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After the apprentices had gone to sleep, after the light from the sunset had vanished into the distant edges of the horizon, they sat together on the dewy grass, the silvernectar wine Qifrey had retrieved from Kalhn open between them. Qifrey’s eye was half-lidded and he was smiling, one of those tiny smiles of his that often appeared at the end of the day when he was tired but pleased. But Olruggio didn’t miss how once in a while he would press at his forehead with the meat of his thumb before letting his hand drop back to his side. He had done it all through dinner. Olruggio had attributed it to the long day they’d had, but perhaps it was something else.
Before he could say anything, Qifrey turned to him. “It was a big day for everyone, wasn’t it.”
“It was dangerous,” Olruggio said. “They almost erased Coco’s memory, and we weren’t there.”
“We got there in time,” Qifrey said, closing his eye slightly, adjusting his glasses. “Besides, it wasn’t so long ago that you were going to have them do the same thing.”
Olruggio huffed and took a sip of his wine. “I suppose. But I heard you out.”
“Yes,” Qifrey said, smiling again, “like you always do.” He let out a small sigh, as he often did when he was tired and thought his students weren’t paying attention. “I meant what I said—if her memories should be erased, so should mine.”
Olruggio shook his head. Not again, he thought, not again after everything. Out loud he said, “Well, we came to an understanding, didn’t we?”
Qifrey made an affirmative hmm sound. He set down the cup of wine and wrapped his arms around his long legs.
Late at night like this, over the years, they had discussed any number of things: deep-rooted fears, magic items Olruggio was developing, the students’ struggles and futures. But in all of those quiet, seemingly endless nights, Olruggio had never asked what it felt like, to have swathes of memory gone, like spells on paper eaten up by fire. He imagined it was different from those day-to-day afflictions of forgetting why he had left his atelier, why he had gone down to the kitchen, why he had opened a book to a particular page. If he retraced his steps, eventually he could rediscover what he had been trying to do: he could feel his intention coming alive again, as if lit by a match.
But was it possible to spark any recollection from erased memories? Once, when they were younger, Qifrey had confessed to him after a week of sleepless nights that he still had nightmares, nightmares of roots and water and blood, of things he couldn’t remember no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wanted to. How cruel, Olruggio thought, that those memories could linger like a wavering, peripheral flame, questions raised but unanswerable.
He shook his head and poured himself a bit more of the wine. Qifrey tilted his head backwards, closing his eye; he took his glasses off and tucked them into one of his cloak pockets without looking, then pressed the heel of his hand against his eye again. Then he shook his head, turned slightly to meet Olruggio’s gaze. “I’m more tired than I realized,” he said, and laughed softly.
“I can tidy up if you’d like to sleep,” Olruggio said, gesturing at their cups, at the wine.
“No, no—the wine will be better if we drink it tonight,” Qifrey said, despite having had only a single cup of it. “It’s a special occasion.”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it? Any night can be a special occasion if you want it to be.”
“I suppose,” Olruggio said. He took another sip of wine, but Qifrey didn’t follow suit. Instead, he leaned back, resting against his hands, face tilted up to the stars.
“It’s nice to have some time together,” Qifrey said. “You’ve been busy lately, it seems.”
“Well, deadlines, you know,” Olruggio said. “It’s easy to lose track of time.”
“Always working so hard.”
“I could say the same of you. A new apprentice has to take up a lot of time. Especially one who—well, one who has a lot to learn about witch customs.”
“I suppose,” said Qifrey lightly. “That day… did something change your mind?”
“That day...?”
“Part of being a watchful eye means that you’re supposed to report on anything out of the ordinary,” Qifrey said. “I know you’ve made exceptions for me before, but with Coco… I wondered if something made you reconsider.”
“That day,” Olruggio started, and trailed off. The look of wonder on Coco’s face, her unabashed adoration of his glowstone path, her trepidation at having intruded dissipating like summer mist in the sun as the stones shone. “She came into my workshop following the brushbug—you know how they get into everything. Well… the glowstone path. She said it was why she had first fallen in love with magic.” Simple magic, he’d told her, but she had been transfixed.
“Your magic inspires joy in so many people,” said Qifrey.
He always said things like that so simply. Olruggio rubbed the back of his neck, felt his face flush, and looked away, grateful for the darkness of the evening. “It’s a simple invention, nothing elaborate—anyway, I was thinking, they’d want to erase that love of magic along with everything else. I’m glad you stopped me.”
He felt Qifrey’s eye on him, the weight of consideration that Qifrey’s full attention always brought. But then his gaze slid away, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
Olruggio cleared his throat. “Don’t you want any more wine?” he asked, pouring himself another cup.
“Maybe just a bit,” said Qifrey. He rubbed at his temple with his thumb, let out a small sigh. Then he laughed and seemed to shake it off. He held out his cup so Olruggio could refill it. The neck of the bottle knocked against the lip of the cup, and Qifrey reached out to steady Olruggio’s hand until the cup was full again. “Thank you,” he said.
They sat there side by side, shoulders closer than before, not quite enough so that they were touching. In the distance, the spring frillfrogs croaked to one another across the wetlands. Qifrey pulled his cloak tighter around himself, shoulders drawing up towards his ears, and held the cup of wine loosely with his thumb and index finger, swilling it around. Then he set down the cup in the dewy grass. He laughed softly, the small, quiet laugh he made when he was about to apologize for something.
“Are you all right?” Olruggio asked, pausing with his own cup of wine pressed against his bottom lip.
Qifrey nodded. “Just a little tired.”
“You shouldn’t force yourself to stay up so late,” Olruggio said.
“I suppose not,” said Qifrey. “You might have to finish the wine for me. You still need to pay me back, remember.” Even in the dark Olruggio knew his eye was twinkling.
“Sure, sure,” Olruggio said, waving his hand. Either he would remember or return the favor eventually. Neither of them kept a real record of these little transactions.
The smile slid away from Qifrey’s face and he closed his eye, pressed his long fingers to his temple again.
“Come on,” Olruggio said, drinking down the remaining wine in his cup. He wrapped his hand around Qifrey’s elbow to hoist him up. “You’re tired. Let’s go inside to bed.”
“No, no—” Qifrey shifted as if to shrug him off, but it was a halfhearted effort. When he opened his eye, it didn’t quite open all the way, as if he was wincing away from a bright light despite the blanketing darkness of the evening. “It’s peaceful out here. Just a little longer.”
His face was drawn, but he was smiling again. Olruggio let his hand drop. “All right,” he said, relenting. He watched as Qifrey rested his head against his knees. He was always adept at hiding his discomfort: Olruggio only noticed his furrowed brow because he was looking closely.
Another night, a year or so ago—late summer, almost fall, one of the last warm evenings before the seasons changed. Qifrey’s head had been bothering him that night, too, he thought, hadn’t it? Olruggio must have been drinking then, because the night was hazy, blurred around the edges, except the balmy air, the overbearing humidity, the timbre of Qifrey’s voice. Although of course that was a constant throughout almost all of the memories that meant anything to him. At some point that night he had fallen asleep and when he awoke, his head was in Qifrey’s lap, Qifrey’s fingers running through his hair, with such overwhelming gentleness that Olruggio fell back asleep again. He still wasn’t certain if he had heard or dreamt Qifrey’s voice, low like a lullaby.
Beside him, Qifrey made a small, stifled noise, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said. His hand covered half of his face, and his shoulders were drawn all the way up to his ears. “I thought I was—I think I need to—” He gingerly eased himself up off the ground, wavering a bit. “I’ll just…” But he trailed off. He took a few uneven steps in the direction of the atelier.
Olruggio stood to steady him, a hand at the small of his back, the other hand grasping his elbow. “Were you hurt earlier? At the bridge?” He hadn’t seen anything, but it wouldn’t have been the first time Qifrey had been injured and hidden it.
“No, no,” Qifrey said, voice strained. “It’s not that.”
“Something at Nornoa’s shop? On the way home?”
“Nothing like that,” Qifrey said, allowing Olruggio to lead him to the front door, leaning slightly against him. “A headache… I must have overexerted myself a little, earlier. Oh,” he said, realizing, “the cups—the wine—”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll bring them in later.” Olruggio let go of Qifrey’s elbow to ease the door open and guided him inside. “Keep your eye closed,” he said. “I’ll dim the lights.” Qifrey barely nodded. As they made their careful way into the atelier, Olruggio turned off all the lights but one, a faint light spell he had developed so the girls could move easily throughout the atelier at night if they needed water or had had nightmares. The light cast a subdued glow as he led Qifrey to his room. He hesitated there outside the door, his hand lingering at Qifrey’s elbow as Qifrey tried to stand up straight. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asked.
Qifrey’s smile was back, even as his eye was just a sliver beneath the closed lid. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Olruggio said. “Sleep in, will you? It won’t do your students any good if they’re worried about their professor.”
“I’ll be fine by the morning,” said Qifrey, and winced, hand coming back up to his head. Then he smiled and opened his eye to look at Olruggio. “This hasn’t…” Then he trailed off, shook his head slightly. “Thank you,” he said again.
Olruggio shook his head. “It’s nothing.” He stepped back so Qifrey could slip into his room. “Get your rest,” he said as Qifrey disappeared inside.
After a few moments tarrying in the hallway, light spell bobbing in his hand, he left Qifrey to sleep. Turning the lights back on as he went, he descended the few short steps to the kitchen and prepared some water to boil. Some time ago, Qifrey had crafted a teacup for him that would retain heat even when left untouched for several hours. It would stay warm through the night if Qifrey was asleep by the time Olruggio brought him the tea.
While he waited, Olruggio went back outside to retrieve the wine and their abandoned cups. For a moment he stood there looking up at the constellations scattered throughout the night sky. Soon enough, the wandering stars would return; it was almost that time of year. That night, last summer, Qifrey’s headache. Bright lights. A flicker, in the back of his mind—when he went to touch it, it vanished. He shook his head to clear it, gathered the cups, returned to the kitchen where the water was boiling.