In the middle of the dark hall, a young man appeared, carrying an unconscious body in his arms. His parents were waiting for him, anxious after his long absence. Ignoring their questions and pleas, he crossed the room at a quick, steady pace and headed straight for the library. There he shut himself away from everyone.
He laid the dead girl on the couch, placed a small black object and a large white feather on the table, then hurried to the bookcases, searching for the right section. When he found it, he pushed one of the lower shelves; it swung back with little effort, revealing a hidden row of entirely different spines. He began pulling books out one after another, scanning, flipping through them, and throwing them to the floor. One by one. One by one. Each was wrong.
His nerves began to fray; it grew harder to control his body, his breathing, his thoughts. When a knock came at the door, he turned towards it with a look of raw fear — as if someone had come to claim his life.
"Darling," his mother's voice called from the other side, "please open the door… the Headmistress and the girl's guardians are here."
Officials from the Ministry were there as well, but this was deliberately left unsaid so as not to frighten him further. He rushed to the door and braced himself against it, as though his weight alone might hold back an intrusion.
"No! No — I won't give her back! I won't!" His voice rose into a shout.
"But, sweetheart…"
"No! Go away! Leave us alone!" He turned towards the couch again. Time — precious time — was slipping away, and he still could not remember which book held the spell. His legs gave way and he slid down to the floor.
"Don't take her away from me. Please. Don't take her away. I want…" hope was almost gone, "I need…" Tears gathered at his chin and fell onto the open pages of another book he had snatched up. He looked down and found what he had been searching for. "to say goodbye to her."
Women's voices murmured in the hallway.
"Please — she matters to him. Let him stay with her. Let him understand, let him accept it."
"But she matters to us as well. We raised her. She was like a daughter to us."
"And as a mother, I understand. But we're adults — we've lived through much. He is still almost a child; this is far harder for him to grasp."
"The boy loved her — anyone could see it. And she seemed to return his feelings."
Silence followed for a few seconds.
"She did a great deal for us. If you don't object, we would like to help with the funeral. We have a family cemetery here…"
"But how would we…"
"Don't worry. It's on the edge of the grounds; it can't be seen from the house. A secluded place. We'll arrange a permanent portal so you can visit whenever you wish, without needing permission from us."
On his side of the door, the young man did not lose another minute. Once he understood no one would force their way in, he began the ritual. He cut his palm with a letter opener, closed his fist around the stone, and, reading from the page, touched his beloved's forehead (memory), lips (feelings), and solar plexus (life) with the blood-marked object. He hesitated.
After rereading the same lines several times, wavering a moment longer, he wiped the red trace from her blue lips with his finger and touched them lightly with his own. "Forgive me."
Then he took the white feather from the table and shrank it. Placing the stone inside, he shaped it into a heart. After casting several more spells over the pendant, he set it in her cold hand. The ritual was complete. He sat down beside the body and waited.
He was asleep when she began to breathe. Her abdomen rose and fell steadily beneath his head; her arms were warm under his hands; the muscles had regained their tone. The fingers clasping the pendant twitched, and the young man woke at once.
Holding his breath — afraid both to frighten away his luck and to see the wrong outcome — he watched the rays of the rising sun creep across her flushed cheeks to her closed eyelids, fringed with long black lashes. The lids fluttered; her lungs drew in a deeper breath, waking the body and the mind, and her eyes opened.
For a moment they studied the pale face suspended before them without expression — then the room beyond. Her brows knit, creasing her forehead; her breathing caught. She looked at him anxiously and moistened her dry lips.
"What's happening? I died. I left — I remember. You let me go."
"It's really you…" the young man breathed in relief. "Eve, forgive me. I thought I could manage it. But when I heard them mention the stone…"
"The stone?"
She remembered a faint glint on the ground when he had lifted her — something small, black, smooth. She had bent to look more closely — and recoiled at once. Among the many books in the place where she had been held, several had stirred her curiosity. One was a book of children's fairy tales. Then she understood what had held her there. All that was required was to re-enter the body — and then… she would live again.
"You used the stone?!" She raised her open palm. The pendant lay in it, woven from fine threads of pale metal. "Is it inside?"
She was frightened. The young man dropped his gaze in guilt, then gently closed her fingers around it.
"Evelyn, please — accept it. Put it on and never take it off. I've accounted for everything. You'll still be yourself — just wear it, always. Please, Eve. I need you. I don't want to live without you. Not while there's even the smallest chance."
She liked what he said — the words he chose. She liked that he did not say love. He had said it once and never returned to it, not while waiting for an answer, nor after her refusal. After that, his actions had spoken for him. She could not help but recognise the weight of what he had done. On the one hand, everything had already been set in motion; on the other, she knew she had chosen to leave out of her own weakness.
She freed her hand and put the talisman around her neck.
"It's beautiful."
The young man moved to embrace her.
"I did it. Oh, holy… I did it. You're back. You're alive. Forgive me."
"Most likely, you will regret it."
"I don't care. That comes later."
"Perhaps much sooner than you think." Her voice was calm.
"Why?!" He pulled back, his face draining of colour again.
"Because if I don't eat something right now, I'm going to die again." Mischief flashed in her eyes.
"Of course!" He released her at once, still too shaken to laugh. "It's morning already — I'm an idiot. Come on, let's go to the kitchen. Breakfast must be underway." He started to lead her out, then stopped. "Wait. You must be exhausted. I'll take you to your room — not the old one, another. They'll bring breakfast there. You can rest and come down when you're ready. Your things are still here — I'll move them…"
She stopped the flow of words with a light touch on his shoulder.
"I've been resting all night. A shower and clean clothes would be perfect. And I can wait until everyone has gone to breakfast — if no one objects." Slightly flustered, but entirely serious, she met his eyes. "Your parents need to know everything."
"They will," he said shortly, and lifted her into his arms. "Don't look around."
He turned towards the library door — but instead they found themselves facing the exit of a small, bright, comfortable room.
The owners of the house approached the library door once more. Silence — though they were certain they had heard their son's voice earlier. They knocked. No answer. No movement. Not a sound.
"My dear. You shouldn't be alone for so long when you're in such pain. At least let us come in."
The mother waited, but there was no response.
"Son, I'm sorry, but we have to enter."
The lock clicked. The door swung open onto an empty room. One section of the bookcase had been cleared out entirely; its contents lay scattered across the floor. A book lay open beside the couch, several pillows stacked at the head. It rested face up, and beneath it the handle of a bloodied knife protruded.
The two wizards took it in at a glance and could easily reconstruct what had taken place there during the night. The picture it formed was enough to chill them — the boy had not brought the body home simply to say goodbye.
"Mother. Father."
They turned. Their son stood behind them. His face showed hesitation — but it could not quite conceal his elation.
"How are you feeling?" his mother asked.
"Better than ever, Mum."
"Where is the girl?" the man asked sharply.
"She'll be down for breakfast." Bright, triumphant sparks lit the young man's eyes.
"What?!" Horror fixed itself on his parents' faces. "What have you done?"
"I brought her back. She's alive."
"Oh no!" The woman raised her hands in dismay.
"That isn't her you've brought back — can't you understand that?"
"No, Father. It is her. You'll see soon enough."
They were alone again. The man went to the couch and picked up the open book. For some time he studied the marked pages in silence. What he read there promised nothing good. The woman joined him and looked as well.
"You understand what this means."
"Yes."
"And what do you propose we do?"
"What can we do? Lay the table for four."
A small figure appeared at the far end of the corridor leading to the dining room, paused, then walked briskly towards the open doors. At the threshold she stopped again. The girl did not dare enter. She looked at the two adult wizards and saw a familiar expression — regret at her very existence. It was the same look her teacher had given her when they first met. Only now regret was mixed with fear. And not only fear of her.
She greeted the hosts, but remained standing in the doorway.
"I'm glad to see you're well and home… Please forgive the intrusion."
The woman was the first to break the silence, assuring her there was nothing to forgive and inviting her to the table. At once the young man hurried over and, with a guiding hand at her back, seated her beside him.
They ate in silence. Even after the table was cleared, the quiet lingered for several minutes more.
"I have a confession to make." The girl spoke simply to begin the conversation at last. "Though I don't know whether anyone cares to hear it right now. Still… I tried to tell you before," she turned to the one beside her, "but did you listen? I can't do magic anymore. One part of my power died with my father, and I had to surrender my mother's magic. I never had any of my own. So… I was never truly a sorceress."
Her throat tightened and she looked away.
"Evelyn!" the young man burst out after the briefest pause. "I don't care about that. How could you even think so?"
"I didn't." She smiled at him and gently squeezed his hand, though her eyes remained sad. "I care. And perhaps your parents… might…"
She loved magic — perhaps more than anything else in her life. Even before she knew what it was. And later, when she did. When she summoned back the memory of heat burning her fingertips and the sting of light on her eyes in order to repeat the strange visitor's trick — and the candle flared to life. How could that feeling be put into words? Magic you create yourself.
She had put so much effort into becoming a sorceress. It was easy only at first — until they gave her a wand. In a shop where you do not choose, but are chosen. There, she and the craftsman tested wand after wand — every single one — and all of them were wrong. The old man leaned against the counter, dragging both hands through his dishevelled hair. He studied her intently; none of his earlier enthusiasm remained.
"What does that mean?" she asked, her voice unsteady, tears barely held back.
"It only means I haven't made your wand yet," he said gently, taking her hands to calm her.
Still holding them, he bent closer, as though listening — not to her words, but to something within. Some of what he sensed pleased him; some clearly did not. He straightened and went slowly into the workshop, muttering something about her nose. A minute later he returned with a wand.
It was unlike the others: plain, undecorated, slender and long, made of pale pink polished wood with a natural, delicate grain. It did not burst into sparks or shatter anything. It simply remained quiet.
"Magic lives inside each of us," he said. "A wand is an assistant — a powerful one — but still only an assistant. What matters far more is what is inside you, not inside the wand. And remember: when you cast, you must be certain of the result. You must truly want that exact outcome."
When she received those books from the Headmaster, she had nearly given up. In one she found a spell that could reveal a wand's components; in another — how to do it without using a second wand. She took her wand and let her mind travel back to the day she had stumbled upon a place that later became her favorite. She pictured herself there with it, striving to recreate the deep harmony she had felt then. Nowhere else had she ever known that sense so completely.
Something began to rise within her. She waited until it filled her body — and the wand in her hands — and then she listened.
"Length — thirteen inches. Wood — tulipwood. Core… Length — thirteen inches. Wood — tulipwood. Core… Length — thirteen inches…"
Her head slipped from the back of the chair. Her eyes opened. She had fallen asleep.
The following Sunday, when she managed to speak with the Head of House about her wand research and her family line, he was quietly impressed by the results. The length was confirmed by measurement; the wood type was clear. The core — unfortunately — could only be identified by the wand's maker.
"You've done remarkable work in a very short time," he said. "Even so, you still lack certain essentials." He studied her face thoughtfully. "The Headmaster supports your determination…" He paused, looking aside, then rose abruptly. "Come with me. I'll show you a chamber where you can practise unnoticed."
She had lived there, almost, ever since. It was there she uncovered the nature of her magic and learned everything she could.
And now she knew for certain: the leaf bearing her name had vanished entirely from her family tree.
She liked being strong — able to do what others could not even comprehend. But now it was no longer about her.
You can get your life back, but not magic.
"Well, I'd say it's for the best. We already have enough wizards in this house doing foolish things."
"Father! Mother — Eve — listen to me. I didn't create a dark entity. I didn't let her taste blood. She's clean. They won't find anything in her."
"You didn't complete the rite?" The woman seemed unable to decide which frightened her more.
"It doesn't matter," the man said. "You performed a blood ritual. That alone counts as dark magic. It's enough for a one-way ticket. More than enough for them."
The girl looked at the man — irritated and frightened in equal measure. She remembered the bandaged palm, the dried bloodstains she had seen on her own forehead and chest in the mirror. "A one-way ticket… where — prison?"
"It does matter. For her," the young man said quietly but firmly.
"There's another problem," the mother continued. "Her guardians are waiting for us to name the date of the funeral."
"But she's alive," the young man insisted, though he had already begun to understand where he had miscalculated.
"If we tell them that…" the girl said. She understood as well.
"But I'm talking about life."
"And how do you think I will live knowing you're in prison because of it?" She sighed and turned to the elders. "Is there any way to stage it?"
"Shapeshifting?"
"No. They'll bring specialists. They'll want proof it's really her — that the body wasn't replaced and used for… anything. She is her father's daughter. And they'd be right to check, because that is exactly what we did." He gave his son a dark look. "So — no potions, no illusions. Strike all of that out."
"Then it should be me in the coffin."
"Eve!"
"What? I'm not superstitious. Besides… you know."
"How exactly do you plan to appear dead?"
"Obviously not by holding my breath."
A pause settled over the table.
"What if…" The young man gathered himself. "Poison. Wizards can detect potions, but even ordinary poison would require a healer to identify it. They're unlikely to prepare for that — death has already been declared. Like the bookcase, father. No one thinks to look for what they don't expect. We would, of course, need an antidote."
"It might work — if such a poison exists. And if the girl agrees."
"For never was a story of more woe…" the girl said with a crooked grin. "She agrees."
For a moment the man and the girl held each other's gaze. She remembered an empty classroom, his son telling her everything he knew about the Ancients — everything he had heard in childhood. He had finished with certainty: "But you can't be one of them. It's a legend. And if it isn't, it all happened before we were born."
"Yes — before," she had answered with a bitter smile, reflecting how easy it was to play with words — to say nothing and still imply everything. People do that when they want to hide something important without technically lying. She did it too. "Before you were born, more precisely. And probably before more than half our year. I'm almost three months older than you." She had paused, then repeated slowly: "Less than three months… curious, isn't it?"
"No — that can't be true. They said that not only did they have no children, there were no young ones left. And there were no survivors after the conquest. I remember my father saying he destroyed them all — every last… baby…"
The silence that followed had been heavy. Fairy tales, oddly enough, use very few figures of speech.
His father had told him that "old legend". If a man withholds details, he hides knowledge — knowledge others are not meant to have. He had been the only one who tried to win her over. The only one who acknowledged her.
"He didn't just repeat a newspaper phrase to his son," she had realised afterwards. "Was his father with mine that night?"
The long-haired blond wizard gave a brief nod of thanks.
"I know a healer. I'll visit him. I'll use the secret passage. For now, we all will, whenever we leave the house. The usual routes we'll keep only as misdirection. We can assume we're being watched."
With that, the master of the house left.
The mistress rose; the others followed. She came to the girl and gently lifted her chin, studying her eyes. She said nothing, but her own held both deep love and deep pain.
The girl had seen that expression before — on the day the boy had done something reckless as well. The fair-haired woman had stood at the foot of the bed, watching in astonishment as the unicorn — woven from countless streams of silver light — bent over her body and slowly dissolved into it. When the light finally faded, shadow crossed the woman's face.
"He's back at school. He's safe there," she had said. "He asked me not to return the unicorn to you — not to wake you yet — so you wouldn't be able to do what you planned. I know you'll understand why he did it, and you won't be angry with him. And you'll also understand — unlike him — why I'm going against his wishes. You may leave this house whenever you choose. No one will stop you."
At last, the mistress spoke.
"Watched or not, you need fresh air. Go for a walk in the woods — it's far enough from the house. Just be careful."
"Yes, Mother. We'll use the far exit."
"Love," she said quietly, stopping her son at the threshold while the girl was already walking down the corridor, "I don't know how you did it, but you truly brought her back. That will only make losing her again more painful. And you will lose her again. I'm sorry — but you need to understand that."
"What is all this — revolving bookcases, secret passages, poisons? I thought true wizards didn't deal in such things."
They were walking through a dim stone tunnel whose entrance lay in the library — the most secluded place in the house.
"Sometimes the simplest solution is the most effective," the young man replied. "We inherited all this from our ancestors. Wizards of their time didn't rely on wands alone."
"Interesting…" They reached a fork where another tunnel crossed the first, lined with polished blocks smooth in shape. "This one looks older — the stones are bigger, and the vault is rounded. Where does it lead?"
"To several places — a mill, a church, a forester's hut. Most of the branches end blindly, though."
Soon the air grew fresher. They came to a tall well-shaft with a spiral staircase built into its inner wall. The first coils were carved directly into the rock. The steps were shallow — awkward for anyone of ordinary height over a long distance. Only in the last six or seven feet did they become more habitual. He slid back the hatch, and they emerged into a small hut with an earthen floor and a low ceiling. A table, a chair, and shelves of rough, heavy timber made up the only furniture. Pots and bottles of all shapes and sizes stood scattered about — dusty, some broken, but clean of residue. Rusted tools lay piled in the corners. There were no cobwebs; nothing lived here long enough to sustain them. In other words, there had never been a forester. They did not linger and stepped out into the woods.
It was a beautiful deciduous forest — but it was not the old trees that drew the eye. Massive stone formations dominated the clearing: flattened, uneven spheres stacked impossibly upon one another. They looked like mountain trolls turned to stone in the sun — not three, but seven. Moss covered some; saplings rose from the cracks of others; thick climbing vines wrapped several like cloaks, leaving only their 'heads' exposed. Between two of the giants a stream cascaded rubble of smaller boulders, spilling forward into a clear, diamond-bright lake. On opposite banks, the ruins of heavy structures descended in jagged terraces from the rock face almost to the ground. Nearer the water they stretched across and joined, forming something like a broken viaduct.
"What stood here?"
"Once — a castle, where our house now stands. Those were probably its watchtowers. At least three remain: two by the lake, and a third farther off where the rocks end — you can't quite see it from here."
The girl walked slowly to the water, climbed the worn blocks, and moved along the broken arcade until she reached the middle and sat facing the stream that fed the lake. The young man followed. They sat in silence for a long time, watching the stone giants at rest, listening to the forest — the quiet sounds of life passing around them.
"Are you truly ready to take poison for me?" he asked at last.
"If there is such a poison… we'll only know when the time comes." She was thinking that she was more afraid of failing to do it. "And really — what am I risking? To die is not as hard as to live. But to hang in-between..." She did not expand on that. "Otherwise, what was the point of what you did?"
"To do something foolish," he said, recalling his father's words.
"That much is certain," she agreed, without bitterness. "But you wouldn't have needed to if I hadn't done something foolish first." Her eyes flashed briefly, bright as sunlit water. "Mine cost another person his life."
"Who?"
He looked startled, but she did not answer. The memory rose — him fading in her arms, she killed him. Instead, she nodded towards the cascade and the narrow path winding into the gorge beside it.
"What's on the other side?"
"Another meadow. Another forest. Much the same." She rose and walked back toward the shore. He followed. "And your foster parents?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "They will grieve."
Her foster parents belonged to that kind of magical folk who possessed no magic. Later she came to see that, though considered inferior by parts of the community, they carried themselves with quiet dignity even among the powerful and influential. During the war they opposed her father and aided the Headmaster and the Ministry as best they could. They organised temporary shelters for fighters across the country — work that saved many lives and earned deep respect. She was proud of them for that. What puzzled her was being given to them as a reward. But they were no longer young, and they had no children… They raised her as their own, never hiding that she was adopted. For that honesty she was sincerely grateful.
"They are already grieving, and I ache for them. But I've already pulled away."
When had that happened? she wondered. Most likely that summer when the Headmaster sent her to stay elsewhere. Close contact with her had been discouraged, so she spent most of her time alone. That in itself did not trouble her — she was used to solitude. What hurt was something else: from time to time she would glimpse glowing animals — a lynx, a weasel, a hare — the same kinds she had seen near her childhood village. They did not hide or flee when she noticed them. They wanted her to understand she was being watched. Always watched.
Why? The old wizard had entrusted her to good people — his people. They had seen her grow up. Had she done something wrong? The thought created a distance she could never quite close again.
"I must admit, I don't think I'll miss them much."
Saying it, she remembered a question once asked by someone from the Army — whether she missed her parents. "I wish I did," she had answered, lowering her eyes in shame at the absence of what seemed such a natural feeling. "It happened soon after I was born. I grew up outside the magical world, with carers — very kind people." Her gaze met the Boy's. "I'm sorry… And I don't know my biological family."
She started climbing down towards the lake. The young man jumped from the rocks to help her. She did not need assistance, but she did not refuse it. His hands steadied her at the waist; hers rested briefly on his shoulders. He looked at her again with that familiar guilt.
"Cheer up. If this works, in a few days I'll be living just for you."
It was not truly a joke, and she knew it. He flinched as though from a blow, but it got him. Her father had been right — she could be cruel to him without meaning to be. Even when trying to make things easier, she often only fed both fires.
Another memory returned — the great hall, her body laid apart from the others, the ring of the living around them. He had believed until the last moment that he could call her back, persuade her to return.
"But you carry his blood too."
"That is the result of natural causes, not magic."
"But you also sacrificed yourself — doesn't that count?"
"It does — just not in the way you want. We all sacrificed ourselves." She had indicated the fallen. "Do you think that changed nothing?"
"And now he's dead — so you both should be dead, not you alone!"
He could not know that the choice between life and death had been made earlier, beyond his reach. She looked at her hands — or rather, through them.
"You're clinging to details and refusing to see what's plain."
"Will you become another ghost of the school, then?" someone asked from the crowd.
"That depends on one man." She did not turn. She looked only at the one standing before her. "You have to let me go."
"What? No — I won't let you go!"
"I know you love me. And I love you — as I am able. It would not be enough for you. Nor for me." She did not speak aloud, yet she knew he heard. "Everything I had — life, magic — was only ever given for a time. That time is over. Do you remember the cliff above the sea? That is where I belong — not with you. You could bind my ghost to yourself, but it would still yearn for that edge, not for you. I'm not asking forgiveness, though I wish for it. I'm asking you to understand — and to let me go. I would not bring you happiness."
"I want you alive," he said through tears.
"But I am not. Nothing you do can change that. You can't bring back the dead. You shouldn't. You knew this would happen… Listen, I wasn't sacrificing myself — I was freeing my soul... and my family's — from his soul, from his curse. It was the only way. And it was my will. You did not want your house to become my prison then. Why would you wish it now?"
He was about to move on, but she caught his elbow and held him back.
"Hey," she said gently. "Look at me. Listen. You gave me my life back — and you kept me myself. That's nearly impossible. Don't punish yourself. Doing something for yourself doesn't mean you don't love me. Everything I did — I also did for myself. That never meant I didn't care about you. Not at all. Back then I chose what I believed was best for everyone. You disagreed — so now we try it your way. And I'm glad you brought me back. I'm glad to be here with you. Not everyone is given a second chance. Let's see where it leads. Maybe I was wrong. We don't know how long this state will last — the rite wasn't completed. So let's not waste it on regret."
Some of the strain left his brow.
"Why don't you smile at me," she added lightly, "and I'll kiss you for it?"
He smiled — warm, but still shadowed. She hopped up onto a rock and pecked him at the cheek.
"You get what you invest," she said with a laugh, pulling him along the path toward the great moss-covered boulders.
Above them, the same stones were wedged high in the gorge between the shoulders of two fallen "giants." The pass was short, its walls broken by gaps where thick shafts of sunlight poured through, filling the air with gold. It almost seemed you could reach out and touch the beams. Soon they emerged into a small copse and then onto a meadow thick with bright grass.
At its centre stood an enormous tree — vast in height, in spread, in the girth of its trunk. Its roots stretched outward like a mirrored crown beneath the earth, covering the full shadow of its branches. From the hollow formed by their interlacing, the stream flowed out, threading through stone. Beyond the lattice of roots, a slab of rock lay half-sunken in the ground.
"It's easy to believe a tree like this connects worlds, isn't it?" she said. She continued half thinking aloud. "Subterranean, celestial, terrestrial. Past, future, present. Thousands of causes converging into a single moment — and from it, thousands of consequences. The past is too tangled, the future too uncertain. Only the present moment is fixed — this one… and now this one…" She circled the trunk slowly, fingertips brushing the bark. "Time sets the speed, or the other way around. Two illusions and one reality, two deaths and one life... and time... The vertical of time and the horizontal of space... Or a fountain that sends the same water through again and again, yet every jet falls differently — thousands of variations... Water remembers. Accumulates... prompts, whispers… Oh — look! A cobweb!"
A burrow entrance near the stream was sealed with thick pale threads, like strands of silver hair, trembling where the water touched them.
"So this is the fabric of fate. Which means there must be three old spiders somewhere nearby," she said with a grin, "and one young one." She shot him a conspiratorial look.
He laughed softly.
"That sounds closer to the truth," she smiled back.
"So you owe me something."
"Then take it."
He stepped across the stream, lifted her chin, and claimed his due — simple, certain, unexaggerated. And she liked it — when he showed his resolve.
"There's an old road through the woods," he said, still close. "It leads back to our house, though by a long curve. It passes the third tower. We can turn off there toward the hut."
"Sounds like a plan."