When Verena entered her quarters they were empty. There was only the sharp scent of lye, and when she knelt down to the floor, a few surviving smears of browned crimson. The medicus had threatened to call for a guard to escort her away from Thael. He, Verena, and the blood stains were all that remained of the night’s events.

She did not sleep in her cot, instead climbing the wooden ladder up to Thael’s bed. She curled up on the mattress, cradling her knees. Tears escaped from her eyes, and she let out a hollow gasp.

She was a mage. She was something different. Destined for greater things. Yet here she lay, alone, her only ally wounded and even more helpless because of her. Perhaps she should have spoken out when Thael offered to take her place in punishment. But she didn’t. She had not spoken a word, only watched as they whipped him bloody.

She wept perhaps for him. Though she certainly knew that she wept for herself. Her tears dried long before she succumbed to darkness.

***

Verena knew she was in a dream. The tunnel. There was a faint blue light at its end. The light glowed ever nearer, ever brighter. Verena faltered. She looked upon herself. Her reflection was a smoky apparition, soft blue in its illumination. It was the sole light in the dark. She held a hand out, as did it. Her open palm met hers. As they touched, she knew. She knew that it was the airic spirit, the wisp she had imprisoned after all this time. It soothed her wounds, whispering countless lullabies and memories of her. Her mother. Glendaria Hargraves was her name. Verena thought she had forgotten but the spirit had brought her memories into a startling clarity.

She was a girl. Small enough that the stairs she hopped over seemed as great obstacles to overcome. She cheered once she reached the top, then jumped onto the circling banister to slip and slide down until she rolled into an acrobatic landing over the heavy carpeted floor. Tutor Quinn stood there, frowning, but she could see the twinkle of amazement in his brown eyes.

“Ha!” she called out, raising her arms in victory.

“Very good, young master,” the man gave a mock bow, as did she. “You awe us all with your prowess. Your mother is expecting you for lunch. After all your gallivanting, I suspect you are hungry as a horse.”

“Not a horse!” Verena exclaimed. “A wrynn! I could eat a horse!”

The tutor chuckled, “Well now, go off to see your mother. And remember! Lessons in the afternoon. I expect equal prowess in your arithmetic as your gallivanting.”

She made a sour face and scurried down the hall, her shoes clopping on the polished white marble tiles. Arched windows painted the sunlight to stain the floor with soft shades of blue, brown and orange.

Verena reached the dining hall and skipped down the long table to reach its end where her mother sat. She clambered up to her own chair.

“Mama! What’s for lunch today?”

Her mother, once tired and pale, now brightened. Golden hair spiraled down to frame her heart shaped face. Her grey eyes sparked with sudden green vitality. She was her mother. And she was radiant.

“Let’s see… I count a frog’s leg in this soup, shaved hoof, cow’s tongue, and…”

“You forgot newt’s eyes, Ma.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “And should you eat all of it you shall turn into a wizened crone such as I.”

“You’re not wizened, Ma, you’re too pretty for that.”

Her mother’s laugh was a light tinkling of chimes in a warm wind. “Nevertheless, let us eat now, dear one.”

They enjoyed their soup in comfortable silence.

“Can we go to the gardens before Tutor Quinn starts his lessons?” she asked, hopeful.

“I don’t see why not. Would you ring the bell to summon such a demon?”

Verena nodded, grabbing the supper bell and ringing it, calling, “Tutor Quinn! Tutor Quinn!”

The tutor appeared, hands on his hips, his grey brows high in a puzzled expression. “What is it now, young lady?”

“We’re going to the gardens today!”

“Ah, I shall attend to Lady Hargraves then. Let us be off.”

Her mother rose unsteadily to her feet, holding her cane. The tutor gently held her other hand and guided her to the wheeled chair.

Verena walked alongside them, her mother’s chair wheels squeaking over the marble floor. Tutor Quinn opened the door before Verena shot through to the courtyard. Water burbled from the three-tiered fountain. White marble cherubs hid between the bright flowers and shaped bushes.

“Hi Michael,” Verena patted the head of one cherub. She ran to find another. “Hi Leo.”

When she was done she found her mother resting upon a stone bench in the shade of the one tree that stood in the gardens. Tutor Quinn was speaking with one of the gardeners nearby.

“How are Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael and Donatello?” her mother asked.

“They’re fine. Michael has some moss in the wrong places.”

“Oh no! What does Michael feel about this?”

“Itchy, but he says it’s fine. He says maybe it will grow on him.”

“Perhaps it will.”

They talked and laughed, and all was well.

***

The harsh glare of sunlight from the window made Verena flinch from her cot. The dream, the memory of her mother. Glendaria Hargraves. The memory wilted within her mind, as had her mother’s health. It started when she could not walk. Then she could not stand. Then she became bedridden. Her father never had the courage to watch her as Verena did, nor the heart to grant her any comfort as she faded away. In the end, her small hand held her mother’s, and she had smiled, leaving Verena a whispered, "Thank you."

She then thought of her father, who stood dark in the light of that white morn of her mother’s last rite. Verena had not wept as they burned her body atop the pyre. She would not let him see her weep. Now she wiped away the traces of her dried tears. She would not let anyone see her weakness. Her pain. Her guilt.

She made her way down to the Medicium. Men and women stared openly. Just a day before they would not have even glanced over. Verena walked steadily onward, slowing her breath over her pounding heart, finally reaching the door.

The Medicium’s walls were divided by square windows covered in iron bars. The building was a combination of wooden beams and cobbled stone.

She counted only three men inside. Thael lay on a cot, eyes staring up at the ceiling before flicking to Verena. His bare chest was lashed over with bandages, all the way to his back. A fermented herbal smell burned the air and her nose. Her eyes watered at the sharp scent.

She sat down upon the stool beside his cot, moving his folded clothes to a nearby bed.

“Are you thirsty?” she said.

“Yes.”

She nodded, taking out the flask strapped to her belt and leaning over to bring it to his dry lips. His hand gripped the flask and she let go, watching as he emptied the vessel.

Thael sighed. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank you, Thael.”

Silence.

“Why did you do it? Why… stop them?”

He closed his eyes. “You don’t belong here, Verena. You should return to the mage order.”

“Why help me?”

Thael winced. “Sometimes we don’t have a choice. Yours wasn’t one of those times. Go back to your mage order.”

“No. I think I’ll stay here. Commander.”

“I can’t protect you.”

“As I said, I will stay here.”

The medicus placed a platter with two bowls of orange stew onto the bedside table.

“Make sure he eats,” he said. “There’s more room if you wish to stay here. It’s your job to feed him and take out his chamberpot. Make sure he doesn’t move around for at least two weeks.”

He walked away, leaving them both to renew their silence.