Pyrrha rejoined the world in a silent instant, arriving to the gentle sounds of the waves caressing the craggy beds of rock that comprised the majority of the coastline. Salty air filled her nose as she peered around, spying no one and nothing but water, stone, and hilly fields of tall, swaying grass in the middle distance. The coast was formed in part by interlocked hexagonal pillars of varying heights, creating remarkable natural formations against the ocean, like meandering stairs with no purpose, no destination.
She had apparated here directly after returning to Ireland via portkey, departing from the top of a muggle museum building in Dublin. She imagined the Irish authorities were rather annoyed with her by now, having made two illegal portkeys in one day. She wondered a moment how many she'd made in total over her twenty-nine years. It was surely more than one hundred.
This area was the approximate location she had gleaned from the Gurg's memories, but it still left her some ground to cover. Pyrrha marked her starting point with a hovering yellow star and paced the shore in both directions, senses alert for latent magic. Nothing was forthcoming.
She returned to her start and aimed her wand down the eastern side of the coast. There was a tug in her chest as blood poured from her wand and dispersed into a reddish mist, which was whisked away by the salty winds. A swig of bitter potion eased the bout of dizziness. She turned about and walked west, the late afternoon sun shining almost directly in her face, warm sunrays insufficient against the damp chill of coastal gusts and ocean spray.
Seawater splashed across her boots as she picked her way over the rocks. Pyrrha looked up sharply as gulls cried overhead, and she struck them down with resounding bolts of lightning. They fell to earth, smoking and charred, and Pyrrha shook her head at herself and her paranoia. She knew Daisy would be a little appalled, but also amused, and Pyrrha would respond that it was always better to be too cautious than not cautious enough.
What was Daisy doing, she wondered? Likely tending to her father's apothecary, charming customers into buying more than they needed with that sweet smile of hers. Or perhaps she was brewing, forehead creased in concentration as she stirred with surgical precision, frowning as she prepared and measured out ingredients with stained fingers. It was Sunday evening, Pyrrha reminded herself. Daisy would surely be glued to the wireless, waiting on tenterhooks for one of her radio dramas to resolve last week's cliffhanger and introduce yet another.
Pyrrha felt foolish for missing their school days, when they had spoken nearly every day; nothing was stopping them from catching up, except herself. But this was nothing new. Pyrrha had always been reserved, and it had never won her anyone's favor until third year, when Daisy had sat with her and initiated a near one-sided chat as if they were old friends. She hadn't seemed to mind Pyrrha's laconic replies. Gradually, Pyrrha's responses grew lengthier and more confident, and Daisy's smile when she spoke more than three words was worth the discomfort.
The difference now was that Daisy had responsibilities, and no opportunity to come chasing after her. Instead, Daisy would write letters replete with innocent inquiries that Pyrrha couldn't find the words to answer: How are you? Where are you? What are you doing? Why don't you visit? The thought of lying wasn't worth considering. Every day that Pyrrha failed to respond to a letter she worried that Daisy grew more and more resentful, to the point where she no longer cared for their friendship. Pyrrha would eventually succumb to melancholy and write a belated note conveying her sincere apologies, and expressing hope that they would remain in contact. Inexplicably and without fail, Daisy responded enthusiastically, and eventually, the cycle would begin again.
Daisy deserved much more than what Pyrrha gave her. Pyrrha often wondered if what she really deserved was freedom from the burden of her friendship.
Pyrrha shook her thoughts away with a sharp sigh and plunged a hand into her bag. Her fingers closed around the staff, and she pulled it out to inspect again as she walked. It was cold to the touch, as if freshly cut from a wintertime tree. The staff rose to her shoulder when set upon the ground, thick around as her upper arm, heavily twisted and knotted. The wood was wych elm, dried and darkened with age, worn smooth from long use in spots near the middle and top. The ridged grain of the branch swirled up and terminated in a spread of offshoots that resembled a gnarled hand, clutching fingers outstretched.
Most strangely, the staff felt . . . welcoming.
Pyrrha swapped the staff to her left hand and drew her wand. She ran it up and down the length of the staff for the third time, probing for any traces of a curse. There were none. The enchantments that permeated the wood were unfamiliar, but appeared to be benign in her case, at least. Pyrrha wondered how the staff would react to someone it deemed unsuitable; she suspected the reason it tolerated her was that she'd won some form of allegiance by freeing it from the Gurg.
Pyrrha stowed her wand and came to a halt, and she held the staff in both hands to aim at the ocean with an upward sweep; from the tides burst a flock of flittering birds shaped from water, transparent and gleaming in the sun like living diamonds. Pyrrha motioned the staff awkwardly, and they buzzed about in the air above her, spraying misty droplets with their furious wingbeats before wavering, dripping apart, raining seawater down as the cumbersome staff got the better of her.
She let go with her right hand and waved the droplets away, and they fell anywhere but where she stood and landed with a light patter. It was essentially as she had expected; the staff was impractical and unwieldy compared to her wand. Pyrrha was certain, however, that it would prove uniquely effective in the field of Legilimency and such related mental disciplines. The Gurg's brutal display was a testament to that.
Pyrrha winced as her chest tingled inside like insects crawling across her heart. Her dispersed blood had touched something, encountered a magical anomaly. Anticipation rose in her as she replaced the staff inside her bag and turned on the spot, reaching out with thought, focusing on the blood that called to her as she called to it. Oppressive darkness bit down on her and spat her out at a new section of the shore.
The telltale taste of enchantments on the briny breeze was immediately apparent. Pyrrha drew her wand and surveyed the area, treading the uneven terrain with care as she cast about. Old magic beckoned, led her further down the shore, and she breathed deeply of the salty air in attempt to quell the excitement thrumming in her veins. The sky was beginning to darken to an ocean blue as the sun crept down to the horizon behind her. Her perceptions led her to a halt at a nondescript length of coast where the air ahead tingled, as if awaiting an impending lightning strike.
Pyrrha's spells and senses alerted her to the web of concealment charms woven across the area, and she countered, nullified, drew them away one by one, like unraveling the threads of a silk-spun veil. The coast glowed with dim, sourceless light as Pyrrha cast, her arm maneuvering in the manner of a sanguine painter before a blank canvas. Reality parted like a curtain to reveal a cliff that reached up, stretched over the shoreline and resolved into a high plateau of stone that loomed over the sea. Pyrrha focused on the summit and began to apparate, but she stumbled, feeling inward pressure from all sides.
Dread began to pour into her at that moment, for even as she began casting again, she knew she would have to climb; the spell that had countered her apparition felt alien to her. With her jaw set stiffly, she invoked every counterspell in her considerable arsenal, to no effect. Pyrrha let her arm fall in defeat as she glowered at the cliff. When the force of her stare did not bring the craggy slope crashing down to a more tolerable height, she took several fortifying breaths before striding forward to meet the base of the rise.
The rhythmic lullaby of the tides washed out Pyrrha's footsteps as she surmounted level after level of honeycombed basalt pillars like slippery stairs. The traces of ancient magic led her up the gradual rise of stone, and her heart rate climbed with her as she strained to keep her eyes on her footwork and away from the unyielding ground that drew further and further away. The wind tugged at her robes, and her heart slammed against her ribs as she stumbled, catching herself with both hands on the rocks. Her arms and legs shook with adrenaline as she held the position, breathing increasingly labored.
Pyrrha resumed climbing, remaining on all fours like a pathetic animal. Shame mingled with the heart-clenching fright that worsened with every foot she ascended. Sweat coated her skin and dripped down her face, stung her eyes, and all she could hear was her own shuddering breaths and the pulse pounding in her head. Lightheaded, she gasped for oxygen, and no matter how much the air obliged her, her lungs wouldn't fill. She was drowning, drowning all over again. What if she passed out, right here and now? It was already happening; her hands fell numb as consciousness slipped away from her, and she was going to fall, and nothing would save her as her neck snapped against the ground and she died in one careless, irrevocable instant—
"Not yet," Pyrrha panted, vision flickering as she dragged herself higher still. "Get it—get it together . . . just a bit further . . ."
Pyrrha reached ahead without looking, probing for the next handhold, and her arm passed through empty air. With a jolt in her chest, she stumbled forward onto a flat outcropping of rock, scraping her palms. Her head shot up, and she stared around at the flat peak of the cliff. Relief surged through her as she scurried on shaky hands and knees to the center of the plateau and collapsed, letting her face press against the cool stone, shielding her sight from the cliff's precipitous edges. She laid there and caught her breath, blinking away sweat, not tears.
At length, Pyrrha pushed herself into a sitting position. Her gaze was drawn to the sinking sun, setting the distant horizon afire with dusky orange-red shot with pink, ensconced between the deep blues of sea and sky that pressed in with gentle inevitability, swallowing the last fleeting lights of day and wrapping the world in a fathomless shroud of twilight. The sea far below was reduced to a distant murmur. Crisp and sharp, the wind streamed through her hair and fluttered her robes.
Pyrrha closed her eyes and pressed a palm to the chilly stone. The enchantments in the cliff buzzed through her like a low current, tingling on the back of her tongue as they pervaded the air with a subtle, indescribable scent. She crept toward the edge that overlooked the sea, inch by inch, heart rate steadily climbing in proportion to her halting progress as she crawled with eyes firmly shut. She slid her hands along the rock, probing the eddies of magic that ebbed between her fingers. Her mind battered at her concentration with an assault of repeated images—slipping forward, helped along by a sudden strong gust, tumbling over the edge, falling, falling . . .
Pyrrha's fingers curled around the edge of the cliff and tightened in a death grip. Tremors quaked her, and her eyelids ached from clenching shut. She barked a short laugh despite herself. Every atom in her body, every corner of her mind protested her presence here, and they screamed in her ears that she was going to slip, fall, drown, die. Pyrrha drank in air, in and out, mechanically, in and out. Tranquility eluded her.
Pyrrha nearly leapt out of her skin as something smooth brushed up along her knuckles. Her eyes flew open, and before her, where there had been nothing, was a vast bridge. The Giants' Causeway.
It had risen silently from the depths of the sea, pillars of hexagonal stone magnitudes larger than the ones she had climbed to get here. The honeycombed surface was smooth and perfectly level, and not nearly wide enough for Pyrrha's liking. Far as her eyes could see, the bridge stretched away over the ocean and tapered into a tiny point in the distance. The stone bore no hint of erosion and appeared perfectly dry, as if it had been there protruding from the water all along, and it could have been, for all that Pyrrha had felt it rise along her hand. She hadn't exactly been watching carefully.
She scuttled back from the small gap between the cliff's edge and the bridge, equal parts wonderment and dread stirring within her. This was it: the penultimate confirmation of Morrigan's existence. All that remained was to walk the windswept bridge, with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet at either side into the depths of the sea. Would the impact kill her, or would she merely shatter, fully conscious and unable to move, to save herself as she sunk into the abyss?
Pyrrha wouldn't find any more answers today, and for the first time, that thought relieved her. It wasn't because she refused to cross the bridge, she told herself. The Cabal would be invaluable in this venture, and it only made sense to bring them in on it. Pyrrha would take risks with her own safety any day, but not Ashlin's. The Causeway and Spire Island would wait until tomorrow, when she would return refreshed, prepared, and with backup.
Still refusing to walk upright on the uneven summit, Pyrrha crawled back to the shallow slope that staggered down to the shadowy coast. Her stomach swooped at the thought of climbing back down; it seemed even more treacherous than the ascent had, somehow. At a reasonable distance from the edge she raised her wand to the cliffside, intending to shape out a wide set of smooth, even steps, but the enchanted stone resisted her. She tried to apparate away, only to meet the same negating force. She heaved a frustrated breath, embarrassed at what she was about to resort to.
Pyrrha held her wand loosely and concentrated on her body, on her blood streaming through her veins and suffusing her muscles, her skin, her tissues, and she inhaled slowly. As she let the breath escape, she released herself from her body's confinement and began to melt away. She watched her hands in fascination as they dissolved into a fine red mist along with her wand, and her senses faded as the rest of her followed suit.
Everything was black and silent as death; all that remained was feeling and thought. Pyrrha felt herself seep through her robes, felt them fall empty to the stone. She hung in the air like a senseless ghost, holding her dispersed self together as the breeze blew through her, threatening to scatter her, carry her away. Held fast by the force of her will, she hovered a moment, then allowed herself to sink, spreading her cloudy form low over the rock beneath her. The breadth of her tactile perception spanned the expanse of her vaporous being, every individual cell a fingertip against the stone, briefly brushing against her heaped clothing.
Pyrrha glided across the cliff's surface, following the downward slope as it skimmed under her. She floated down the decline, feeling momentarily content; there was little that could be done to harm her in this state. The descent progressed infinitely faster than the climb; as she felt her way forward, flowing in what she imagined was a low red sheet of mist, she did her best to ignore thoughts of what she knew must happen next. Apprehension built within her despite her efforts.
As was the way of things, the journey was over too quickly; craggy stone gave way to gravelly ground as the world leveled out under Pyrrha. She paused and collected herself, bracing for what came next.
Pyrrha felt every singular bit of her nebulous self as she swirled into a humanoid shape. She drew her being inward; her aeriform body condensed, pitch darkness pressed her in from all sides, and she felt like the center of a black hole, her diffuse particles compressing together. As her body reassembled itself, pain was the first thing to welcome her back. It seared through every fragment of her as they reunited. Her flesh was like an insect collective; miniscule pieces darted and swarmed over each other as they found their proper places, and with each bit of herself reassembled, the agony heightened.
Hearing came next, and the first sound was a groan. It came from her half-formed chest, gurgled out of an open throat until it finished shaping itself. Around her, the air was alive with sibilant hissing and buzzing as flesh melded, soon joined by wet trickles and squelches. Pyrrha gasped as she felt her lungs weave together with a crawling sensation.
Sight returned last, and Pyrrha almost wished it hadn't. The world went from black to bleary grey, to less blurred shades of darkness, until her vision was fully restored. She looked down and watched with morbid fascination as her body was remade before her eyes; even in the semidarkness she could see the network of muscles and arteries crossing her abdomen, the sinews snaking throughout her limbs, the pumping heart under her sprouting ribcage. With an unpleasant jolt, she realized her heart wasn't the bloody red she expected, but a splotchy, corroded black.
Pale skin materialized and swaddled her, a warm cloak against the frigid atmosphere that drew long knives across her innards. Pyrrha hung suspended in the air another moment as the last of her sank into place. Her nerves continued to flare as her naked body dropped to the ground, and she shuddered as the spell terminated. Her right hand clutched her wand in an iron grip while she waited out the pain that carved itself on her bones.
From where she lay, Pyrrha summoned her abandoned possessions with a weak flick. Her midnight blue robes fluttered out of the gloom and settled beside her, followed by her black boots, charmed bag and silver necklace with the dangling emerald. Her neck lifted with a twinge of protest as she secured the clasp. She sipped at a Philter of Respite from her pouch, allowing the pain to dull before standing and waving her wand again, directing her robes and boots to clothe her. The bag was secured in its place within her robes.
Pyrrha glanced at the soaring cliff as she prepared to apparate home, body throbbing like one all-encompassing, bone-deep bruise. As she remembered the climb, and imagined how the descent could have been, she felt the pain of rebirth was preferable. It was doubtful she would ever become accustomed to the spell's sensations, but it had too many applications to ignore. Her heart's degeneration would require addressing soon; she would need another way to conquer the heights tomorrow.
As she vanished, she decided she didn't care how dull the potion made her. She would require the Draught of Peace.
Pyrrha arrived to a yard bathed in light. After the gloom of the nighttime coast, the effect was momentarily blinding; she held a hand over her eyes as they adjusted, squinting up at the starry sky above the lawn. It was encircled by a series of charmed lights in a wide oval, imitating the curve of a quidditch pitch, sourceless beams directed inward. In the middle of the makeshift arena, three girls swooped and shrieked and laughed as two of them passed a quaffle between them, the third in the center swiping as it passed by.
"Come on! No bloody fair!" Ashlin said, darting high for the ball, fingertips just brushing its underside as it flew.
"Not fair, she says!" A girl with dusky skin and black, curly hair caught the quaffle and spun it on her finger, grin taunting. "If you can't outfly us on that fancy new broom, all hope's lost for us this year."
The third girl laughed from afar, bronze skin blending with her hair in the harsh illumination. "Maybe we should snap off a couple branches from the trees and run around on those, instead," she called. "Think she'd have a chance then, Nia?"
"Oh, sod off, the pair of you. I'm getting the hang of it!" Ashlin reversed course with a sharp maneuver, and Pyrrha's heart stalled; Ashlin shot up at an angle, hanging almost entirely upside down, and she snatched the quaffle from in front of Elise's outstretched hands with inches to spare. "See?" She spun upright, triumphant smile falling as she noticed Pyrrha on the ground.
"Shite," Elise said, following Ashlin's gaze. "There goes my buzz."
"Oh my God, Elise, shut your mouth!" Nia ran a hand across her face as the trio descended. "It's just butterbeer she means, Miss Clay!"
The girls landed in front of Pyrrha in a guilty lineup. Elise didn't bother to hide her annoyance, while Nia looked suitably nervous, fidgeting with her hair. Ashlin's face was pale and uncertain, searching her sister for a reaction; she knew Pyrrha was furious, but Pyrrha kept her demeanor carefully placid, deep and steady breaths to slow her heart racing with outrage and fear.
Pyrrha gestured, and a nearly empty bottle leapt into her hand from the lush grass. What little liquid remained was amber, though the label gave it right away, anyhow; Ogden's Old Firewhiskey.
Nia cleared her throat nervously, apparently unable to stand the silence as Pyrrha turned the bottle over in her hand idly. "We're sorry," she said, biting her lip. Elise rolled her eyes.
"For what?" Pyrrha said. "For lying to me, I suppose? It was silly of you." She handed the bottle back to a gaping Nia. "Neither of you intellects are my responsibility; you could spend your every weekend swilling Skower's Mess Remover on dragonback for all I care. However, if either of you allowed Ashlin to fly after even a single drop . . ."
"She wouldn't," Elise said, looking a little contemptuous.
Pyrrha nodded. "Good. And no, Ashlin doesn't think she's better than you. She simply has a modicum of common sense. I don't have to tell you three how foolish and dangerous it is to drink and fly." Elise blinked hard, expression indignant at being read or being called foolish, or both.
"We were safe about it," Nia insisted. "We put Cushioning Charms all over the yard!"
"Calm down, Nia," Elise said impatiently before turning back to Pyrrha. "It's like you said; you're not our mum. We'll be leaving now." She strode over and grabbed Nia's robes, reaching her other hand out to Ashlin while Nia gathered their brooms. "Come with us, Ash. She's not your mum either."
"I'm pleased to see you've grasped the fundamentals of the immediate family structure," Pyrrha said with a flash of anger. "Nevertheless, Ashlin and I are going to have a talk."
Ashlin smiled weakly at her friends. "I'll see you in a bit."
Elise scoffed. "We'll be back at mine, if you're allowed out after dark." She and Nia vanished with a sharp crack.
Silence reigned between the sisters for a full minute, and the rhythmic chirping of countless crickets claimed the air while Pyrrha gathered her thoughts, arms crossed tightly as she stared down at her shoes. The grass under Ashlin rustled as she shifted anxiously, arms wrapped around herself against the cool night air, braced for the fallout.
"I don't know what to say that I haven't reiterated before, one hundredfold. I don't give you many rules, and this is one of the biggest: Don't fly without my supervision."
Ashlin rubbed at her shoulders with a short sigh. "Nia wasn't lying, you know, about the Cushioning Charms. I did them myself. Elise fell once, and she was fine."
"I suppose you never flew over the forest, then? Or the house? I suppose you've never miscast a charm in your life?" Why couldn't she take this seriously?
"Oh my God, why are you such a paranoid freak?" Ashlin burst out, throwing out her arms. "It's about a one in a million chance something bad happens—I take a bigger risk shopping alone at Caerialto!"
"I've told you about Daisy's mother." Pyrrha flexed her hands behind her back, fighting for patience. "And no, you don't. I taught you the Patronus messenger for a reason. Any hint of trouble, and you can let me know, and I'll be there in an instant. But if you fell—"
"Well, you were there for Daisy's mum, like you love to remind me," Ashlin said, crossing her arms. "You didn't do her much good!"
Pyrrha jerked back as if slapped, reeling with astonished hurt as the words struck home. "You little brat—how dare you?"
"Me? How about you! You can't be Merlin-knows-where twenty-nine days out of the month and then come back and run my life, claiming to care for my safety!"
"Your safety is my priority," Pyrrha said. "It always has been. Your owls and Patronuses will always reach me. The spell I placed on you—"
"I regret ever submitting myself to your insane brand of sisterly concern," Ashlin snarled, red-faced. "Just more excuses to let you devote yourself to your stupid little secret projects without feeling guilty!"
"The spell I placed on you," Pyrrha continued as if she hadn't been interrupted, "tells me where you are, and if you're in pain. Short of locking you in the house under a Fidelius, you're as safe as it's possible to be."
"Fine!" Ashlin shouted. "Fine! I'm safe, mission accomplished! But I'm miserable!" The raw hurt in her voice cut like a knife. "I hate being here by myself, worrying about my maniac sister chasing down giants and ancient horrors and whatever the hell else you do when you're off somewhere, and here's me, waiting around without a hint when or even if you'll ever come back!" Tears were shining in her eyes, and she took a quick, deep breath, the kind one takes just before committing to a reckless, life-changing decision. "And guess what? That bloody spell of yours works both ways!"
Pyrrha's breath caught with a quiet choke as numb horror flooded from her chest into her extremities, tingling at every inch, as if her heart had truly stopped, arrested her blood flow. It couldn't be true, but it was; she could see it in Ashlin's watery blue eyes, so full of tumultuous emotion that Pyrrha felt a brief, bizarre spike of envy.
The implications tore furrows through her head; Ashlin could feel her pain all this time. Pyrrha knew she carried scars on the inside, inflicted by the magics she had subjected herself to. Had Ashlin truly borne these experiences along with her, unwilling? The thought turned her blood. How much had she experienced, and to what extent? Why would she hide it?
Pyrrha's expression seemed to innervate Ashlin; she let out a triumphant little laugh as she carried on. "That's right! I know about it all, every injury since last summer. I never told you—I hoped I could figure out something about what you get up to." Her voice gradually sank from righteous indignation to despondent sadness as she spoke. "But I'm not as smart as you are, Pyrrha. I haven't got a clue, even after all this time."
Ashlin swiped a stray tear from her cheek, raising her gaze to meet Pyrrha's, and they two were a near perfect mirror of devastation. "All I know," Ashlin said, "is that earlier today, I felt like I was drowning . . ." She shivered, pressing a hand to her chest. "It felt like—like dying . . . and you—I'd thought—" Ashlin choked, and she paused to master herself, deep and shaky breaths. "But an hour later, I knew you were alive, because I felt something else—something even worse, and—and—weeks ago, I'd felt my arm torn off, and before that, like my blood was on fire, and before—"
Pyrrha broke from her loop of dismay and took a swift step forward, sweeping Ashlin into her arms. She pressed her sister's head into her robes to stem the words, to stem the tears, to seal shut the chasm that was forming inside her. Ashlin sobbed against her, arms clamped around Pyrrha like a lifeline, and it was their parents' deaths all over again. Pyrrha was once again powerless in the face of Ashlin's despair; she stared at the stars as Ashlin cried, knowing she must catch the words that fled her as unparalleled self-loathing burned inside. She had done this, hurt Ashlin in her ignorance.
Ashlin's bawling faded into soft weeping and sniffling as Pyrrha rubbed her back. "What's happening to you?" she whispered. "What are you doing to yourself?"
"I'm right here," Pyrrha said quietly. "Look at me. I'm alright." Pyrrha drew back and held her sister's blotchy face in her hands. "I'm sorry—I never meant you to feel those things. I'll remove the spell—"
"Damn it, Pyrrha, stop! Answer me—what the hell have you been doing out there?"
Pyrrha sighed and let her hands drop, bringing one up to run through her hair, but it was bound. "I'm sorry, Ashlin, I can't tell you." Pyrrha had to give her more, had to cure her of that lost, crumbling look. "I . . ." Pyrrha paused, considering her words with utmost care. "I've made a . . . commitment." She thought not of the Vow as she said it, but the promise to herself, Ashlin, and their parents. No small amount of relief swept through her when she remained stubbornly alive.
Ashlin's eyes widened, and Pyrrha knew she'd caught the subtext. "A commitment . . . a Vow?" she asked breathlessly.
Pyrrha kept her head perfectly still as she forced herself not to react, nod, smile, acknowledge her pride in Ashlin. Instead, she said, "That is a dangerous question to ask."
Ashlin swallowed hard and nodded, expression more grave than it ever should've been, yet another failing of Pyrrha's. "I understand, I think," she said. She bit her lip before adding, "Is there . . . anything at all you can tell me?"
Pyrrha held out a hand to summon the Nimbus, then circled her other arm around Ashlin's shoulders, and she around Pyrrha's waist, and together they walked leisurely across the lawn. It glowed a dim amber under the fading light charms. "I'm doing this for us. For you."
They met the door, and Ashlin turned under Pyrrha's arm and hugged her again, squeezing, as if she could force answers from her sister if only she were strong enough. "Whatever it is, it's not worth losing you."
It was.
"Please," Ashlin added, "stop putting yourself in danger. That's all I want."
"I wish I could give you that, Ash, but I can't," Pyrrha said, thoughts turning to Morrigan as she stroked Ashlin's hair. "I'll tear down whatever in this world rears its head if it keeps you—"
"Safe." The word cracked in Ashlin's throat.
Pyrrha stood up from her chair, hands clasping behind her back. "Thank you all for assembling on such short notice. I've got something of vital importance to discuss today, with a corresponding proposal for your consideration."
Around the scuffed round table, six faces regarded her with a healthy mix of polite curiosity, boredom, and irritation. The room was bathed in the soft golden glow of the luminescent mushrooms sprouting from the dark walls and ceiling. Harsher light shone from a grand fireplace set into the center of the wall opposite the Call Mirror, which sat atop an elegant chestnut vanity. The backlit silhouettes of the Cabal filled the mirror like a sinister painting.
To Pyrrha's immediate right, Wasila lounged with her legs draped over the arm of her chair. Today, she had chosen pale skin and stormy grey eyes. Her oval-shaped face was framed by a few renegade locks of dark brown hair, the rest pulled back into loose pigtails that fell down just past her shoulders. Her ubiquitous Cheshire cat smile was firmly in place as she lazily twirled her wand between her fingers.
Next around was Byron, all but concealed behind the billowing violet vapors of the lit cauldron that sat on the table before him. His head of wild brown hair leaned perhaps too close to the fumes to be entirely healthy, and he pushed his glasses back up his sweaty nose as he frowned intently at his brewing concoction, waving his wand and muttering under his breath.
Next to him, Aradia sat nearly across from Pyrrha, her bony hands folded on the tabletop. She was the picture of serenity, but for her irritated glances at Byron as violet fog drifted around the table in spiraling waves. She drew her wand and vanished the fumes, sparking a brief argument on the hazards of indirect magical interference on an active brew.
Maven occupied Aradia's other side. At eighty-nine, she was the oldest member of the Cabal. Her iron-grey hair was pulled into a bun as severe as her wrinkled countenance. Her perpetual scowl was directed at a miniature model solar system that revolved above the glowing tip of her wand. Pyrrha noticed with vague curiosity that the system contained at least twenty planets.
Then there was Eilith, a witch Pyrrha vaguely recalled seeing in passing during their time at Hogwarts. She glared down her long nose at Pyrrha from under a mop of light brown hair, looking as if she were subjecting Pyrrha to unpleasant transformations in her head. She tapped her wand against the table impatiently, changing the texture each time—furry, slimy, scaly, stone.
Lastly, to Pyrrha's immediate left, Irving slouched forward, looking disheveled as usual in wrinkled green robes. He stared alternately at Pyrrha and some indistinct point in the middle distance, expression unfocused, as if lost in reminiscence. His bleary eyes were ringed with heavy, dark circles, the rest of his lined face concealed by long, tangled grey hair and a bushy beard.
Byron drew a pinch of something silvery from a pouch and sprinkled it across his cauldron's bubbling surface. The potion fizzed and turned a startling shade of orange, accompanied by a revolting stench that overpowered the room. The table became an uproar of furious shouting and retching as Pyrrha calmly placed a Bubble-Head Charm on herself, tinting the slightly distorted room sky blue.
"For fuck's sake, Berners, do you have to do that here?" Eilith said, pinching her nose. "Go back to your grotty little basement and keep your poisons to yourself!"
"It's not poison," Byron said distractedly as he stirred, leaning as far away as he possibly could while remaining within reach. "And yes, I must attend to this—very delicate part of the process—"
"Your brew is a failure, Byron. It is not fated for you to succeed today; you may as well spare us and pack it up." Maven hadn't taken her eyes off the miniature planets revolving over her. She was the only one who appeared unbothered by the smell.
"A failure? You can't know that, I haven't yet tested—"
"Sorry, Byron, but I'd say she's right." Wasila's voice was at a lower pitch than last week, Pyrrha thought, though she retained the usual cadence of a bored aristocrat. "It smells as if you drowned a stray dog in raw sewage and boiled the results. I can't imagine that reflects your desired outcome, unless you are, in fact, making poison . . . or some sort of plague?" Wasila raised a questioning eyebrow.
Byron regarded her warily. "As I said, it's nothing like that—not intended to be, anyway." He peered into the cauldron again as he continued to stir with one arm, the other draped across his face. The potion had lightened to a sickly yellow-green.
"Byron," Aradia said with an edge of impatience, "we are not gathered to critique your potioneering. Put it away or abstain your vote, if you please."
"Yes, yes, of course. My apologies, Pyrrha." Byron nodded at Pyrrha, and she returned it. "The tricky stage is over, anyway. I'll just—" He swirled his wand at the stirrer, which began to move itself in slow, even clockwise strokes. He flicked at the cauldron and it vanished, presumably transported to the extensive laboratory in the Lodge's basement.
Pyrrha was unruffled by Byron's distraction; she admired his fervor, his dedication to whatever task had so consumed him in the past two years. The entirety of her time with the Cabal, and longer, Pyrrha suspected, the man had spent in relentless pursuit of . . . something. Questions regarding personal projects were discouraged within the Cabal unless invited, and Byron had never offered any information. The only hint was the grim-faced volunteers Pyrrha occasionally spotted following Byron into the basement, robes hanging from their pale frames. They always failed to reappear.
Pyrrha dispelled her bubble, cleared her throat and prepared to speak, but Wasila cut her off.
"Sorry, love, one moment." She leaned past Pyrrha and swept her wand toward a dozing Irving, and his head snapped to the side as a sharp slap rang through the room.
Irving woke with a yawn, quite oblivious to the strike. "Shame," he mumbled in his croaky voice. "That was a good one."
"Your wife?" Maven asked softly.
"Yes . . . we were reunited, young and in love again . . . I held her in my arms, and . . ." Irving frowned. "And then, well, she slapped me. Quite hard." He rubbed at his reddened cheek. "Rather odd."
Eilith snickered, but said nothing. Wasila leaned back into her previous relaxed posture, grinning. "You have the floor," she told Pyrrha. "Regale us!"
The Cabal appraised Pyrrha with increasingly rapt attention as she launched into her tale, beginning with a reading of the Nightmare Queen legend as written in her father's old storybook. The group considered her with mixed skepticism and exasperation as she concluded the story, until she detailed her father's extensive corroborating research. She shared stacks of books and parchment with references and cross-references from credible historical sources, verifying her lineage and the timeline of certain events, including the massacre at the edge of the Wild Woods, and Fionn's meeting with the giants.
"Shut up a moment, Clay," Eilith interjected. "Why does it matter if you're possibly descended from this bloke McCoul?"
"It doesn't matter to you," Pyrrha said, "but the legend made it clear that my family will be her first target when she escapes."
Eilith uttered a short laugh, conveying her apathy to Pyrrha's situation. "And how, exactly, would a mad old undead witch from a thousand years ago learn who you are, or where to find you?"
"That's our Rosier, asking the sharp questions," Wasila said, eyes shining with mocking amusement. "Now, Pyrrha," she said as she turned to Pyrrha with an exaggerated thoughtful expression, "correct me if I'm faulty, here, but I think you mentioned something about a certain talent this Morrigan has. You know the one; the ability to make things happen that seem impossible, right? Now, what's the word we use for that phenomenon? It's just on the tip of my tongue . . ." Wasila snapped her fingers. "Ah, that's it! Magic!"
Eilith reddened as murmurs of laughter sounded around the table. "Bugger yourself with a broom handle, Harcourt."
Wasila's eyebrows shot up. "Is that how you pleasure yourself? It explains rather a lot about your churlish attitude . . . and the low whistling from your direction when it gets drafty."
"Enough!" Aradia said as Eilith opened her mouth in a snarl, expression murderous. "Pyrrha, please continue."
Pyrrha hadn't anticipated holding back a smile as she recounted yesterday's events. Face carefully neutral, she detailed her search for the giants and her subsequent encounter with the same, omitting her run-in with the FS3 and her use of blood magic. She spoke of the memories she had seen in the Gurg's head, and the staff he had wielded, its use on his fellow giants. She described the staff and the effects she had observed in exhausting detail. The table took in her words with increasing interest; even Maven tore her eyes from her planets and vanished them with a flick.
"Do you have this staff now?" Irving asked, looking alert. "May we examine it?"
"I have it, yes." Pyrrha hesitated. "I'm not certain it's a good idea to let anyone else touch it."
Eilith snorted. "If you can handle it, the rest of us can."
"Best not let Rosie near it, or it's likely to end up somewhere foul," Wasila said with a sly smile.
"If you don't shut your fu—"
"I think," Aradia cut in loudly, "if you want to convince us, Pyrrha, we must see this staff for ourselves. I believe I speak for us all when I say that we are aware of the potential danger, and we wish to examine it regardless."
Maven nodded her wizened head solemnly. "Mental magics are a trying discipline, to say the least, but Irving excels at Occlumency. If he's willing to take the chance, I would see the staff's power for myself."
"I am quite willing," Irving assured them.
"I agree," Byron said, scratching at his stubble thoughtfully. "I'm intrigued by your story thus far, but there's not enough hard evidence to back you up."
Pyrrha sighed her resignation. "Very well." She plunged a hand into her bag and gently drew out the staff, placing it in the center of the table. The group scrutinized it curiously, eyes glued to the twisted wood as if it might burst into spontaneous magic at any moment. "Be cautious," she said to Irving.
"Of course, of course," Irving muttered, brow furrowing as he drew his wand and gestured, sending the staff floating toward him. At wandpoint, he turned it this way and that in the air, eyeing it from every conceivable angle, mumbling incantations under his breath the whole while. The rest of the group were taut with anticipation, Pyrrha included.
Abruptly, Irving beckoned, and the staff flew into his open hand. He stiffened in his seat and froze, hand still outstretched, holding the staff in a white-knuckled grip. The rest of the table leaned in as Irving's eyes darted around the room, open wider than Pyrrha had ever seen them. Muscles twitched in his face as he fought the staff. The old man's breathing escalated into frantic panting, and tears welled in his bloodshot eyes. A low moan escaped his throat, dragged out of him, and Pyrrha decided the point was made.
She drew her wand and disarmed Irving with a flash of light, snatching the staff out of the air as his wand clattered to the floor. Goosebumps rose where the staff sent a chill up her arm.
"Irving?" Pyrrha said gently. "What did you see? What did you feel?"
"Are you hurt?" Maven added, shooting Pyrrha an irked glance.
Irving caught his breath unevenly, leaning forward against the table. He wiped at his eyes under the hair hanging in his face, then sat back with a shaky exhalation. "I am well, I think . . ." Irving took another breath and raised his red-rimmed eyes to the assembled, who hung on his words. "The staff . . . I'm afraid it's impossible to determine for certain whether or not this instrument in fact belonged to the witch of legend. However," he said, "it is quite unique . . . as you have just witnessed." He glanced uneasily at the staff where Pyrrha had placed it upon the table again.
"Go on," Eilith said. "What did it do?"
"Ah, yes, well . . ." Irving trailed off, shifting in his seat to locate his fallen wand, stalling to gather himself, Pyrrha thought. She let him search for another few moments, then sent his wand drifting back to him from a corner of the room with a gentle wave of her hand.
"Thank you," Irving said, and Pyrrha nodded, giving him an encouraging look. "Now, then, let's see . . ." Irving sighed and began his recounting with a grimace. "The first thing I experienced was an intense cold, as if I were frozen solid. The sensation spread quickly from my arm to the rest of me. I couldn't move an inch." He paused, and Pyrrha could tell he longed not to continue. Before she could prod him, he spoke again, looking as if a knife were twisting in his heart. "I then felt . . . unearthly sadness. Utter despair, at a depth that I've only experienced once in my lifetime, and had hoped never to feel again. I saw Isabel . . . her body, in the ward. I relived that moment . . . the moment I woke from beside her, to find her . . . gone."
Irving fell silent again, and a tear trailed down his weathered cheek to disappear into his beard as he stared at the table. Pyrrha felt her excitement at the proceedings dampen a little as sympathy stirred in her. She imagined reliving the day a polite, awkward Ministry official knocked on her door, haltingly informing her of her parents' deaths by poorly cast portkey. The day she hadn't allowed Ashlin to help her identify the scattered remains, had held Ashlin all night as she sobbed into Pyrrha's shirt.
Pyrrha realized, with an unpleasant lurch in her stomach, the reason the staff didn't effect her nearly so strongly as Irving. That day, the worst day of her life, was also the day she knew she was a monster. What else but a monster would cradle their mourning sister without a hint of emotion, would look upon the remains of their loving parents feeling nothing but emptiness?
If she couldn't find it in her wretched self to despair their loss, did she ever truly love them? Did she love Ashlin?
Pyrrha felt an odd tickle at her neck, and she caught Wasila watching her curiously. With a start, she realized Irving was speaking again.
"—ency only seemed to delay the inevitable," Irving said, looking disgruntled. "Whether this is due to the staff's power or my own flawed techniques, I cannot say. How long did I manage to, er, hold out?"
"Roughly fifteen seconds," Byron supplied.
"Truly?" Irving said, face a mix of surprise and disappointment. "It felt . . . much longer."
"I suspect," Aradia said, "the act of holding the staff, it being aligned with another—" she glanced oddly at Pyrrha "—gave the thing some sort of leverage. This sort of desperate instinct for self-preservation in a focus is . . . remarkable," she added, contemplating the staff grimly over her steepled fingers. "Troubling."
"What did you learn from your preliminary examination?" Pyrrha asked. "I believe it's made from wych elm, though I haven't been able to determine the core."
"Wych elm, indeed," Irving said with a nod. "Well suited to those of presence, of magical dexterity. To those who have the potential to surpass the higher thresholds of skill." He tugged at his beard thoughtfully, eyes glazing over slightly. "As for the core, I've no idea, I'm afraid. I'm no expert with regard to wandlore, of course, not compared to the average wandmaker, though I am somewhat familiar with the subject. What I can say," he said, holding up a crooked finger, "is that it's nothing I've ever encountered before—not phoenix or thunderbird feather, dragon heartstring, unicorn or thestral tail hair . . ." Irving shook his head slowly, apologetically.
"Thank you, Irving. I appreciate your help, and I apologize—I didn't anticipate such an ordeal for you," Pyrrha said. "You'll have a favor from me, well earned."
Irving smiled tiredly and nodded.
"So, is there any way to find out what sort of core it uses?" Wasila asked, eyes lit with curiosity. "Could we . . . open it?" She directed the question at Irving.
"Why does it matter?" Eilith jumped in before Irving could speak. "I thought Pyrrha called us here to discuss the 'Nightmare Queen'," she said, using heavy air quotes. "Not some staff that may not even relate to her at all."
"Clearly it does," Wasila said, looking as if she were restraining herself from rolling her eyes. "Pyrrha laid it all out. It makes sense."
Eilith scoffed, shooting Pyrrha her familiar unfriendly glance. "If you take her at her word. She's got no evidence. Just a cursed weapon."
"I am of a mind with Eilith," Aradia said, and Pyrrha gave her a betrayed look. "I'm sorry, but she is correct; while certainly unusual, the staff adds little to your case for Morrigan's supposed existence."
"Very well," Pyrrha said, undaunted as she stowed the staff in her bag. "If I may conclude my findings?"
At Aradia's nod, Pyrrha jumped into the final, most vital piece of her argument. She described her scouting of the coast, the old enchantments around the lonely cliff hiding it from the world for a millennium. Her account of the ascent was clipped and clinical, giving no hint to the trial it had been. Finally, the summit of the cliff, the apex of her evidence; the Giants' Causeway, ancient and monolithic as a myth should be, and irrefutable proof of her assertions.
Pyrrha drew her wand and summoned a piece of parchment the size of a poster. She hung it in the air behind her, then pressed her wand to her temple, drawing out a strand of memory. It twinkled in the dimly lit room as it swirled up to the parchment and spread across its surface like an ethereal ink stain. The colors darkened from lightly shimmering silver-blues to darker shades, details sharpening from the indistinct grey blur. The parchment resolved itself into a perfect picture of the Causeway from Pyrrha's own eyes as she peered out over it, the legendary expanse that stretched its pallid grey finger across the sea to nudge the murky horizon.
"The Causeway exists, and Morrigan festers at the end of it. I can bring you there to see for yourself whenever necessary."
Stunned silence followed her proclamation. A lone creature shrieked from somewhere in the Lodge, a drawn-out sound as if glass were tearing like cloth, and Pyrrha vanished her parchment as she primly reclaimed her seat.
Aradia broke the expectant pause in the air. "I see," she said, rubbing at her eyes. "As we are all no doubt aware, lies and false memories can be woven by someone of sufficient skill—"
"Oh, come now, Aradia!" Wasila said.
"—however," Aradia continued, "it is also true that Pyrrha would gain nothing from wasting our time so foolishly. In light of everything we have seen and heard, I am inclined to believe her," she concluded, looking pensive.
"As am I," Byron put in, adjusting his crooked spectacles.
"And me," Wasila said, shooting Pyrrha a wide smile.
Irving nodded lethargically. "I, as well."
Maven shrugged her narrow shoulders, stargazing once again. "I knew it already."
The assembled shifted their eyes to Eilith, who snorted impatiently. "Yeah, whatever. Can we hurry this up? I've got to feed my creatures."
Pyrrha allowed herself a feeling of triumph for a moment, but this was only the first step. What came next was still very much up in the air.
"We have agreed to accept your story as truth for the time being, Pyrrha, and, in effect, we hereby acknowledge the existence of the witch Morrigan," Aradia said, looking at her with eyes wrinkled with an unseen burden, as if she knew what came next and regarded it with resigned apprehension. "Now is the time to make your proposal."
Pyrrha inclined her head assuredly, a far cry from the nervous turmoil inside. She reminded the Cabal of Morrigan's terrible power, her murderous temperament, and the threat she posed to everything around her. She cautioned of the Nightmare Queen's canny nature, asserting that her escape was inevitable, if not for her skill, then for the slow decay of time that the witch had proven herself equal to. When the enchantments weakened enough, in five years, fifty, or five hundred, Morrigan would escape, a threat to humanity that only the most puissant wielders of magic could overcome.
"That's exactly who we are," Pyrrha said with conviction. "With our efforts combined, we can release her from her torment and send her into the next life, saving countless others in the process."
Pyrrha had hoped to inspire the Cabal, spur them to action in defense of humanity. What she got instead were faces wrought with apprehension, a free-flowing exchange of uncertain glances all around. Byron scratched at the back of his head, looking awkward. Wasila peered around at the rest of them, expression unreadable, while they allowed the silence to swell in the room.
A soft laugh came from Eilith, who smirked as she twirled a lock of hair around the tip of her wand; it melded and became a thin black serpent tasting the air with a darting tongue. "I'll say what we're all thinking: why the bloody hell is this our problem?"
"As I've said, Morrigan is a threat to everyone. And she will escape."
"Seems that way," Eilith said, sounding decidedly unconcerned. "But according to you, it could be ages from now."
"It could also be tomorrow."
"The island's magic's held up for a thousand years."
Pyrrha's patience was beginning to strain. "All the more reason to act now, before something happens we're not prepared for."
"Bloody stupid," Eilith said, shaking her head. The snake in her hair hissed at the abrupt motion. "I'm not risking my neck on the off-chance she escapes in my lifetime. We should do precisely nothing until she actually manages to break free. If she doesn't, then, brilliant! Curse dodged."
Pyrrha sent her a withering glare. "You'd let your cowardice condemn future generations to death?"
"Bugger future generations," Eilith said with an emphatic nod, seeming amused by Pyrrha's disgust.
Pyrrha simmered with outrage, and it bled into her voice despite her efforts. "I hope the rest of you aren't so feckless," she said quietly, meeting their eyes one by one. Byron and Irving shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, while Wasila grinned and gave a wink.
"Well," Aradia said after a minute. "I think we've said all there is to say, heard everything to hear on this subject. We have two options before us." She raised a bony hand toward Pyrrha, and anxious anticipation rose within her; this was the defining moment of her efforts. "We can strike first: release the witch from her prison before she escapes and attempt to subdue her, undo the magic tethering her to this life and deliver her into the next.
"Or," she went on, her other hand indicating Eilith, "we could do nothing, and hope that Fionn McCoul's sorceries continue to keep Morrigan in check for the rest of our natural lives, setting the burden of the Nightmare Queen squarely upon the shoulders of future wizardkind."
A palpable tension filled the room in the wake of Aradia's proposals. Pyrrha felt the familiar stirrings of anxiety, stomach tightening as she looked around at the rest. Irving tugged at his beard, agitated, while Byron seemed to be fascinated with a patch of discoloration on the ceiling. Maven coaxed her planets into various orientations, mouth set in a firm line. Eilith looked irritated and impatient, Wasila calm, and Aradia grim.
"The time has come to vote," Aradia announced. For a moment, everything was still. "Those in favor of striking first will raise a hand."
Pyrrha raised her arm immediately, closely followed by Wasila and no one else. She stared around the table in stunned disbelief, and the reality sank in, dragging her hope into the dirt. The Cabal had proven themselves spineless, willing to endanger Ashlin and countless others by their inaction; that was fine. Pyrrha would destroy Morrigan herself. She never needed them. She let her hand fall, striving to keep her fury from twisting her expression.
"Sorry, Pyrrha," Byron said meekly. "I'm just not cut out for that sort of thing."
Pyrrha stood, shrugging off Wasila's hand on her shoulder, and she turned away without a word. Only her bootheels against the wood floor broke the silence as she strode to the fireplace, snatching the Floo jar from the mantel and seizing a handful of powder, crushing the fine grit against her palm. She flung the powder into the fire with more force than necessary.
As the flames sputtered and turned a brilliant emerald, Aradia's voice called from behind. "Remember that the vote binds us all; you are not to take action—"
Pyrrha stepped into the pleasantly warm flames, and they swallowed her as she thought of home.
The Clay fireplace deposited Pyrrha into the sitting room in a cloud of ash. She vanished it with a sharp flick of the wrist as she stepped away, blinking at the sudden contrast of the midday sunlight sending a pale glow throughout the house. Ashlin stood from the cozy armchair by the largest window, smile carrying a hint of guilt as she placed the careworn book she'd been holding on the nearby end table.
Pyrrha barely registered her sister as she swept by the low oak coffee table and around the couch, storming across the room, down the hall past the portrait of Daphne Greengrass that Ashlin had begged for and tired of in a week. She threw open the door on the left and stormed into her room—her elbow sent a stack of dusty books tumbling, head still buzzing with contempt for the Cabal, the faint-hearted little worms; how could they find the gall to dismiss all the lives that Morrigan would take, not a second thought to be had in their swollen heads?
It didn't matter, Pyrrha repeated to herself. She could do it alone. She would do it alone. She breathed, clamped down on the churning pit of dread in her stomach that fueled her furor. Despite herself, her clenched hands trembled, and she snarled, swiping out a hand to the unlit oil lamps. They flared to life for a fleeting instant before bursting in a flash of fire, a series of pops followed by a light shower of glass against the hardwood floor.
Pyrrha stood still and stared at the shards, body coiled painfully tight. She inhaled the dust swirling in the air, watched the particles catch the beams of sun shining down from her high window as they danced, drifting in wild spirals at the direction of the imperceptible currents of air wafting about. Nothing that mattered depended on the scattered motes; she felt envy prickle in her chest for their futile existence.
"Hey." Ashlin's voice made her jump, but she didn't turn around. When she remained silent, the shattered glass floated from the floor and reassembled into her lamps, which fixed themselves back in their proper places on the walls. The fallen books drifted up and stacked themselves back on the edge of her mahogany desk. Black burn marks marred the dark blue walls where the lamps had detonated; Pyrrha watched them as the were wiped away by an invisible hand.
Quiet feet padding behind her was her only warning as Ashlin crushed Pyrrha in a hug. She was deceptively strong for such a slender girl; she should've been a beater. Pyrrha felt her tempestuous emotions drain away from her, leaving only subtle warmth behind.
"I'm sorry," Ashlin said into her back.
The apology caught Pyrrha by surprise. She wrapped her hands over Ashlin's around her torso. "Whatever for?" Last night had been the best sort of fight one could have, Pyrrha thought; the kind that ended in mutual understanding, and a promise of change for the better.
"For what I said about you and Daisy's mum. That was really awful of me." Her tone was full of regret; Pyrrha couldn't have held a grudge if her life depended on it.
"I forgive you, Ash," Pyrrha said softly. "You deserve to be angry with me. You were right; I've been an abysmal guardian—I've neglected—"
"No," Ashlin said fiercely. "You're the best sister there is, and I won't hear a word against that. I mean it!" she added as Pyrrha shook her head, a soft smile forming on her face.
"Ashlin, you're far too forgiv—uh!" Pyrrha coughed as Ashlin squeezed her even tighter, pushing the air from her lungs. "Goodness," she panted, "what have I been feeding you?"
Ashlin giggled, mercifully relenting her attack. "Nothing, you twit, I feed myself . . ." Her voice sank as she trailed off.
Pyrrha stepped away with a sigh, dropping down onto the bed shoved into the corner. "Yes, that's true."
"But you taught me to cook," Ashlin said quickly, sitting next to her. "You've taught me loads of things."
"Perhaps I'm a passable tutor, then, but that's not what you need—not what I'm supposed to be. You need me, and I haven't been here." Pyrrha turned and met Ashlin's eyes. "That's going to change," she promised.
Ashlin's eyes widened, and she broke into a big smile. "I like where this is going. Do elucidate, dear sister."
Pyrrha chuckled. "My. Where did you pick up a fancy word like that?"
"Such trivialities are unequivocally extraneous!" Ashlin declared, head tilted up with a ridiculous superior expression, as if she were looking down at an irksome bug begging to be squashed.
Pyrrha laughed, pressing a hand over her mouth. "That had better not be an impression of me. That's awful . . . Do I really make that face?"
Ashlin's eyes were lit with mischief as she grinned. "Not quite as bad, but yeah, sometimes. Remember—" she broke into a fit of giggles "—remember when you told off Professor Ludington during that match in fourth year?"
The Professor had refereed the match, and Pyrrha had watched him blatantly ignore a dangerous foul against Ashlin by a Slytherin beater. Pyrrha had yanked them both from the air to her spot in the bottom of the stands, and she'd made them understand precisely the way things would be from then on, and why.
"Yes, I remember," Pyrrha said.
Ashlin laughed, pointing. "Oh my God, that's it—that's the look! Oh, I love that memory. Professor Ludington's been much nicer to me since then."
Pyrrha smiled. "And the boy?"
"He still avoids me, even in the hallways," Ashlin said with a satisfied smile, and then she smacked Pyrrha on the arm. "Sorry, didn't mean to derail things. Say what you were going to say." She straightened up, the picture of an eager pupil.
Pyrrha undid her hair charm with a twitch of her arm and ran a hand through it. "Yes . . . well, I can't make any promises regarding the near future. I'm going to be quite busy preparing to deal with Morrigan for a while." Ashlin's face fell, and Pyrrha continued to think. "Here's what I'll do: I'll bring all of my research materials, everything that isn't dangerous, back here. I'll spend as much time here as I possibly can; I bet you'll be sick of me soon enough."
Ashlin grinned. "I'm pretty much there already," she said wryly, "but I'm even more sick of you disappearing, so it's a net positive."
"And, after Morrigan is dealt with . . ." Pyrrha met her sister's expectant eyes, her own deadly serious. "I'll be done with it all. I'll put my . . . studies on hold until you've graduated Hogwarts and gotten a stable job."
"So, wait, you'll be here next summer? The whole time?" Ashlin's elation was almost incomprehensible, but Pyrrha was more than glad for it.
"The whole time," Pyrrha promised. She put on a thoughtful look. "Perhaps we'll go somewhere fun, like Scamander's Magical Creature Preserve, and a Greyhounds game."
Ashlin pounded a fist into the bed, sending up a plume of dust. "You did not just say 'and'!"
"I'm almost certain I did," Pyrrha said, unable to keep a smile away.
"Your attempts to buy my love are subtle as a bludger to the face," Ashlin said, shaking her head woefully before throwing herself onto Pyrrha. "They're also very effective." Ashlin went into a bout of coughing, waving away the dust in the air as she sat back up. "God, it's like you butchered a family of dust devils in here."
"Well, isn't that a lovely image." Pyrrha drew her wand and swept it across the room. Every particle of dust rose in the air to form a cloud of grainy mist, and at a twirl, the cloud condensed in the middle of the room and formed a small grey dragon, miniature scales and all, rising and falling with each flap of its hand-sized wings. Pyrrha stood and directed the creature out the door and down the hall, Ashlin following behind as she led it to the front entry, which opened with a quick gesture.
They stepped out onto the yard, sunlight wrapping them in a warm blanket as they watched the dust dragon loop and dart around in the sky. The trees at the lawn's edge swayed peacefully, as if waving in lazy welcome. The gentle breeze carried earthy forest scents to them and mingled with the crisp air.
Ashlin giggled as the dragon belched a little plume of dust before twisting into a spiral. "Reminds me of Mr. Puffy. Whatever happened to him?"
"You did," Pyrrha said, raising an eyebrow. "You turned him into a dragon conjuration with Draconifors."
Ashlin cringed. "Right, I forgot—then Mum panicked and blasted him to bits. Sorry about that." Ashlin's eyes followed the dust dragon's acrobatics high above the yard, a soft smile on her lips, and she snorted suddenly. "D'you know what I've just realized?"
"I have a feeling you're about to tell me."
Ashlin uttered a laugh. "I am! Y'know that rule of yours, the one you take really seriously?" she said, voice thick with sarcasm.
Pyrrha sighed and restrained herself from rolling her eyes. "That would be all of them, as you well know."
"Yeah, but the big one—no flying without your supervision? You attend every match, but—" Ashlin burst into laughter for a moment "—but I've broken that rule dozens of times—every year, when I go to practices! You never even thought to . . ." she trailed off at the smile on Pyrrha's face, her own expression one of stunned disbelief.
"Yes?" Pyrrha prompted.
"No," Ashlin breathed. "You have not been to all my practices . . ." Her eyes were nearly popping out of her head. " . . . have you?"
Pyrrha nodded crisply. "Every one."
"But you—wha—why didn't I ever bloody see you?" Ashlin cried. "Were you just lurking there, invisible? That's—you're mental! Absolutely, utterly mental! Don't you know people go to prison for that sort of thing?"
"Yes, that's why I was invisible," Pyrrha said.
"You're not funny!" Ashlin said loudly. "Why didn't you ever tell me you were there?"
Pyrrha ran a soothing hand over Ashlin's hair. "I didn't want to interrupt your time with your friends, or make things uncomfortable." Pyrrha smiled fondly. "Watching you have fun and be a carefree child, just for a while, without my presence reminding you to worry about me, having you give me concerned glances . . ." Pyrrha sighed. "I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have kept that from you, but . . . it was always the high point of my day."
Ashlin's anger visibly deflated into something resembling sullen acceptance. "S'pose that makes sense," she said, and she punched Pyrrha's arm. "I still would've rather known, though!"
"Well, now you do."
They fell silent once more and returned to watching the little dust dragon's aerial tricks. It swooped and dived, blown off course by a sudden strong gust. It nearly collided with Pyrrha, and Ashlin laughed as they ducked; the dragon darted away, flapping furiously to regain height as if fleeing in fear of retribution.
Pyrrha nodded at the dragon. "Why don't you get your broom? Show me just how skilled you are?"
Ashlin grinned, drew her wand and summoned her broom, which shot straight through a window, showering the lawn with glass. "Whoops," she said, mending the window with a gesture before mounting her Nimbus.
"I'll wager you can't catch him in two minutes or less," Pyrrha said, flashing a smile in challenge.
Ashlin scoffed. "You're on! Loser has to cook. I'd like chicken parm, if you don't mind." She paused in the act of kicking off, a somewhat lost look on her face as she trained her eyes on the dragon. "There's a joke to be made here about narcotics, but I can't quite puzzle it out."
Pyrrha chuckled, giving Ashlin a little push on the shoulder. "Just fly, you silly girl."