“If you’re not feeling up to it, we don’t have to go.” I fiddle with the front of my linen dress, the rough and scratchy material still not entirely familiar to me. Behind me, Eshe runs their hand along a cabinet to navigate the living room. It’s a maneuver natural to them now.

“I’m up to it.” Their fingers pluck a thin strip of red cloth from the bottom shelf and deftly tie it around their eyes, the color working nicely with their dark brown tunic and tights. They still aren’t comfortable having their Mark seen in town, claiming to be concerned about superstitious folk. I think they’re just insecure. Regardless, I respect their choice. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“I’m not trying to,” I grumble, mostly lying. Anxiety prickles at me like pine needles beneath bare feet, and I keep shifting my weight from side to side in an attempt to even out my queasy stomach. 

“Uh-huh.”

As Eshe approaches the front door, I get on my tip toes to quickly adjust their collar and give them a kiss. They tolerate the former and return the latter with pleasure.

“Ready?”

“Mm.” 

We leave our current home and venture out, bobbing and weaving on the rugged road to avoid the springtime abundance of mud. The small town of Lac-Moneau is only a mile out. Our decision to settle in the eastern Arlunni border town hadn’t been made ahead of time. We’d simply traveled—first to escape the instability of Niol, and then just to satiate our wanderlust—until we grew weary and then stopped wherever we were. Maybe we’ll stay indefinitely; maybe we’ll get the itch again and move on. I don’t really know.

When we reach the crossroads at the edge of town, Eshe cocks their head to the side.

“Catch something?”

They nod. “Glimmers. Two coming around the bend. A man, soul of a poet wrapped in a farmhand, and…his mule?”

Sure enough, a young man and his pack animal soon come into view.

“Yes! Well, the poet business I’m not sure of, but the rest you’re spot on.”

Eshe tries and fails to conceal their satisfaction, beaming with pride at the success. Much to their surprise, their sorcery didn’t abandon them when they developed their Mark. It’s just…different now, apparently. Whenever I ask them to explain it, they get very excited discussing their continued faith in Sol, ‘the essence of creation,’ and a bunch of other things I don’t understand at all but am happy to listen to because they’re so cute when they get excited. 

In practical terms, their sorcery is the main way we make our living—there are always injuries for them to heal or structures they can instantly build through the power of magic. In towns past such activities have gotten us run out for ‘witchcraft,’ but Lac-Moneau has been tolerant enough so far. Some townsfolk even call Eshe ‘The Oracle.’ They hate the nickname. I find it hilarious.

We pass boy and mule alike, heading not into the town proper but rather to a small clearing nearby. Through breaks in the trees, I spot colorful wagons set up in a semi-circle. A crowd mills about between them, the sound of their chatter drifting toward us as a lazy hum. The closer we get, the more I drag my feet, sweat beading on my forehead in spite of our slow pace and the slight chill in the air. There’s no easy way out of this dilemma—give up and swap anxiety for guilt and disappointment, or go onward and face what feels like an impassible barrier of nerves. 

“Um.” I stop in place, unable to make a choice. “I…I don’t think I can do this, Eshe.”

They turn toward me and trail their fingers along my cheek. “Oh?”

“What if things are still the same?”

Eshe adds another hand to caress my face, their thumbs rubbing small circles on my cheekbones. It’s one of their favorite ways to while away the hours. Almost immediately, I begin to relax. I love it. Love their gentle touch, love the earnest focus they devote to the task. “You’re not the same person you were. You’re not in the same circumstances you were; you’re completely out of that world now.”

That isn’t entirely true—Francine still sends us letters every month or so to brag about her achievements. Apparently, she and Paolo combined their efforts to gain control over a vast majority of the kingdom’s new parliament. She even offered me an advisory position, saying Queen Helena was a miserable and powerless puppet ruler now who couldn’t harm me if she tried. 

I politely declined.

“I don’t know…” I stare down at the ground. “Maybe I’ll only open an old wound.”

“Okay.” Eshe pulls their hands away and offers an elbow to link arms. “If you don’t think you can…”

I let out a shaky sigh, the relief of giving in palpable if brief. But as I wrap my arm around Eshe’s, they pull it tight to their torso and I realize my mistake.

“...then I will.” They half-pull and half-drag me the rest of the way into the clearing, forcing me to stumble so as to avoid falling.

“Eshe!” I whine, “Come on! This isn’t fair!” There’s no bite behind my words; both of us know I’m secretly grateful for being forced to attend. That makes their smug smile even more annoying.

“It’s perfectly fair. You lead me by the arm constantly. Now it’s my turn.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And that’s why you can’t quit me.”

As we approach the crowd, I stop resisting to avoid embarrassment. Gods know I’m already on edge enough. Without trees blocking the way, we’re able to see the full setup of the traveling theater troupe: Their wagons encircle a number of open-air tents filled with oddities and vendors hawking food and mead (a local favorite I cannot stand). Behind them, a modest-sized makeshift stage hosts several musicians readying their instruments. I strain my eyes to try and spot—

“Ah, that’ll be two coins if ya please! One for you n’ one for the little lady,” a stout woman cheerily informs Eshe. Even blindfolded, strangers still recognize them as the dominant force in our pair. It never fails to inspire a little flutter of delight in me, one I quickly bury with indignation. 

Eshe fishes the cost from their pocket and then allows me to lead the way, confident I’m no longer considering running away. They’re right; now that I’m in and amongst the crowd, my nerves are pushed to the side in favor of the task at hand. We find a decently secluded spot to stand and watch the show, with me relaying visual information to Eshe while they reveal bizarre tidbits picked up through their sorcery.

“The fiddle player’s a beast of a man,” I whisper into their ear, “I keep thinking he’s going to break his bow accidentally.”

Eshe frowns and focuses. “He’s thinking about what’s for dinner.”

“Very insightful.”

“He kept squirrels as pets when he was a boy.”

“Really?”

Eshe grins. “How the fuck would I know?”

We both fall into a fit of giggles, interrupted only when Eshe straightens. “Here they come.”

Three dancers make their way onstage from behind the back curtain, each dressed in their own unique attire: The dancer on the left wears an elaborate, jewel-toned cloak that flutters and shimmers in the light whenever they move. In the middle, the dancer wears a series of interwoven straps that crisscross all over their body, offering small glimpses of his toned body in between them. And on the right is Alice.

She looks healthy. Vibrant, even if I catch sight of a few subtle gray hairs in the tight brunette bun atop her head. And while her outfit isn’t as complex as the others—just a short, slitted sea-green dress—the way she moves indicates the kind of confidence that only comes from mastery of a skill. As she begins to dance, I forget I’m supposed to be nervous. I forget I’m supposed to tell Eshe what’s going on. I even forget to breathe for several moments. Each of Alice’s movements are filled with emotion yet tightly controlled; bursting with energy yet perfectly precise. The other dancers are certainly skilled as well, but my eyes never drift far from my sister. They also don’t remain dry for very long, and before I know it I’m openly sobbing at what is clearly meant to be a piece of light entertainment. Luckily, we’re positioned far away enough to avoid attracting too much attention, and Eshe is happy to provide their shoulder as my anchor and occasional handkerchief.

“How long has it been since you last saw her perform?” They whisper, their hand rubbing up and down my back. 

The answer comes to me instantly. “Twelve years.” Too long.

But my regrets and heaving sobs don’t dampen my enjoyment of the show. Alice dances well into the afternoon, losing herself in the music even as her fellow performers tire themselves out and swap with their rested colleagues. It’s only after a dazzlingly fast number with dozens of high kicks and tight twirls that she finally bows out, earning a healthy amount of applause as she unceremoniously slips back behind the curtain. I bury my face in Eshe’s chest, exhausted for entirely different reasons. 

“How was it?” They ask after a moment, the rumbling of their chest a familiar comfort. 

“Wonderful.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not yet.” 

Eshe nods and holds me close, our bodies absently swaying in time with the continued music. With the prospect of actually talking to Alice so close at hand, though, I can’t help but begin to worry again. The forgiveness Paolo offered me was wrapped in political circumstances and mutual distaste for Helena. Alice, on the other hand, has the freedom to be absolutely honest. She could scream viciously at me and be absolutely justified in doing so; she could refuse to speak with me altogether and I wouldn’t be able to blame her. I’m the one who tore her family apart, after all. The one who had her exiled from her own home. Whatever she does or doesn’t give to me, I deserve.

Alice walks out from behind the stage toward one of the wagons, chatting animatedly with one of the musicians in her troupe. I steady myself, stand a little straighter, and try to make eye contact.

She doesn’t notice, too wrapped up in conversation to look around. I deflate slightly as she gets closer to the wagon. Maybe it’s for the best if we don’t talk. Maybe I—

Eshe lets out a sharp, high-pitched whistle, making me flinch and attracting the attention of everyone nearby. They appear entirely nonchalant, meaning everyone’s eyes inevitably land on me.

“Fucking sorcery,” I whisper to them. They shrug.

Across the clearing, Alice turns and notices me. I give a little wave, my heart practically beating itself to pieces inside my chest. She excuses herself from her conversation and begins walking toward me.

There’s a tentative smile on her face.

THE END