Molly Grue did not know her own beauty sometimes, Schmendrick thought, leaning over her like a great heron as he studied the rise and fall of her thin frame in the pale darkness. Hers was a different kind of beauty, hearty and full of a vibrancy that flowed into and intensified her external appearance. She had a power she barely realized, one that triumphed over the hearts of great and terrible people, most notably himself. The magic in her was subtle, majestic, clear as starlight in its fragile splendor and brave in the face of crumbling adversity.
Her breath glistened through the misty black ether. It caught his eyes as he spoke her name between humid lips. The sound fluttered into the night, bleeding and blending with the hum of insects and chirruping of early fowl.
"That's a terrible place for pickled herring." Molly mumbled matter-o-factly in her sleep, chasing the universe behind lidded eyes.
The magician's smile warmed, and his spidery hand rose in the mists of the temperate twilight to clasp and brush against the lady's shoulder. "Wake up Molly," his voice slid through the air like a wisp of smoke, floating and breaking apart around her as it seeped into her weighted dreams.
A tiny voice answered, hearing him from far away. "Schmendrick," she whispered, reverently, lowly, until her silky eyes opened in the velvet darkness. Caution, like a gulls call, ran through the marrow of her being, and she felt alarmed. "It's night," Molly blinked, then bolted up, quick as lightning, and tossed her coverings aside. Her body winced against the sudden chill in the air. "Is something wrong?" she fought to see the green of his eyes through the shadows, "did something happen?"
"All is well, all is well," Schmendrick said smoothly as he fended off a flurry of hands in pursuit of his wellness, "I wanted to get you up before sunrise."
The furrow of her brow threatened to knit blankets. "Why?"
He laughed, warm and familiar. "If I told you it would ruin the surprise."
"Mmm, " Molly's fists rose to rub circles into her eyes. "Can't you surprise me another hour?" she said as her eyelids closed fuzzily and her head lolled to the side.
"Ah, but the sun wouldn't be the same," he began, "then I'd have to wait until tomorrow and the weather might not be as nice. There could be thunderclouds, or lightning, or hail. You know how I feel about hail-cold, clammy, miserable stuff; fit only for goblin's chowder. Imagine if that came; then, the horses would be everywhere in the wind, and the trees would thrash about, and..."
"Fine, fine!" she said, rising on one elbow as she winced against the sharp pains of age. "Stop your belly-aching; you're going to moan me into the next winter, you are."
The green of his eyes glittered with satisfaction and the great webs of his palms stretched to grasp her arm as he helped her out of her sleepy daze. Fear still slithered behind her gaze, thick as cake batter, but he managed to gain the majority of her attentions.
Once risen, Schmendrick took her hand, tracing constellations into the back of her palm as he lead he wordlessly up a steep, rocky surface in the waning murk of dark. The small journey led them to the crest of a bluff that bordered a ravine. If she squinted, she could make-out the silhouette of a wooden platform against the inky sky. It smelled musky and sharp, like freshly worked pine.
Silence lingered for a while as they breathed in the starlight. Then, dawn stretched its tangy tendrils over the clifftops to brush through Molly's wheat-colored hair. She sighed, and her moonlit eyes squinted and blinked against the vibrant orange light that chased away the dusk.
The wooden object revealed itself as a makeshift desk and bench, strategically placed before the ample and inspiring view. He spoke in a wisp of breath. "You once worked with manuscripts, did you not? I recall mentions of it in the Greenwood."
Molly's skin felt inside-out and her heart shrank to the size of a pebble. Everything went a little numb. She could not altogether decide if she wanted to laugh, cry, or purge the contents of her stomach; it nearly seemed the latter. She raised a cupped hand to her weathered face and a frog found itself in her throat.
Schmendrick reached into the folds of his robe to procure a swollen pouch stuffed with glassy bottles and a sturdy feather quill. He placed the contents, one by one, before her and more revealed itself: packets of gold leaf, rolls of thick, creamy paper, and a piece of crusty, old bread, which he absently brushed away.
"I wanted to see your skill," he intoned modestly as he cleared his throat, though his eyes stirred with deeper emotions.
"These colors," She swallowed hard against her feelings but, by and by, tears began to shimmer down her her face like crystals of freshly melted snow, new and dewy in the morning light. "How?" Her fingertips brushed gingerly over the glass bottles, as if to test their realness. The ink within each one shone bright and smiled at her warmth.
"Some of them I made by magic, some by mortar and pestle, and some I bought along the way." Schmendrick said, "I've been collecting them for quite a time now. It's been more than a challenge hiding it from you; I'd have better luck besting dragons."
He thought to incite her laughter, but her eyes ran vacant as she stared into the distant sunrise, caught up in a dream. "I could, I could…," Molly stuttered and shivered through an indigo breeze.
"You could tell her story," he finished the sentence, "and ours, if you wanted."
Quivering fingertips reached back to clasp his hand and found herself engulfed in the fabric of his robes as he braced himself against the back of the chair and folded his arms about her. He whispered something soft and delicate into her ear. She closed her eyes against the words, as if she herself could barely be persuaded to believe their light. She did, though, and it was visible in the way she moved and whispered in return.
Molly dipped her quill into a vial of violet ink that was as stiff as syrup and put its tip to the test. The ink beaded up like clotted milk over the density of thick, waxy parchment before soaking into its creamy fibers. The vibrancy stole her breath, and his, as the ink revealed its depth.
A shiver quaked down her spine at the fear that she might have lost her creativity over the grey and wandering years, but the quiet faith of her companion was a boon. For all that Cully had doubted her, Schmendrick was there to show her otherwise and it made her feel things toward him that she never thought to feel again. Molly knew better than to judge the full value of her worth by the weight of another's eyes, but, though she kept her distance, Schmendrick's opinion mattered. She might have thought it weakness, had she never met the unicorn, but the creature showed her the value of needing others.
Amusement, bright as a sun-shower, washed through Schmendrick's eyes as Molly's face twisted with an expression that, for all the world, reminded Schmendrick of young prince Lir at the height of battle. Her tongue stood like a soldier, tall and at-the-ready as she immersed herself in an old talent. He thought to make a comment but silence got the better of him.
The wind carried the heat of the sun and scattered the scent of dampened trees and flowing water throughout the gilded mountainside. There were fish to catch and breakfast to cook, and so, reminded of their coming journey, the magician left her to illuminate their world.
Small and formidable at the helm of her pen, Molly marveled at her new-found strength. Her lips rose to smile warmly at the sugar-pink clouds as they set fire to the morning sky.
The world would have its unicorns again, she thought, would see and feel them as she had seen and felt; if only through the veil of ancient memories.