"There was no limit to my happiness. Once again, I hadn't lost you. You were there, willing to stay with me, and I wanted nothing more. Everything felt the same. Almost. We replaced kisses with hugs — I was afraid a kiss might trigger another wave of amnesia. We didn't speak about the past again — you didn't want to. You judged it only by the conversations you remembered, and that was enough for you. I didn't object — I didn't need it either.
My father went back to his affairs and began taking me with him. You had fewer household duties, and he gave you a device that let you travel using nothing but your imagination. You found photographs of deserted places in atlases and magazines and went walking there. It felt as though a new life had settled into place. But you and I — we seemed to attract trouble like a magnet.
One day we came too close to the wrong place at the wrong time — near the crypt, when your foster parents happened to be there. They noticed us, recognised me, and, as they later insisted, recognised your gait as well. That was enough to make them suspicious. The Ministry raided the house without warning. We had time only to send you away with the maid. Anywhere — it didn't matter. Only that you were not inside when they arrived.
Fortunately, it never occurred to them that you could truly be you — they had buried you themselves. They decided instead that we must have prepared a double in advance. They searched the entire house and found nothing. They saw your room, but we said it was simply left as it had been last year — that I'd never cleared your things away. They asked who was staying with me. Mother said it was the daughter of some friends. Which friends? She took them there herself. I still don't know how she managed it, but they confirmed her story. Even so, the house remained under observation for another week. The elf assured us she had taken you somewhere safe, so we carried on as if everything were normal — calmly, without panic."
"Just imagine — the fool forgot where she'd taken the girl," the mistress complained to her husband about the servant. The poor creature was nearly pressed flat to the floor — less from fear for herself than from fear she might truly fail to find her young mistress again. "We barely found her. In the middle of the forest. Invisible. It's unbelievable."
"Oh, don't scold her. It wasn't her fault. It was her uncle who moved us there — she couldn't have known the place. The fact that she worked it out at all is to her credit," the girl said, as always coming to her defence. "For some reason he couldn't keep me in the house, so he hid me in the woods. There was a room inside the trunk of a huge tree — only someone who knew what to look for could find the entrance. I was safe. Every day he brought food, hot water, clean linen, clothes — he kept every promise he'd made." She knelt and took the maid's thin, trembling hands in hers. "I'm all right. Truly. I wasn't frightened. No one harmed me."
"First, a pair of lovers turned up in the middle of the night."
She was telling the story with bright amusement. They were lying in dense yarrow at the forest's edge, having pressed the tangled stems into a kind of nest. She lay on her stomach, chin propped on her hands, watching small creatures move along the stalks and leaves. He lay on his back with his eyes closed, his head resting against her lower back, listening — through touch — to even her slightest movement. She always spoke not only with her voice, but with her whole body.
"They were ready to fulfil their dreams right outside my door. I didn't want to play the prude, but it was far too close, and I had nowhere to go — they'd blocked the exit. I couldn't think of anything better than running round the room, stamping and banging on the walls. When they finally moved away from the tree, I kept it up outside as well."
The young man smiled without opening his eyes.
"Then some children overheard me muttering. I can't seem to shake that habit — thinking out loud. They decided I must be some kind of local spirit and started combing through the bushes to find me. I played along and eventually led them all the way to the village. They were disappointed. But young people decided I was a witch, and the little ones were simply lucky to escape.
Of course, they came at night. Lit a bonfire and began frightening each other with ghost stories. I sat nearby, listening. It might have passed quite smoothly, but the smoke caught in my throat and I sneezed. One of them declared the witch had returned from the swamps at last. They stiffened, whispering, and then branches cracked behind me. They thought it was me; I thought it was some animal — and possibly dangerous. So I gave them their witch.
I raised a swirl of dry leaves with a rough breath — cloak and all — crushed a few of their open beer cans, tossed a pine cone into the fire, and laughed wickedly. That was quite enough. They dropped everything and ran. I doused the fire with the remains of their drink and hid as well. By morning their belongings were scattered around the fire pit. I waited until evening — no one came back — so I gathered everything and handed it over to the elf when we met.
The place must have gained a reputation, because the next time — late at night — some children brought a friend there, distracted him with something, and slipped away."
"Hey," someone whispered to the crying boy — from behind him, and somewhere low to the ground. Then again, a little louder: "Hey. Don't cry." The girl sat down so as not to frighten him further. "I'll help you. Are you lost — or just scared?"
"Lost," the boy said, peering with interest at the empty patch of ground before him, still sniffling. "And scared," he added, a little embarrassed.
"Are you from the village?"
"Yes."
"I know the way. But it's dangerous to walk at night. I'll take you home in the morning. I promise."
"Who are you?"
"A friend. It's not safe to stay on the ground at night either. Let's climb that tree — the big one by the stream. Give me your hand. I'll help you."
The boy reached out, and his hand lifted as if caught by a gust of wind.
"Are you human?"
"Yes."
"Why can't I see you?"
"Because I'm not meant to be seen."
"Unless you want to be?"
"Something like that."
They approached a tree whose lower branches were just high enough to keep animals out, yet low enough for a human to climb. The invisible girl lifted the child onto the first branch; he managed the rest himself, never noticing that for a moment he vanished from the outer world.
"Wait here — I'll fetch something. Catch." A bundle of woollen cloth appeared out of nowhere and floated into his hands. "Careful. Don't fall."
When they reached a place where several thick branches joined to form a broad natural ledge, the girl sat with her back to the trunk and settled the boy in front of her so he could lean against her. The blanket slipped from his hands and vanished again. A moment later, warmth wrapped around him.
"Now I'm invisible too. Is that because you wanted to hide me from danger?"
"You could say that."
"Are you a nymph?"
"A nymph? Why?"
"I know you are — a dryad. My brother's a poet. He says they used to live in this part of the island, before the stone wall. You can still meet them now. It's difficult — they hide — but it happens."
"Since you're so knowledgeable, you'll have to promise me something: don't tell anyone about me. Otherwise I'll have to keep hiding forever."
"All right. Sing to me. I always sing when I'm scared."
"Are you still scared?"
"A little. Much less than before."
"Then why don't you sing to me?"
"Which one of us is the nymph? I've heard myself often enough."
"Such a coward?"
An unseen voice huffed in mock offence, then laughed warmly.
"I only know sad songs. And my howling is more likely to attract wolves than frighten them away."
"They won't see us."
"All right. I'll try. Just remember — not everyone is good at it."
The boy fell asleep. The girl stayed awake through the night, making sure he wouldn't slip from the branch, singing every song she knew to keep herself alert. There were more of them than she expected. "How? I've forgotten everything." In the morning, she took him back to the village.
"And then, of course, his brother turned up — the young poet. Quite handsome, actually. Oh, he made me laugh till I cried."
"Of course he did." At that, the young man opened his eyes and sat up with a frown. He plucked a blade of grass and began tearing it to pieces between his fingers.
"What?" The girl pushed herself upright and tried to catch his gaze, but he kept turning his face away. "Are you — are you jealous?"
"Why would I be?" he said through clenched teeth.
But he was. He had been ever since he first saw her laughing face turned toward him in the train carriage. He was jealous — sometimes with cause, often without — of nearly everyone she was with. And she was rarely in the company of girls.
He would never forget the look in her eyes, and the smile turned inward, when she returned to the dorm after his fiasco on the field — why had she even gone to watch the match, she never used to — and how long that look stayed with her while she fought off the accusations.
He was jealous of her saviour, of their Head of House, of his enemy when he saw the two of them in the empty chamber. Even of that idiot — his own henchman — when he loomed over her in front of everyone and began mumbling something. Which of these had been the most foolish? He could not tell.
He had been ready to grind him into dust simply because he thought the idiot meant to invite her to the ball — never mind that he himself had already asked someone else. Then she climbed onto the sofa and announced publicly that no such invitation had been attempted. Then what on earth had he wanted from her? The question tormented him for a whole week, until one day his dance partner revealed the secret to everyone.
She had been teaching him to dance. That clumsy oaf — taught by her. For what? So he could invite somebody else. Extraordinary. Impossible. After that — how could he invite anyone else at all? Hadn't he himself told him all about it? About how she walked him through each step, ignoring crushed toes; how she made him listen for the rhythm, repeating that you dance to the music, not alongside it. And it worked. At the end he finished with a perfectly natural bow, and the whole room whistled and applauded. She hadn't expected it herself — she clapped and laughed at him. He had hated him then.
But most of all he was jealous of the twins. He saw them together often. And each time there were those same bright sparks in her eyes — the ones that had flashed during their Christmas conversation long ago. The ones he could no longer call forth in her.
He didn't know how they had met, but he knew they had once persuaded her to go and watch a match — something she normally never did — and that was where they introduced her to their captain. He saw — everyone saw — how one of them invited her to the ball, swearing it was at her boyfriend's request — that he had pressed him, almost extracted a vow, to make sure she would be entertained. She refused at first, then changed her mind.
A paper snake crawled from her table to theirs, and a large toad hopped back in return, which she hid in her bag. The girls later said the words kiss me had been written on its lips, and that she kissed it and ran off somewhere, distracting everyone with a prince on her bed. When they reached her bedroom, all they found there was a huge lotus in full bloom.
And then… he saw her in the doorway of the Great Hall. The sight of her stirred entirely different feelings in him. Then her dance partner appeared beside her — admired her openly. They were laughing, dancing, and she was so happy that he simply couldn't bring himself to be angry with them.
He also noticed that, for all her outward indifference, it weighed on her when they began to avoid her after her father's name became known. And he saw how happy she was when they accepted her again. Their gift was astonishingly beautiful — a firework display. Dozens of golden butterflies, large and small, gathered around her, shutting out the rest of the world. They whirled like a living spiral, then hovered and pulsed between floor and ceiling, as if inviting themselves to be admired. Then they rose again, and the rapid beat of their wings filled the air with a delicate chime, like distant bells. Their motion resembled an ancient dance. When the creatures began to wither into leaves, drifting slowly down, swaying as if in a breeze, and crumbling into golden dust at her feet, he saw tears in her still-smiling eyes. Fireworks crackled around her, but she did not seem to hear them. The corridor was crowded, yet she looked utterly alone. She watched the grains of gold scattered across the floor, catching the uneven firelight and…
Another burst nearly collided with him.
And on the day he met her in the atelier with that hated trio — the one she fled from almost in tears — he saw her again shortly afterwards in their shop, already laughing.
But she remembers none of it now. She will never again remember the fun and joy her true friends gave her. What will remain is his bile, his fear, his complaints and discontent. How he cursed those boys and their House when he learned she had spent the summer there instead of going with him as she had promised. That moment could have been the worst of his life — yet it became the happiest.
'Is it for real?' — 'Yes, it is.'
She smiled — at him, at herself, at the world — and he recognised that look in her eyes, the same one he had seen two springs ago.
Yes… she will remember only his anger and his tears.
That was what he was thinking.
"You are jealous." She looked at the back of his head, not hiding her surprise at his reaction to what she had said about the poet — nor the feeling it stirred in her. "I can't say I'm unhappy about it, but… why? Do you really think I might be interested in him? He made me laugh with his stupidity. He read me his verses. Do you think they were anything like the ones you read to me?"
"He writes them."
"He writes nonsense. It would be better if he didn't write at all. The thoughts aren't even there in seed — just endless whining. Useless suffering. He chased me through the woods like a madman, swearing he was in love. But he never even saw me, never spoke to me properly. He doesn't know me. How can he love me? It's absurd. Frivolous. Passing. Do you think that's what I need?"
He gave her a look that was guilty, pleased, embarrassed and stubborn all at once. She moved to sit in front of him, pressed her forehead to his, nose to nose, and searched his eyes, laughter glinting in hers.
"Not at all." She waited until the corners of his mouth finally twitched into a restrained smile. Then she slipped behind him again, leaning against his back, hiding — just to not let it spill over.
The last visitor was not the poet. While she had been living in that place, someone else had come there. She told no one about him, so as not to bring even more trouble on the house-elf. When they arrived at her uncle's house, a man was with him. Though the elf shut the door to that room at once, she felt the danger at once — in his appearance, his sudden movements, his stare.
"What do you want? … Shelter? No, not now, I'm… busy." — "But we've nowhere else to go!" — "That's not my concern." — "Please… please…" There were whispers from the corner.
Then it was as if a fourth presence appeared in the hallway, though no one had entered. The elf snapped his fingers, and the girl could no longer see her own body. A moment later she was caught in a spinning rush — nausea rising in her throat — and the three of them were in the forest.
"Will your masters pay?"
"For what?"
"For hiding your companion, you fool. That's my trade. You must have known — you came to me for exactly that."
"But I didn't know… I don't know…" the frightened creature stammered.
"No. They won't pay," came her voice firmly out of the empty air. "Let's leave. We'll have to look for help somewhere else."
"But there is nowhere else. I've no one — no relatives, no acquaintances — no one I can take you to." Tears filled her wide eyes.
"Then perhaps the fugitive herself will pay?" His greedy gaze fixed on the exact spot where the girl stood. "The locket. I'll take it as payment."
"I can't remove it."
"Then what happens?"
"I don't know. No one does. I'm cursed. I might turn into a monster."
"Don't worry — no one will see you." The elf laughed at his own joke.
"But I will see you." The threat barely troubled him. "What if you give me shelter, and I tell no one what you're doing?" She watched his face closely. "About your guest as well," she added, stepping between him and his niece. "We won't speak." She touched the maid's shoulder. "Go. And keep silent. Go."
A pop — and they were alone. For a moment his eyes flicked over her motionless face. Then they settled, caught by her calm, steady gaze.
"Deal."
The elf did not deceive her. Just as she later said, he gave her shelter and supplied everything she needed. He also kept her whereabouts secret — otherwise that man would have reached her much sooner. Even when he did come, he still couldn't find her: he didn't know where the entrance to the tree was, and he couldn't see her — only elves could.
"Little witch… show yourself… I know you're here. I heard you."
The man moved quietly around the tree, peering into the undergrowth, listening. She managed to slip into a hollow formed where two ridges of the trunk thickened into roots. Flattening herself along the curve, she forced herself to breathe through her nose — slow, silent. Each time he passed, she lowered her eyes to the ground so he would not sense her fear. "He can't see me. He can't see me. Don't move. If you run, it will be worse."
On his next circuit he came so close that he dragged his dirty, untrimmed nails along the bark, tracing every ridge and split without lifting his hand. Her heart clenched; a cry rose and stuck in her throat.
That neglected hand — yellowed nails, jagged edges — frozen mid-motion as its owner turned at the faint crack of a twig, reminded her of another hand, disturbingly similar. Fear sharpened the association — but the memory itself was worse.
("I killed it…" Blood dripped from her nose onto the wound in his stomach. "Did I kill... an animal? No. No — he's human. I killed a man!"
He should not have moved so suddenly. He should not have growled and pushed himself off the tree. Head lowered, she took several quick steps forward and wrenched it upward. A choked groan sounded close to her ear; hot streams ran over her forehead and cheeks; the metallic smell filled her breath…
It wasn't a horse. It was a unicorn.
She staggered back from the tree in confusion — nothing changed. She dropped her head again and shook it. A heavy, lifeless body slid from the horn and collapsed across the exposed roots. Dismay hardened into shock. Numb all over, she stood above the body and stared until understanding finally caught up with her.
Two boys burst from the thicket, wands raised, and stopped short at the sight before them. She turned her blood-stained muzzle toward the newcomers and recognised them. Panic replaced shock — as if they had caught her in the act, not the animal.
"I killed him! I killed a man! I've… killed…"
Breathing shallowly, unevenly, she looked in horror at the two girls beside her sitting on the ground — one on either side.
"But you couldn't — you were here the whole time," one said doubtfully.
"She said she'd call the unicorn for help. It came back about ten minutes ago — and only now she has…" the red-haired girl answered.
"Are you sure he…"
"He's dead! Whoever he was — he's dead!" came a voice from the far side of the clearing. "The unicorn ran him through. There was blood everywhere… What a sight."
She covered her face with her hands.
On one of the last days of summer, five teenagers went walking in the nearby forest. One of them trailed behind at a steady distance, lost in her own thoughts, while the other three argued animatedly about something among themselves. The red-haired girl — not involved in it either — occasionally glanced back at the one following. Each time she caught the look, the girl behind smiled lightly, as if to say everything was fine.
Then, at the edge of her vision, the girl lagging behind caught a white flicker sliding across the dark columns of tree trunks — and gone. Instinctively, she stopped and scanned the trees, listening. Somewhere close by came the rough, heavy breathing of a horse.
Careful not to snap dry twigs, she picked her way through the undergrowth toward a shrub whose branches moved out of rhythm with the rest. Beyond its dense screen lay a small clearing. In the middle of it stood a unicorn, head lowered, grazing. A miracle.
She turned to the girl who had followed her off the path and signalled silently. The other came closer, cautious and quiet, and peered through the gap where a branch had been eased aside. The same wonder lit her face.
They stood still, almost spellbound, watching the creature: snow-white coat bright as starlight; a long mane falling in ordered waves along a powerful neck, casting sculpted shadows over the smooth lines of its body; a horn gleaming like mother-of-pearl in the soft sun; large eyes holding the reflection of the universe.
It noticed them sooner than they expected. The unicorn lifted its muzzle from the grass and turned toward them, ears pricked, nostrils wide. After a moment or two, it began to approach — unhurried, pausing now and then in open curiosity. The girls stepped out from their cover and moved toward it just as slowly.
After sniffing them, it gave a small, approving nod, then gently nudged them with its warm, soft nose and stood between them, waiting. They laughed, exchanging glances as they stroked its silky coat, freed its mane from snagged twigs, and murmured their admiration. The animal answered with a calm snort.
Everything held steady — until, without warning, it shrilled and reared. The girls stepped back at once to avoid the hooves. A heartbeat later it struck out and bolted, vanishing at full gallop among the trees.
"Well, well, well…"
A man stood at the far end of the clearing. There was nothing merely unpleasant about his appearance — it was dangerous. Long, matted hair; an unshaven face; dirty hands; worn, ill-kept clothes. His knees stayed slightly bent as he moved, springing forward with each step, as though ready to break into a run at any moment. But worst of all was his gaze — the fixed, hungry look of a predator following a trail.
"What a meeting," he said hoarsely. "I was looking for a unicorn — and here it is."
"There have never been unicorns here. Why would you look for one in this place?"
"Since when do werewolves take an interest in unicorns?"
Until then he had watched both girls. At that question, his bright, feverish eyes locked onto the brown-haired one alone. His mouth stretched into a satisfied grin, showing yellowed fangs.
"My lucky day. I didn't expect to find even one — and here there are two. It's the second one I need."
A tight spasm seized her stomach and stole her breath. When she managed to draw air again, she leaned close and whispered to the red-haired girl beside her:
"He's a werewolf. And it's a full moon tonight. I'm forbidden to conjure — under any circumstances. The Headmaster's orders. Can you hold him off on your own? Just for a bit. I'll try to bring the unicorn back. That kind of magic can't be trapped. Can you?"
The red-haired girl nodded without taking her eyes off the man.
"If it turns bad, wake me. Promise."
Another nod
She lowered herself to the ground and drew a slow breath, letting the noise around her fall away. — "What is she doing?" — To shut out the others. To fix on the image of the white horse racing through the forest — to feel the run as her own: lungs burning, chest breaking through brush, legs weaving cleanly between trunks — to stop — and turn…
She came back just in time to stop the attack. The unicorn reared with a sharp cry and struck out. The man shouted and staggered, clutching his head, then lurched toward the deeper trees. The unicorn drove after him. He could not run quickly. She followed but did not know what should come next once she caught up.
In a patch of open ground beneath a wide oak crown, he dropped to his knees, then dragged himself to the trunk and hauled upright on his shaky legs, clinging to the bark.
She was furious. The unicorn was too — perhaps confused, perhaps answering her anger. Its head lowered, ears pinned back, breath harsh; a hoof struck the ground in warning.
And then something terrible happened — something she could neither accept nor understand.
Lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, she kept replaying the scene beneath the oak tree. Again and again. How had it happened — by accident or by choice? Why had he been looking for her? He clearly knew too much — he had called her by that name. Who told him? Hardly anyone knew it. Which meant only one thing: he had been sent for her. Even so — how had he known where to search? And if he had survived, he would have brought others with him. So what was it in the end — accident or intention?
A small star flickered to life beneath the ceiling. It hovered in place for a moment, then began to pulse and drift toward the window. She turned her head to follow it. When it slipped outside, curiosity won. Quietly, so as not to wake the others, she went to the window.
The star rose unevenly into the sky. Something crunched below. As her eyes adjusted, she made out two familiar figures doubled over. The inseparable brothers looked up, spotted her, and gestured urgently. Come out.
She had no real choice but to accept.
"What are you plotting?" she whispered.
"A rooftop picnic."
"Star-watching."
"Care to join us?"
"Look what we've got." One of them produced a bottle of wine.
"Wow." Her brows lifted. "Such romantics — getting drunk on a roof under the night sky. I'm underage, you realise."
"And under our responsibility," the other said lightly, waving it away.
"So — you risk nothing. Very pragmatic."
"Are you coming or not?"
"Well," she drawled, pretending to consider, "it's hard to resist. I mean the alcohol."
"It will do you good today."
They caught her by the arms and jumped. Even that brief shift was enough to make her nauseous; only their firm grip kept her from collapsing.
"Why's that?" they asked.
"Hmm, let me think…" Now it was their turn to play the fool.
"For instance, I don't turn into unicorns every day—"
"—to deal with werewolves."
"So if we were you—"
"—we'd definitely take the chance to relax."
"Your brother told you everything, didn't he?" She looked down, more sad than offended. "And I thought he didn't believe it."
"Oh, he did," said one meaningfully.
"He's just more afraid of you now than of spiders," added the other.
"He says he saw you helping cook — with the rabbit — and you didn't even flinch."
"Pfft. I didn't gut it," she said, rolling her eyes. "But staring at a bloody carcass for half an hour is apparently fine. Afraid — ha. He didn't refuse to eat it, though."
"Impossible," one declared, slicing the air with his hand.
"Absolutely impossible," echoed the other.
"And your father thinks I just have a vivid imagination…" She paused, briefly weighing the fairness of that phrasing.
"He doesn't know what we know."
"Namely, that you're the princess of unicorns."
"Oh, come on…" Regret clouded her face. "It's not funny. Do you understand what I did? Including overriding another being's will."
"Yes…" Their cheer sobered. "Still…"
"You were protecting our little sister."
"Myself first," she said quietly. "Your friend sees it that way too. She protected me — and she's still defending me now, in front of him." A new thread of guilt surfaced. "We should leave her a sip."
"It was self-defence."
"I hope so," she answered softly — and thought: "That isn't an excuse."
They let the subject drop. Stretched out across the roof, they drank, watched the stars, showed off scraps of astronomy and traded constellation myths. With the twins it was always easy; her heart settled, warm and steady. Several shooting stars crossed the sky. As usual, she never managed to make a wish — she only followed the brief streak with parted lips, and by the time she remembered wishes were meant to be made, it was already too late.
And really — what was left to wish for?)
Who were those two boys? Their faces — so alike — felt familiar, though she couldn't recall their names, nor the circumstances in which they had met. Only one thing was clear: once, they had been her friends.
"It should be here — it looks the same!" a familiar squeaky voice called out.
The man stopped again. Anger and irritation tightened his features; his nostrils flared, and a strangled, guttural growl slipped from his throat. She barely managed to swallow the cry of relief rising in her chest, holding her breath to keep it in.
"Yes. This is the tree. I'm sure."
The dreadful visitor vanished, dissolving into a smear of black smoke. When even the last trace had faded, she let the air out slowly and sank down the trunk to the ground, weak with release.
More voices sounded nearby — familiar too.
"Steady. Pull yourself together. They mustn't learn anything. Breathe in. Breathe out."
It was the same day the poet came.