. Poor girl.”

“And the last charm of which you speak?” Casimir asked in a low voice, with such an unrelenting stare across the table that Sage shifted a little uncomfortably. He was annoyed with her for the rude awakening or…maybe he felt embarrassed to have woken up in her bed? Her face burned. Of course he regretted it; it was close contact, even for them. They had been crossing some kind of unspoken line for days. Not that she’d minded.

Reluctantly, she held out her wrist across the table towards him. “This. It changed just as I was dressing this morning, once I’d discovered the thorns. The final chapter.” She angled the chain to find the light, showing him the unspecific swirling vortex-like shape that had manifested as the ultimate silver charm. Maggie wiped her hands off on a tea-towel and hurried over to see too.

“Perchance I am too optimistic—it certainly would not be the first time—but does it not appear as though it could be a sort of…end?” Maggie said, hope audible in her voice. “As though the enchantment, the curse, might dissipate into the ether, a swirl much like cream stirred into a cup of tea?” She beamed delightedly at the comparison.

“Perhaps,” Sage said, tapping her chin, “but it is strangely obscure and abominably unspecific when compared to the rest of the chapter charms. They’ve all been, if not clear signposting, then at least highly connected to the latest development of the curse. This one is…different.”

Casimir reached across the table to take hold of Sage’s wrist, just as he had done when he had first fastened the chain into a bracelet. But this time, his grip was rough and tight. Too tight.

“Ow, watch it, Cas…” Sage faltered. She tried to withdraw her arm, but his fingers tightened further, pinching her skin. Sage glanced at Maggie, whose eyebrows were raised.

“Mr. Everald, are you quite well?”

“I assure you I have never felt better. Fear not, my pure-hearted spirit,” he replied to Maggie, but his burning gaze did not leave Sage. “Once you had succumbed to sleep’s embrace upon the night just passed, my mind raced with thoughts I could not still.”

“Always a dangerous start to your sentences,” Sage said tensely, breaking away from his grip. The quick, curt smile that he gave her in response did not reach his eyes. Something flickered behind their usual chocolate-brown warmth. The glint that she knew so well was no longer a fond one of familiarity and concern. It was calculating, restrained, measured…His voice was cold and formal in a way that stopped it sounding like his own.

“Were I less certain of my senses, I might well deem you a being not of this realm. Some kind of mischief. A shadow. A spectre…” His hand slipped to his hip beneath the tabletop, and his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. “I sense a strangeness within you.”

Sage swallowed hard. “I could say the same about you. You’re not yourself, Casimir.”

Casimir shot to his feet. In a flash, he’d drawn his sword and lashed it across the table, the point landing directly under Sage’s chin. She shot back from her chair, spine hitting the kitchen wall. Somewhere behind him, she registered a shriek from Maggie.

“Mr. Everald!”

“I see it now,” Casimir said, raising his voice louder, his fingers flexing more tightly around the sword’s golden handle as he glared at Sage. “You have beguiled me.”

“Cas, please…” Sage gasped, pressing herself up against the wall as tightly as she could to avoid being skewered.

“You are no fair maiden, as your cunning facade made claim. But instead a creature masked in false beauty and double-crossing temptation.” He was staring at her with pure hatred.

“Mr. Everald, I really must warn you—”

“This isn’t you, Cas. This is the spell—”

“By heaven and all the realms,” Casimir hissed, “you are the wicked witch!”

She whimpered and swallowed against the sword pressed to her throat. She had lost him. He had turned. Even someone as clever and quick and good as Casimir could be taken by the curse. It really would stop at nothing. Hot salty tears streaked her cheeks as she searched his eyes, trying to find any sign of the Casimir she knew and loved still in there, imploring him to recognize her. But there was nothing.

“I fear this realm of goodness and light has no place for one such as you, witch.” He spoke pure bile through gritted teeth, and his words cut more deeply than the blade at her throat ever could. The sharp point pressed more tightly, nicked the skin. Sage squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn’t how she wanted to see him for the last time. Palms flattened against the wall, heels scuffing against the boards, she waited to feel his sword deliver the final blow.