Three: The Secret

A/N: Here's where the magic starts...

Pir's life had always been forwards: Moving forwards, being forward, straightforward. Never has she taken the time to harp on the past, but now she did, and it all came flooding back at her, like a meteorite ripping through the sky, hurtling towards her.

Her earliest and oldest memories were faint. There was a meadow – yes, a meadow for sure in her younger days, but she could no longer remember the names of the flowers that bloomed there, nor the soft wind that brushed against her cheeks. But she indeed remembered playing in it, running through the sea of flowers, letting her hands brush against the petals. A voice sang in the wind, like little bells in the air.

Then it was gone.

In the distance another voice called out. This one was calling her to come back.

She ignored the voice, she just ran on, searching for the beautiful voice that she had heard.

"Pirpet! My pet, please stop!" called the voice. "Nana has not the legs for this!"

Pir stopped. In front of her toddler eyes, was the dead body of an oriole, lying limp on the soft, wet soil. It was bent in such a graceful position, it's neck extended, it's wings folded neatly by its side. Its voice, once beautiful, had been robbed from the world.

Nana came to her side. She gasped upon seeing the body, to which Pir had had no reaction.

Nana swiped her hands over Pir's eyes. "No child of your age should've seen such a sight, my Pirpet, now come, we must return to the village before the snow beats us to it." She led Pir away from the dead bird, took her by the hand firmly and led her away from the meadow – to Fellshire.

Yes, that was its name. Fellshire, a small, remote, rural village just at the edge of British Columbia, her birthplace.

She was carried by Nana all the way to the cottage, in where Nana set her down by the fireplace. Pir stared into the warm orange flames, which cast dancing shadows across the soft rug in front of her.

Nana settled herself into the armchair. She rocked back and forth, humming tunes of her young days, thinking of the times when she was as lively as Pir, who had begun to crawl around. Then Pir sat back down again, and stared up at her nanny.

"Nana, why did the birdie stop singing?" she asked, curious. Nana opened her eyes and stared lovingly at her.

"It was tired, my dear; it fell asleep."

"But it didn't wake up. It wasn't moving."

"It will eventually. You'll be able to hear it then."

"Just like I'll be able to see Mama and Papa one day?"

Nana paused.

"My dear Pirpet," she said, and it was evident in her voice that she had said this many times before, "They are busy – away – but they'll come back. I promise you, Pirpetusia," she bent down and lifted Pir from the floor and onto her lap, "they'll come back," she assured, "they will."

Pir snuggled in against Nana, feeling the warmth between the woman's breasts. There she heard the steady beating of her heart, like a drum that went on for eternity.

And so the next day she recalled going back to the meadow, alone. It was a great feat, for a child so young to sneak out without her nana, and Pir was proud of it. Nana, in her absent-mindedness, had left the door unlocked while she headed to the market, and of course Pir, in her curiosity, wanted to hear the singing voice of the bird again, and slipped out the door.

She ran out through the stone archway that marked the entrance of Fellshire. Into the forest she went, her hair whipping behind her, as the greenery zipped past. She felt so full of energy, so…alive.

She entered the meadow, and once again she set out to look for the oriole. She searched, but the endless field of flowers would give her no hint to where it lay. So she stopped, and listened. The air was still, the silence tranquil. The only sound was the swaying of the flowers as they danced in the wind, just like a chorus line.

Pir began to notice something off. Initially, she couldn't place her finger on it, but she knew there was something off about the scene in front of her. Then she saw it.

The ants on the ground; they were so small, and her mind was young, but it was obvious that they were all travelling in the same direction. She had seen many ants before, all over Nana's walls or in the garden, but half had been travelling in the different direction. Bemused, she followed the trail of ants, hopping over the flowers and whisking past their petals. And she was taken on by surprise, for the ants lead her to the one place she had been looking for – the death place of the oriole. There it still lay, still sleeping, still unmoving.

Pir opened her satchel and took out a small cardboard box with cotton stuffing inside. She picked up the bird.

"I'll take care of you," she whispered. "I'll make sure you wake up. I want to hear you sing again."

Her second earliest memory was not very pleasant. It was something she'd tried to forget, but it was like a thorn irremovable.

"It's time for you to go to school, Pirpet."

"I don't want to. Can't you just teach me? Like you do everyday?"

"I teach because I didn't have the money to send you to kindergarten, Pir," Nana murmured. "Now you must socialize; get to know someone of your age."

"But I don't want to got to school!"

Nana ignored her protests, slung a bag over her shoulders and shoved her out of the door.

"You will go to school, or you don't come back in!" she slammed the door.

Smart was her Nana, for it was winter now in Fellshire, and the winds bit unmercifully at her already cold and frozen cheeks.

"Nana!" she screamed, banging at the door with her numb red fingers. "I don't want to go to school! Nana!"

"Get your ass to school or your not getting back in this filthy place!"

"But I'm cold!"

There was no reply from her Nana. So she sat out on the doorstep, shivering like a homeless Chihuahua in nothing but a simple bedgown and a pair of thin stockings.

It seemed for eternity, as she watched horse carriages roll by through her tear-filled eyes. She was so lonely. Another shiver rippled through her body, her muscles tensing and a gasp escaping her soon-blue lips.

A carriage stopped in front of her. Booted feet stepped out, and strode across the snow to Nana's doorstep.

There was a knock. "Ma'am," came a low, stern voice, "are you aware of the little girl out on your front door?"

"I'm very well aware!" answered Nana's irritated voice. "Now if you'll be a gentleman, get her ass off the snow and to school!"

Fatigue overwhelmed Pir. She couldn't even lift her head to look as strong arms wrapped around her freezing body and place her into the warmth of the carriage. There was a gentle bare smaller hand that stroked her cold shoulders.

And that was the last thing she remembered before the darkness.

There was softness beneath her, into which her body sank. A blanket was draped over her, and another gasp of air left her body with a shiver, warmth rippling through her body.

"Is she alright, Daddy?" she heard a voice of a boy, who seemed no older than her.

"Yes, my lad," replied a man. "She will wake up soon."

"Why was she out in the cold?"

"Her mother merely let her out to play," he answered.

Pir was skeptical at the idea. Nana let her out to play? More like to let her suffer of the cold. There was no way she was going to forgive Nana anytime soon.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. A deep orange light hit her face, bathing her cheeks in warmth and comfort.

She was in a large, spacious room with a high ceiling and a giant crystal chandelier hanging from it, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves attached with ladders, high classed tables and dressing wardrobes with posh couches and armchairs. It seemed all…alien, compared to her Nana's simple but cozy cottage.

"Ah, my dear," said the man, "I see you're awake."

Pir made no response.

The boy ran in front of her and knelt down, forcing her eyes to become level with his, so that her bright blue eyes stared into his soft brown ones.

"Hi."

There was still no response from Pir.

"What's your name?"

Pir tried to flip over onto her other side, but her limbs were stiff and sore, having yet to defrost. The boy smiled cheerfully, undeterred by her ignorance.

"Never mind then," he said, "My name's –

Pir gasped. Oziandra seemed to flinch forward slightly.

"No," Pir said, stopping her, "No, I'm okay."

Oziandra wasn't convinced. "You don't need to do this."

"It was what I was instructed to do," said Pir, "by the Winds. They fated we be together."

"Together as in…" Oziandra was hesitant. Did that mean she would have to give up – no, she'd already done that, and so what was she to fear?

"We each are the deciding factors of each other's futures," said Pir. "Therefore, soon you will have to reveal your mysterious past as well, Oziandra Rain Osqa'ami."

"I will," promised Oziandra, though after slight hesitation.

"Sure, all you witches making these wonderful promises…" said Iskinaary sardonically, whom Pir had once again easily forgotten. "Liir never made any promises. I doubt he would've been able to keep them anyway…if so I would be a free bird soaring the skies by now."

"Shut up." This time the two witches spoke as one.

"This boy…" Oziandra continued. "He's a painful memory, isn't he?"

Pir said nothing, and lowered her gaze.

"If it helps," said Oziandra, "You can just name him something else."

"I would prefer to name him Son-of-a-Bitch any time, but calling names is pathetic, and I shall go by his real name. His name" she took a deep breath, "was Oliver Sanders, son of Mayor Fredrick Sanders."

When she first met Oliver he struck her as a rather charming boy. With the best manners of a Mayor's son and the smart looks with his checkered vest, he looked like a Mr Perfect in training.

Yet when she went to school the next day – Nana had finally persuaded her, and later the milkman was rather amused at her constant skipping around the house – only then did she realize Oliver was not much of a celebrity in school. He nearly always sulked in the corners and kept his head low, as if he didn't want to be seen at all. She was about to confront him when she was dragged to the principal's office.

Pir had long forgotten the Principal's name, but his shape and attitude wasn't as easily forgettable. She remembered his rotund figure, his round spectacles forced into his pudgy nose. She remembered the pipe that protruded from his fat comical lips, and the beady eyes that were constantly on the newspaper he was reading.

"Pirpetusia McGuire. Interesting name," said the Principal, not taking his eyes of his newspapers. "Where are you from? Are you local?"

Pir said nothing.

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

"I don't have any."

"But I see you have a guardian, Miss Gemma McGuire."

"Nana doesn't care about me."

"Oh I'm sure she does," said the Principal dismissively. "Let's see, you've been homeschooled for the past three years?"

"Would've been four," said Pir grumpily.

"I'm truly hoping that as you embark on this education your attitude will improve, Miss Pirpetusia," said the Principal. "You are under the class Grade 1E with the first period being mathematics."

Pir hated nearly every teacher she saw. She didn't like the mathematics teacher, who just droned on about geometry the entire lesson. She detested the history teacher, who did nothing but sit on the teacher's table and go on about USA's founding fathers. She wasn't really in favor with the Language teacher, who freaked her out by smiling with every word said.

But there was one teacher who stuck in her mind, the one teacher whose first lesson she carried throughout her years. He was her art teacher, an expatriate teacher from Kansas.

As usual, Pir had been slumped in her chair, her head lain on her desk, her art sketchpad propped in front of her to avoid being caught sleeping. Like the rest of her previous classes, she expected this one to be no more interesting.

She heard something being placed on the table. A clink of glass, as a vase was settled on the wood of the table.

"Class, what do you see?"

From under her drooping lids, she saw the boy next to her lean forward slightly.

"It's so ugly."

Her ears perked up, the comment arousing her childlike curiosity. She sat up, peering over the top of her sketchpad.

It was a sad, sorrowful sight. The petals of the poor flower were drooping, its leaves withered and brown, the stalk bent, like an old man with numbered days. Nothing could save it; that was certain.

"Yes," said the teacher. "It is ugly, but long ago it was pretty, flourishing with blooming petals and a healthy stalk, until winter took its toll. Now, I want you to imagine it when it was like that, and draw it."

Pir looked at the flower. In her mind's eye, a lush red began to blossom across the petals, which now prospered with life. The leaves perked up and the stem straightened, turning into a deep shade of green.

All around her, her fellow classmates had begun to draw. In many the petals were colored, yes, but its petals were still wilted, the children unable to visualize the life that flower had once possessed. But it just seemed so real to Pir, her imagination indistinguishable from her reality. She bent over, and began to sketch the flower that wasn't there, and color the colors at had long been ridden of the flower.

Her drawing was simple, but it made the art teacher pause and observe it for a moment.

"Pirpetusia, I'd like to see you after class."

So when all of her classmates had filed out of the room, their childish yells and screams of joy echoing throughout the hallway outside, Pir stayed, and watched curiously as the teacher stared out of the window, out into the cold, winter gloom. The snowflakes smacked against the glass, accompanied by the winter winds outside.

"How'd you do it, Pirpetusia?" he asked, without turning to look at her. "How'd you see the flower? You achieved what I least expected of a six-year old – not to draw what is there, but to draw what is not there."

Pir didn't answer. She walked over to the dead flower, it's drooping petals making the flower seem as if it's sleeping.

It's sleeping…

Maybe she could try and wake it up…

Oh look, it's waking up…

"Holy McKinley."

Pir looked up at the teacher, who now faced her, his eyes widened as large as saucers, face pale as the snow that fell. Then she looked down again at her hands, and realized she now held the flower, but it was blossoming and healthy again, the petals as red and the leaves as green as she had imagined them to be.

The teacher strode over and knelt down in front of her. He took the rose from her hands and observed it in his own, stroking the delicate petals that he had thought to be long dead. Then he looked up into her eyes, his filled with graveness and slight fear.

"Miss Pirpetusia, I must say you've special talent," he said, his tone laced with grim seriousness. "But you must not show it."

"Why?"

The teacher lowered his gaze, and planted the flower back into Pir's hands. He wrapped his fingers around hers, enclosing the rose.

"It's a secret, Pirpetusia.

"Our secret."