Act One

Beginnings

Chapter Six: Easy Come, Easy Go

"Yeah, I figured. And that's all very well—but how are we going to get up there?" Lashanie's eyes scrutinize the barn as best they can in the fading twilight. It must have been abandoned a long while ago—the walls, though intact, are splotchy and partially covered with a salad of moss and verdigris, and huge holes strewed about all over the thatched roof, where mildew has begun to spread unfettered, allow a bounteous view on the rotten roof beams. This decrepitude gives the building an eerie presence, and she sure wouldn't feel any desire to set foot near it if it weren't for that tiny plant that chose to sprout atop just that dangerous structure. Well—that plant and her friend who wants it so.

Varian props his hands on his hips. Frowning, with his lips slightly pursed and head tilted to one side, he eyes the building at its entire height until his gaze lastly gets caught on some solid planks sealing the entry. Pointing at them, he pensively suggests, "We could try to remove them somehow. Once inside, it should be no big deal to climb across the trusses and through one of the holes in the roof."

The idea had sounded good enough while silently forming inside his mind, but now that he hears it aloud, Varian already hates it. The planks he so readily recommended for him and Lashanie to remove are in a far better state than the rest of that run-down barn; they'd sooner punch a hole into the wall than break one of them. Of course, they could also try to pluck them from the doorframe, but the nails holding 'em in place, judging by the size of their heads, must be massive beasts. It wouldn't surprise him if the sharp ends were to jut out on the other side by several centimeters.

"I guess we could try that . . ." Lashanie's voice bears a touch of skepticism as her gaze tries to follow the path Varian had taken.

She is right to be reluctant; Varian knows. Even their combined physical strengths likely wouldn't suffice to remove the sturdy wood from the entrance before the falling night swallows the rest of the dim twilight yet bathing their village. It's not like they'd be in danger out here at night, not at all—Old Corona was just as peaceful and quiet after nightfall as in daylight . . . well, 'cept for fluffy thieves heisting their harvest. But no way could they move around inside the barn in total darkness. And if they take too long, someone might even come looking for them: his dad, or worse, Lashanie's 'Papa'. And he sure can well do without meeting that grumpy man today.

No, there has to be another, easier way for them to get inside.

Once more, Varian observes the building towering in front of them closely and beholds a small window not too high above the ground. It must lead to a subceiling, a hayloft, perhaps. He leans closer to Lashanie, resting one hand on her shoulder, and nudges her eye in the right direction with a nod. "Or one of us could climb in through that window—would be much faster, too."

"Yeah, I like that. Going in through a window sounds better than vandalism, better by far," Lashanie rejoins. "You know what? I'll do the climbing if you give me a leg-up."

Despite himself, one of Varian's brows faintly arches up as he queries, "Are you sure about that? I mean, you'll still need some brawn to pull yourself up—even with my help."

But Lashanie's answering smile is imbued with confidence. "I know. Will you let me give it a try anyway, please?"

"Er . . . yeah, sure. Of course." A lick of embarrassment resonates in Varian's voice as one of his hands reflexively raises to the back of his hair while the other motions for Lashanie to precede. It hadn't been his intention to belittle her; it's just that she's so petite . . . and he merely intended to be polite and volunteer for the difficult part. Now he can only hope she isn't vigorously overestimating herself; the last thing he wants is for her to get hurt.

Reaching a hand out to let her fingers trail against the wall, Lashanie closes the distance between her and the barn, carefully feeling how much purchase her feet could win against its surface. A satisfied smile blooms on her lips—she definitely can manage to get to that window and procure the monkshood! Denying herself a giggle attempting to form in her throat, she resolutely nods her assent, "Alright, Vary. Let's do this!" Her friend's sure in for a real surprise .

Upon her words, Varian bends over slightly, forming a step for Lashanie by intertwining his fingers, and the moment she sets foot into his curled hands, he energetically takes her aloft without further ado. A little too energetically, maybe—the momentum he gives her lets the slim girl almost fly off his hands. But despite the little shock shivering through her body, Lashanie still remembers to grab hold of the window ledge. She braces one foot against the wall, leaping further; her fingers twine around the frame, and with consummate skill, she pulls herself up within a tenth of a minute, one-twentieth at most.

Then, lo and behold, she's already sitting astride on the sill.

Stunned, Varian silently blinks at her, rendered speechless for a tick. The image travels from his eyes to his brain and, upon arrival, conjures a huge smile on his face. Brimming with childish joy, he cheers, "Ha, you did it! Way to go!"

Bestowed with Varian's wide-eyed admiration, Lashanie can't help but smile back at him beatifically. "No big deal; to practice dancing for years will automatically reward you with a decent level of body control," she explains sheepishly with slightly hunched shoulders.

A hint of amusement slips into Varian's expression through her words. Dancing, of course! Funny, along with that interest in herbs of hers, it feels like he's become friends with a fairy, in a way. A little song pixie.

The mild change in his facial play doesn't go unnoticed by Lashanie; she rolls her head to one side, the touch of rose on her cheeks slightly intensified, and wonders, "Did I say something silly?"

"No. No, not at all! It's just a silly—thought I had; I'll tell you later. And I hate to rush you, but . . ."

"But we're running out of daylight and should focus on gathering the monkshood for now," Lashanie concludes. She nimbly swings her other leg over the window sill and flimsily salutes. "No worries, I'm on it!"

Varian only just manages to call out, "Be careful!" before she dips into the darkness.

While inside, Lashanie lickety-split makes her way up and across the marginally stable roof beams, bravely tamping down on any disquieting thoughts trying to creep into her brain, Varian himself's bidding defiance to the nervousness growing inside his bones with each second that time keeps mercilessly milling from present into past. After a moment—brief in reality but feeling ever so achingly long for him—he can finally discern a silhouette emerging from the shadows engulfing the barn onto the tenuously gloaming illuminated roof. Thank goodness! Now Lashanie only needs to grab the plant and come back down to him safely.

He fixates his gaze on her, watching the girl inch forth like a tightrope walker, dexterously avoiding the holes gaping in her way like hungry yaps waiting to swallow her whole, to at last reap the so coveted monkshood.

She pulls out a rosy handkerchief, carefully wraps it around the plant to scoop it up, and carries her spoils toward the roof edge, casting Varian a chaste smile. "Look, Vary, I got it."

Finally, it's theirs! Wild triumph starts soaring through Varian's body. "Perfect! Now give it to me; I'll stow it away, so you'll have your hands free for the way down," he whisper-shouts into the monotonous blue of that young night, patting his satchel for emphasis before stretching out his cupped hands.

And receives a playfully chirped "How about I jump, and you catch me?" for an answer.

"You know, the laws of nature imply that's a bad idea. If you were to jump from that height, your impact force would increase through the acceleration of gravity, meaning that—" Varian's begun to vividly gesture with his hands while diving into his element when Lashanie's bright laugh interrupts his little excursion into the world of science.

"Vary, I'm just kidding!" she chuckles, depriving a further explanation of importance.

"Oh! Heh, I mean—of course. Good one!" The freckles on Varian's cheeks get bathed in a faint red. He can feel the gentle heat burgeoning in his face but refrains from even a twitch to hide it; the darkness will surely suffice to ensure Lashanie won't notice. "Come back down to me now, please?"

"Yes. Ah!—and remember not to touch the monkshood with your bare hands!" Squatting on her haunches, Lashanie carefully lets the wrapped plant glide off her fingers, meant for Varian's open palms.

He catches it effortlessly. "Gotcha."

Satisfied, Lashanie straightens back to her full height. Now she'll need but climb back through that gap, feel her way to the window, and reunite with firm ground and her friend. That shouldn't prove too arduous, should it? She slowly shifts about to retreat from the edge, and in response, the roof produces a warning sound, like a dog growling before it bites.

Oh—that can't be happening . . .

Lashanie tentatively hazards another slow, tiny move, and again that unsettling noise shatters the silence of the night. This time, loud enough to reach even Varian's ears.

Instinctively he pins it down as threatening, and his stomach churns under that sense of foreboding as he asks, "Hey Birdy, is everything alright?" his voice slightly tinged with anxiety.

She wants to assure Varian that she's fine and he needn't worry—after all, Lashanie had hoped to prove she very well could do things right despite her mom's words . . . to Varian, alright, but herself just as much.

However, she only still manages to inhale, her lips parting to deliver an answer when the roof lastly carries out its threat. Croaking out an ugly cracking sound, the beam right underneath Lashanie's feet gives way, and instead of a reassuring reply, a scream tears from her throat and through the night.

Varian's eyes dilate, helplessly taking in how Lashanie's body disappears into the depths of the barn. A buzzing in his ears grows louder with the increase of his heartbeat. His brain finishes processing the image and immediately drives his legs into motion; he drops the monkshood and darts at the sealed entry. His fingers try to clench a plank, tearing at it frantically while the wood keeps slipping from their grip, chafing the delicate skin of Varian's hands.

"Lashanie?! Lashanie, please say something!" he shouts at the top of his lungs, still trying to rift a path open for all he's worth. He knew it! He knew he should have been the one to climb the roof! With panic rushing through his veins, faster and faster, Varian can feel his breath getting out of control, and he futilely struggles to put up resistance against it.

The heavy hand landing on his shoulder—seemingly out of nowhere—almost has Varian jump out of his skin. Panting for breath, he flails violently to wrench free of that unwelcome grasp. To his surprise, the boy suddenly finds himself staring back into a pair of ever-so-familiar brown eyes. "Dad . . .?" he breathes. Never before has he been so glad but also this unspeakable miserable seeing his father.

"Varian, what's going on—what are you doing out here?!" Quirin asks inquisitively, obviously alarmed by his son's state.

Tears well up in Varian's eyes, and he fights them back as best he can. With every fiber of his being, he hates this moment . . . All he wanted was to help the village—now Lashanie's hurt, and his father will be terribly disappointed in him. Again. He can scarcely bear to hold Quirin's gaze while streaming together confused sentences. "Dad, I—I've messed things up. I just wanted to help, honest! But I—we . . . Lashanie, she—"

Instantly, another man shoves himself into Varian's line of vision, and the boy's heart skips half a beat, only to leap into his throat with the next throb.

"I knew she was with you!" Ludwig barks. "Where's my daughter, Varian?!"

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse. Varian's tongueless, the thumping inside his chest hindering him from explaining. He opens his mouth but produces nothing more than a low croak as his gaze wanders from Ludwig's eyes, reflecting a pool of unfathomable emotions, to the faint scar by his jawline and back again. A queasy feeling unfurls in the pit of his stomach under that man's piercing gaze, giving rise to the chance he might even have to throw up.

"Answer me!" Ludwig bites out, his voice thundering through the night.

Varian slightly winces, and instinctively, Quirin holds one protective arm in front of his boy. "Please, Ludwig, let him explain," he says with a touch of irritation hovering in his voice. He knows all too well Varian can be . . . problematic. Still—Quirin doesn't yell at his son and won't allow anybody else to do so either.

Bringing his face down to Varian's level, Quirin takes a knee, his hands still resting on the slender shoulders of his wisp of a boy. "You must tell us what happened," he urges with gentle pressure.

Varian struggles against the lump in his throat. "Well, we—we were trying to—"

A sudden noise from inside the barn—rustling and shuffling, followed by a quiet whimper—garners the attention of all three males. Ludwig presses his ear against the blocking planks, listening carefully. His eyes widen. "Lashanie? Are you in there?! Are you alright?"

The noise grows louder . . . " Papa? I—yes, I'm here. And I'm fine, I think. But my leg is stuck."

"It's alright, mousie—I'll get you out of there!" Ludwig casts his friend a meaningful glance, and Quirin draws his son a few steps away from the barn before Ludwig tears off the first plank with one mighty yank. Another one follows, and another one and one more until the front gate is wide open.

For some reason, it bears a slight semblance of jaws to Varian—jaws someone violently ripped the teeth out . . . He can't help but gulp hard, a vague sense of intimidation creeping into him. It's crazy how easy Ludwig made it look to clear the way when in comparison, Varian wasn't able to move those planks even one bit.

It doesn't take Lashanie's father long to free the girl from her plight; holding her tight in his arms, he carries her outside. She seems a bit dazed, and blood trickles down her bruised leg, but when Varian's remorseful gaze meets hers, she still affords a smile for him. That smile, as small as it is, suffices to erase the anxiety holding Varian in its cold grip entirely, and the moment she's released out of her father's hold and her feet touch the ground, Varian, overcome by a sheer liberating relief, flings his arms around her in a hug so tight as if he was trying to combine their bodies.

"Birdy! Oh, Birdy, I was so scared! And I—I'm so glad you're alright!" Varian takes Lashanie by the shoulders and brings half an arm's length of space between them to examine her. "I mean—you are alright, aren't you?"

Lashanie can't help but smile despite the pain tearing through her injured leg. "Yes, Vary—I am fine."

At that, Varian pulls her back into the world's tightest hug. "I am so, so glad!"

Ludwig would love to just end this nearness that ne'er-do-well urchin shares with his daughter—in fact, at that very moment, there's barely anything he'd love more—but with Lashanie holding that little nuisance just as tight and Quirin watching, he leaves well alone with shooting Varian a glare that could curdle milk, growling, "Yeah, she's fine. Everyone is fine! If you two were inclined to interrupt clinging to one another like glued together so that we can be on our way home . . . Andiamo!"

They reluctantly let go of each other, both allowing themselves a tiny giggle while locking gazes once more before complying with Ludwig's order by heading homeward.

As Quirin follows behind them, still wrapped up in relief, too, he steps onto something soft . He bends down and, at first, thinks it to be a weird-looking plushie. Only after picking the rose vermicular thing up does he recognize it as a handkerchief. Deliberately falling back behind Ludwig and the kids, he unwraps the contents inside the cottony fabric and, in doing so, spoils himself the good feeling that had been enveloping him hitherto—it develops a bitter aftertaste when Quirin's eyes meet the monkshood.

•●•●•

At the end of their short walk to Lashanie's house, she and Varian have taken a seat at the halved log that doubles as a bench in the cozy garden by their kitchen window. How glad Lashanie's been to finally get a chance to rest her leg, but now she feels a waxing urge to run and hide. Right opposite Varian and her, Quirin's perched on a milking stool, his face somehow more drawn than the last time Lashanie saw him. But perhaps it's just the pale moonlight painting it so, or she simply imagines it. Anyhow, he and her dad—leaning against a wall next to them—keep mercilessly haranguing them about their misbehavior.

Apparently, the Durand family had planned to renovate the barn in two weeks' time, and now Quirin would be forced to explain to them what had happened to the rest of the roof . . . and the hayloft. Because—and that probably had been Lashanie's pure luck—it had involuntarily cushioned her fall before following suit with the roof beams. Of course, it wasn't much use mentioning that the whole thing had already been so rotten that it was clamoring for reconstruction and not renovation well before their little gathering had brought the roof down.

And as a matter of fact, Lashanie does feel sorry for the Durands and Quirin. She and Varian probably have earned themselves that telling-off, alright. But her leg is hurting, and she's tired—all she wants to do now is patch herself up and fall into a long, deep slumber. But when Quirin produces Lashanie's handkerchief from his pocket, the monkshood treacherously sticking out from the fabric, it dawns on her how far out of reach a good night's rest would yet be.

Quirin heaves a sigh, faintly shaking his head. "I wouldn't have thought you two to act this contrary to reason." He favors Varian with a reproachful glance. "These are poisonous—I told you to stay away from poisonous plants, Varian! And you assured me you would listen!"

Varian's still holding Lashanie's hand clasped tight like he did all the way here. Fiddling around with her fingers, he avoids his father's eye and ignores Ludwig's glare boring through him. He needn't even steal a glance at his dad to find out how much he's disappointed him—Quirin's voice is already perfectly betraying it.

"It was really my fault!" Lashanie suddenly chimes in. Perhaps not her best idea yet, judging by the surprised looks now striking her, but she couldn't help it—she doesn't want Quirin to be mad at Varian.

The mild surprise melts away from Quirin's face in a blink, though, and he insists, "Lashanie, please . . ."

"No, it's true! I—I've seen the monkshood in one of Vary's books and wanted to impress him by finding some. I—"

Ludwig harshly interrupts his daughter, "Enough of that nonsense, Lashanie!"

"But . . ."

A kind smile, bordering on amusement, tugs at Quirin's lips. "It's very noble of you to take the blame, but you shouldn't stoop to lies." He casts his son a side glance, "I already know about Varian's plans to use it for his alchemy ."

Varian leaps from his seat, erupting in a sudden surge of anger. "You went through my stuff?!"

"I did not! Your notes lay about open, scattered across your table," Quirin retorts, adding, without getting any louder but saturating his voice with a stern tone brooking no dissent, "Now sit back down, Varian."

For a tense, discomforting moment, Varian still glares daggers at his dad, showing zero intention to obey. There's this burning anger that comes rushing through him out of nowhere, and once it's ablaze, he can hardly quench it. But then Lashanie's hand closes around his, her eyes silently begging him to calm down. The darkness does nothing to hide how much his abrupt ire had startled her, and just as suddenly as his rage did flare up, it dies away again as Varian's gaze rests on her. He rolls his eyes, sighs in exasperation, and plops down beside her—sourly but all the same.

Of course, their fathers weren't done yet, incessantly repeating and concurring with each other how reprehensible their behavior has been—oh, what could have all gone wrong, and how much worse one of them could have gotten hurt . . . Varian blocks their talking out after a minute.

What he fails to ignore, though, is how strained his dad looks. Heck! These shadows under his eyes just scream how restless his nights must have been lately. Varian never meant to cause him more headaches—on the contrary! He only did all that to help! And what a fine job he's been doing of it too . . . Why does he always botch things up?

Varian's defense starts crumbling apart, leaving behind merely a despondent child.

"We can agree upon your punishment another time," Quirin finally says, taking notice of the moon's position. They should try to still get at least some rest. He pushes his aching bones up from the low stool . . . Ludwig had done well to remain standing.

"Punishment?" Lashanie chirps incredulously.

"Certainly! And some well-earned at that," Ludwig replies. "You two have done something incredibly stupid—we ought to make sure you'll learn a lesson from it." "And now, off to bed with you."

A part of Lashanie wants to protest—isn't her hurting leg punishment enough?! But her better judgment prevents her from digging their whole deeper right in time. Instead, she nods obediently in hopes of assuaging her dad—and perhaps reducing the sharpness of their sentence—with good behavior. "Yes, sir."

She wraps Varian in a hug, gingerly nuzzling his cheek. "Good night, Vary." And casts Quirin a shy smile, wishing him goodnight, too, as she walks past him to disappear behind the corner of the house afterward.

Quirin shoves the monkshood and the handkerchief back into his pocket, the ghost of a smile on his face. "Good night, Lashie."

•●•●•

They're living only a stone's throw away from one another. Varian can even see Lashanie's house from his window . . . But that ridiculously short walk home he and his dad share quietly still offers enough time for silent reproaches to sear across Varian's conscience nonstop, rubbing it raw. Over and over, they form words of apology heading for his mouth but not coming out. Only when they're standing by the stairs leading to their front door does Varian finally summon the courage to speak to his father.

He tugs at Quirin's sleeve, his bottom lip slightly jotting, admitting, "Dad, I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you worry; I—all I wanted was to help. I know I shouldn't have—" Varian's voice falters.

"Oh, Varian . . ." Quirin pats his son's head. "I know you want to help. But all these problems aren't yours to solve; let me handle them."

"But dad—I can help!"

"Yes, you can." One hand placed on Varian's back, Quirin gently shoves his son up the stairs. "The best way for you to help me is when you simply stay out of trouble. That's all I ask of you. Promise me you will?"

His dad's watching Varian expectantly. He doesn't want him to help, of course not. He doesn't believe in him after all . . . "I promise," Varian reluctantly replies.

"Very well." Quirin opens the door, sending Varian to bed with a tired but no less satisfied smile. "We should get some sleep now; the dawn won't wait for us to break."

"Yeah. Good night, dad." Lost deep in thought, Varian heads for his room.

If his father can't see it, can't see how helpful Varian can be, well—then he'll have to show him. The monkshood was merely a little setback. Such things happen. But he can't let that stop him. He will find a way to prove to his dad what he's capable of. Nah! To the whole village ! Then his dad will surely understand why Varian had to keep his fingers crossed making that promise.

He'll just have to prove there's more in him . . .