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If I let the magic out, it could wash away the stench. It could carry me straight to my destination without my taking another step.
That might be true, I retort.But what will you ruin in the meantime?
It doesn’t have an answer to that.
Brief nips of pain quiver through my nerves, but nothing I can’t tune out. The magic only really lashes out when I’ve refused a particularly good reason to use it.
The fits of agony only started a year ago… and they’ve become more frequent and intense by the month. I don’t want to think too hard about what that might mean for my future.
Around me, the taller wooden buildings give way to smaller but equally lopsided shacks. Here and there, twists of stems and errant leaves poke from gaps where vegetation has merged with the frames.
Every neighborhood has a few eager gardeners who’ve sacrificed a bit of themselves in exchange for a gift of encouraging plants. Trading favors so they’ll coax a sapling or a shrub into patching up a deteriorating building is often cheaper than buying the supplies and skills for a more traditional fix.
Half of these buildings would be heaps of debris if not for the intertwined plants holding them steady.
When I reach the row of houses I’m aiming for, I veer into the dingy back gardens. I’d rather no one can ever identify the person behind my anonymous donations.
At each home, I leave a small stack of coins on a window ledge. Here and there, I glance through the ragged curtains at the signs of life within.
At Marta’s house with the drooping shingles and the tufts of thistledown protruding along the edge of the roof, I hear a familiar grunt. Beyond the bedroom window, the avid lover rocks with some new man. He ruts into her as she arches back against the sheets.
Her eager moan sets off an unwelcome pulse of heat between my legs. She sounds like she’s having a much more thrilling time than any of my hasty roll-abouts have given me.
Of course, I haven’t exactly had a broad selection of potential partners. It’s been a couple of years since the last time I dared get that close to anyone.
I slink on to the next house, shedding the pinch of longing the private image brought. One by one, I leave coins for Bogusi the cook, Anielle the seamstress, and Oska the butcher’s assistant.
These people have never properly met me, but I’ve spent years watching over them. Sharing their joys and sorrows in snippets of conversations overheard.
They’re the closest thing I have to a family now—a very large family, even if they barely know I exist.
At the last house in the row, two little girls scamper around the patchy yard. I crouch by the refuse bin, the previous pinching sensation expanding to squeeze my heart.
The younger girl trips and tumbles across the gritty soil. At her yelp, I sway forward and then catch myself.
It isn’t my place to jump in. I’m helping in my own way—the way that doesn’t risk anyone getting more hurt than they already are.
The older girl has already dashed to her sister’s side. “It’s okay. Let’s get a bit of water to wash the scrape.”
I remain frozen until they vanish through the back door. Then I breeze by as stealthily as a spirit, leaving an extra coin in the stack on their window.
But as I pause at the crossroads, a hollow forms in the pit of my stomach. My hand lifts of its own accord to my left arm, where I keep the ivory ribbon tied just above my elbow.
Is anything I do now really enough?
I jerk my fingers to one of my still-full pockets, forcing a grin to chase away my unsettled emotions. I’m accomplishing more than nothing, anyway. I’ve seen the glimmers of happiness a few extra coins can spark.
I head across the street to the next row of houses. As I reach a low fence around a garden, a cry splits the air from farther up the road.
A rough, pained cry cut off an instant later with a gurgle.
My feet stall, my gut twisting. A shriek like that can’t mean anything short of horrific.
But I don’t get involved—not directly. If I try to step in…
I know how much horrorIcan bring about even when I want to do the right thing.
That thought—the thought that’s held me back a thousand times before—crosses my mind, and my gaze snags on the trickle of liquid seeping over the dirt road from an alleyway. The fading sun lights it crimson.
