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Qifrey raised himself up in bed. He swore he heard voices, footsteps outside. Was it past dawn already?
“Mm?” Olruggio grunted. “’S goin’ on?”
At that moment, someone banged on the front door.
“I’ll get it,” Qifrey said automatically, sliding his feet into slippers, reaching for his cloak.
“No, stay. ‘S dark. Just trouble, I’m sure. Nothin’ good happens at this hour.” The bed shifted, and Qifrey heard Olruggio’s feet on the floor, then the door to their room creaking open and shut.
It was chilly in their room, outside the comfort of the blankets. Spring had arrived, but true warmth was yet to come, especially when daylight was scarce. Qifrey folded his legs under himself and wrapped his cloak over his shoulders, straining to hear what might be transpiring downstairs.
He heard the stairs creak, then the door. Olly returned, his feet shuffling in his slippers. “Trouble?” Qifrey asked.
“Trouble might be a stretch,” Olly replied, “but I should go anyway. Will you be all right here? Should be back in a couple of hours.”
“Yes, of course. Don’t worry about me.”
Robes shuffled, then a kiss was pressed to Qifrey’s temple. “I’ll always worry about you.”
“Mm.” Qifrey tilted his head up and found Olly’s mouth. “Be safe.”
“I will. Go back to bed, it’s hardly dawn. Love you.”
“Love you.”
Qifrey gratefully returned to the warm blankets, listening to Olruggio bundle up and leave the atelier. He fell asleep again, and when he woke up, the room was warmer and brighter. The sun had risen, and so should he.
Since he had returned to the atelier following removal of the Silverwood parasite from his right eye, Qifrey could count the times he’d been truly alone on one hand. The girls had been around in some form or fashion for years, and, with Tetia and Richeh passing the fourth test at the advent of fall, had just recently grown and flown. Qifrey and Olruggio had spent an extremely quiet winter in an atelier void of apprentices for the first time. Of course, the girls made a point to visit frequently—not a week went by without some sort of social call.
Now, Qifrey slid his feet into his slippers and arranged the blankets in some semblance of a tidied bed. His vision wasn’t completely black most days; he could still see plenty of light, but distinguishing shape and color in that light was a challenge. And the brightness was often a bother in its own right. Luckily, he had a new pair of glasses to help, with black lenses over both eyes. They didn’t help him see better, but they did fend off headaches and helped him focus a bit when they were on.
He put on his glasses, lifted a light staff from his side of the bed, and moved toward the bathroom in the hallway. Six steps, doorway, eight steps. He no longer had to count to orient himself, he knew the way by heart. The staff, sweeping in front of him, helped alert him of unexpected obstacles—though with the house low on boarders, there weren’t many obstacles to speak of.
Qifrey got himself washed and dressed and made his way down the staircase and into the kitchen. He easily found a cup and dispensed water into it from the vapor bubble.
Food, however, would be a greater challenge.
Qifrey had, of course, figured out how to functionally prepare food in the last few years of being blind. He loved cooking too much to stop completely. However, Olruggio and the girls, rightfully, worried about him being near flames, which were required to heat nearly everything in the atelier. If they were nearby, he would carefully cook on a hot pan or boil water for tea, but echoes of their nervous admonishments made him pause this morning with his hand on the tea pot.
He released his hand, skimming his fingers over the countertop until he reached the ice box. Certainly, he would have preferred warming his hands and body with a cup of tea and a bowl of oatmeal, but a cold breakfast would be perfectly suitable. He made quick work of preparing fruit and cheese for himself, eating it piece by piece as he opened windows and doors to let the spring air shine through.
The morning passed slowly. Qifrey tidied the lower floor of the atelier, washed the bed linens, hung them out to dry, and swept the patio. He thought of Olruggio, probably sleep deprived and ready to come home, but committed to assisting until the job (whatever it was) had finished.
He’d hoped the daylight would warm the atelier, but standing on the patio, he could feel the warmth of the sun dipping up and down; the weather was cloudy, it seemed. He leaned slightly on the broom, closed his eye, breathed in the moderate wind from the west. If his predictions were correct, he would be unsurprised if it rained later that afternoon.
Hungry, he returned inside, passing quietly through drafty rooms and past a cold hearth. He paused in the kitchen, feeling compelled to prepare the house better for Olly’s return: a warm fire, fresh food, a pot of tea. Olly certainly would do the same for him. But each item was locked behind several inaccessible doors. The fire, for one: if he were expected to avoid flames while unsupervised, how could he start one? Food and drink, as well: how could he cook if not for starting and maintaining a pyreball?
Was Olly supposed to come home to a cold house, a bowl of the same stew they’d had for weeks, and a useless Qifrey?
No, Qifrey decided. It would not do. Moderating his frustration, he pulled out some cooking implements. He could start some bread. Olly might be needed to cook said bread, but they could have lovingly-prepared, fresh bread, at least.
He measured, mixed, and left it to rise in the empty oven, and was just feeling a bit better about himself when someone knocked three times on the atelier door. Qifrey picked up his staff and moved to answer it.
“Oh, hello, Master Qifrey. It’s Aggot.”
He smiled. “Hello, Aggot! Come in, please. To what do we owe the pleasure?” He paused, catching a whiff of the outside air. “Tell me, is it about to rain?”
“Not soon, I don’t think. There are gray clouds building in the west, but they’re still far off. Maybe later this evening.” She stepped inside and closed the door behind herself. “I came to see Master Olruggio about a contraption. Is he in his workshop?”
“No, he left early to render aid to the public. I’m not sure exactly what, or how long he’ll be gone. But if you’ve time, you’re welcome to wait here.”
“Sure.” He heard her unclip her cloak. “Thanks.”
Qifrey returned to the kitchen and located the box of tea. He’d just pulled it out when he heard Aggot approach. “Mind if I start the fire? It’s drafty in here, you’ve got to be cold.”
“Please do. Thank you, Aggot.”
“Yeah, sure thing. Oh, hold on, I’ll get the tea going too. Here.” He heard pen scratching paper, and felt the warmth of a very balanced pyreball under the kettle near his left elbow. “Pyreball on your left. I’ll be right back.”
She moved away toward the hearth in the living room. Qifrey flexed his hand, basking in the warmth he’d told himself he wasn’t missing all day.
He and Aggot shared tea and a few leftover cookies, and they made pleasant conversation for about an hour until the door swung open, and Olly’s familiar grumble called out, “I’m back. Ah, Aggot’s here?”
“Yes, in the kitchen,” Qifrey returned. Remembering the bread, he stood up and pulled it out of the oven. It sprang back at his touch and felt risen.
“Looks good, Master,” Aggot said helpfully. “It’s meant to be in a flat pan, right?”
“Indeed, I’m trying a new technique. Would you start the oven while Master Olly gets settled? I’ll add some toppings.”
“Certainly.” He heard her approach the oven. Pen scratched on paper.
Qifrey reached for the potted herbs on the windowsill, feeling the letters he’d scratched into the clay pots. They’d faded with time and use, but he could still figure it out most days. He rarely changed the order of the pots, so everything was typically in the same place.
“This is rosemary, correct?” he asked, holding up a pot for Aggot to look.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Thank you.” Qifrey removed some stems and rinsed them in the sink before topping the dough with fresh herbs. He turned around to the countertop behind him and reached for the erbe oil, but it wasn’t in its typical place. His hand swept the counter, found the bottle. He grasped it and turned back to the bread—
Crash. The bottle broke in his hand, glass shattering in all directions. Oil sprayed the tabletop and Qifrey’s arm.
“Qifrey!” Olruggio shouted, startling him. He dropped the neck of the broken bottle and his fingertips stung.
“Master, be careful, there’s glass on the table and the floor,” Aggot said evenly, though her voice betrayed her alarm. “Step back toward the sink, all right?” Her hand gripped his forearm and nudged him in the right direction.
Robes snapped across the kitchen and Qifrey felt the air shift as another body entered the space. “Either of you hurt?” Olly asked, his voice closer and calmer than before.
“No,” they answered in unison.
“Well, someone’s bleeding…Qif, it’s your hand. Aggot—”
“Got it.” She tugged him to turn around and shoved his hand in the sink. Vaguely, Qifrey heard pen and paper over the sound of the water, and figured Olly was performing the necessary spells to clean up his mess.
“It doesn’t look deep,” Aggot reported concerning his injuries. “Just a scratch on your index and middle fingers. I’ll bandage it.”
She did before he could really protest or respond. Behind him, Olly grumbled something under his breath. Qifrey felt more and more like a child with each passing moment, and he rather wished he could disappear or sink into the floor.
“There you go,” Aggot said triumphantly, releasing his hand.
“Thank you.”
“I think we’re cleaned up here,” Olly reported. “Qif, you all right?”
“Fine,” Qifrey replied tightly.
“You’ve got oil and blood on your clothes,” Olly told him.
“I’ll go and change. The bread can go in the oven if the glass has been repaired, and we’re sure there’s no glass in it.”
“Oh, the bottle’s repaired, but there was blood on the bread and in the oil. I threw out both.”
Qifrey stilled. The bread—the one useful thing he’d managed to do all day—gone, instantly, because of a stupid mishap. They could fix many things as witches. Contaminated food wasn’t one of them.
“Master…?”
Qifrey adjusted his glasses. “Aggot, you wanted to ask Master Olly about a contraption, is that right?”
“Only if it’s no bother, I know you just returned, Master Olly—”
“No bother for you, Aggot.”
“We may need your tools—”
“My workshop, then. Qif, you’re all right getting upstairs?”
“Yes,” Qifrey said, a little more coldly than he’d intended, “of course I am.”
“Great. Aggot, you know the way.”
Their footsteps faded and disappeared. Qifrey snatched up his staff and climbed the stairs to his room, changed into a clean top and skirt, wrapped the straps over his shoulders, and belted it in the middle before reaching for a thick cardigan and wrapping himself in it. Then he sat down on the bed and buried his face in his hands.
He had a lot of good days, several years removed from the Silverwood. And he had some bad days.
Today was a bad day.
His hand curled on the bed, feeling for the blankets, but....
Rain pattered on the roof of the atelier. The sheets.
Qifrey bolted down the stairs, foregoing his staff for now, which turned out to be a mistake. He tripped over shoes in the entryway, catching himself hard against the door with both hands. Palms throbbing, he kicked the shoes aside and stumbled outside into a cold, heavy rain.
The basket was where he’d left it near the door. He snatched it up and felt his way along the wall to the clothesline, and began hastily stuffing the sheets into the basket. They felt wetter with each passing moment, and the basket was heavy when he finally hauled it inside. He’d likely have to ask Olly for help drying the linens before they could be returned to the bed.
He slid his wet boots off and lined them up by the door, taking the time to neaten the shoes he’d kicked aside earlier. He wrapped his cardigan a little tighter and perched on the hearth near the warm fire, between two small divots Richeh had carved into the stone years prior, indicating a place for him to sit that would allow him to be warm, but kept a safe distance from the flames.
He warmed for a few minutes, contemplating dinner, until he heard Aggot and Olly approaching. He stood as their voices entered the living room. “We’re back,” Olruggio announced.
“How is the contraption?” Qifrey asked.
“Needs some work,” Aggot said, “but I have a better idea of what to do now. Thank you, Master Olly.”
“My pleasure.” He yawned. “Gods, I’m hungry. Aggot, Qif, dinner?”
“Another time. I have to get back,” Aggot said.
“You owe us one, then. Bring wine next time and we’ll have a nice meal.”
“I will.”
“We’ll walk you out,” Qifrey murmured, and he started across the living room he knew like the back of his hand.
His foot caught something soft and heavy, and he well and truly fell this time. In a crash, his ankle twisted, his shoulder clipped the table, and his hands and knees hit the stone floor hard enough to bruise.
“Qifrey!”
“Oh no, Master…!”
Hands hauled him to sit on the floor and he felt Olly’s warmth lean closer. “Did you hit your head?”
“No.” Qifrey gripped his throbbing shoulder. “W-what did I trip on? I can’t fathom….”
“Laundry basket. Which, what’s it even doing here? I didn’t put it there.”
“That was me. I washed the linens, then they got wet in the rain, now they’re in the basket. I forgot they were there.”
“Where is your staff? This is what it’s for.”
Qifrey thought. “Upstairs.”
“Why?”
“I left it when I ran outside to get the laundry,” Qifrey explained. He pushed himself to his feet and felt Aggot’s hand cradling his elbow.
“Qifrey,” Olruggio sighed through his teeth. “Just…be careful, for the love of the gods. Heaven forbid you fall into the fire next time. And Aggot, let’s get you on your way. Don’t want you to be late.”
Qifrey let Aggot guide him to the entryway, then felt Olruggio’s warm hand on his back while Aggot donned her outerwear. “Thank you for the tea, Master Qifrey. And Master Olly, thank you very much for the help.”
“Anytime,” Olly and Qifrey said at the same moment. “Be safe,” Qifrey added. “Come back soon.”
“I will.”
The door opened, letting in a blast of wet, cold air, then thudded closed. Olly slipped the lock into place, then turned so his arm could wrap further around Qifrey and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Nice sweater.”
“Hm?”
“Your sweater. It looks nice.”
“Oh. You’re serious?”
“Yes! I like that color on you.”
Qifrey ran his fingers along the edge of his cardigan. “Truthfully, I don’t even know what color it is. It was just the warmest thing I could find.”
“Burnt orange, my love. Like the sunset. Come on, you hungry? Plenty of stew.”
Qifrey sat at the table while Olly dished out hot stew and laid out some crackers for topping. He asked questions about Olly’s time away from the atelier and listened carefully. He broke a few crackers into his bowl and ate a few bites of soup.
“Qif, maybe move your bowl closer. That soup’s pretty drippy, wouldn’t want to get it on your sweater.”
Qifrey wiped soup drops from the table, his cheeks feeling hot at his lack of table manners. Many times, he used bread to help with eating soup, and his mouth tasted bitter at the memory of the bread he’d ruined earlier. His fingers stung from the glass bottle, and his knees ached from falling. And after all that, he still had wet sheets and no bread.
“You want something else?” Olly asked from across the table. “I know soup’s not easy to eat when you can’t see it. Sorry, should’ve made something different.”
“No, please, don’t trouble yourself for me. I’ll be fine.”
Olly huffed, then Qifrey heard his soup bowl being snatched away. He cautiously swept his fingers over his table spot—empty—and leaned his elbows on the table, head in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Olly,” he said, his voice cracking, and he couldn’t be bothered to be ashamed. He felt like a failure. He felt like a useless child. He felt like the stupidest blind witch there ever was. And honestly, he’d been really looking forward to that bread.
“Qifrey, what…oh, shit, no, I didn’t mean—”
A chair scraped on the floor, then Olly’s hand gripped Qifrey’s shoulder. A sob broke out of Qifrey.
“Qif, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You need to eat and soup’s hard today, so we’re just going to get you something different, right? Nothing wrong with that.”
“There was supposed to be bread—”
“I know.”
“And the sheets are wet—”
“We can fix that.”
“And I’m freezing. It’s been so damn cold all day and I can’t get warm.”
“That’s my fault,” Olly said, firm enough to drive away any argument. “I was a dumbass. I realized I never started the fire, and all day I was thinking about you being cold because you couldn’t start the fire yourself. It’s making me think of all the things we can do differently around here to make things accessible for you. Like the tea kettle.”
“The tea kettle?” Qifrey echoed.
“Yeah. Right now, it requires a pyreball, and you can’t cast one safely. But I took the boat in Kahln today and realized we could easily make a similar contraption. I could put a warming seal on the bottom of a kettle, and a notch on a stone base that completes the seal when the kettle’s seated correctly—like this,” he said, drawing a circle in Qifrey’s palm to demonstrate his idea. “Then you can feel it and operate it yourself, and there’s no fire. It’s so simple and I never thought about it because we had plenty of pyreballs around for years.”
Qifrey blinked and wiped his face. “That would work. That’s an excellent idea.”
“And the soup. I made it too thin this time. It’s thicker than broth, so you can’t just drink it, but it’s not thick enough for a real stew. It’s more like a bisque, I guess, but it’s the hardest for you to eat, and that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
“Olly, you don’t need to apologize for soup. You don’t need to apologize for anything.”
“I feel bad that you’re still disadvantaged in your own house,” Olly said. “We’re witches. There were six witches living here not too long ago, and we still don’t have a functional teakettle. That’s crazy.”
Six witches. Olly still counted Qifrey into that equation, even though he himself was beginning to question the legitimacy of his continued status.
Olly kissed his hand and stood up from the table. “We’ll do better. I’m gonna follow you around tomorrow and take some notes. Until then, how about some of those croquettes you made a couple years ago? I still dream about them sometimes, you know. But I’ll need your help with the recipe.”
Qifrey laughed. “Sure. Let’s make croquettes.”
Later, full of warm food and folded into warm sheets that smelled like mountain air, Qifrey felt Olly’s arms wrap around his waist and pull him in close. “You still cold?” he asked, face buried in Qifrey’s neck.
“Nearly thawed, thanks to you.”
Olly’s hand carded through his hair. “Tomorrow’s gonna be better.”
“I hope so.”
“’M gonna prototype that teakettle first thing.”
“I know you will.” Qifrey turned over and managed to press a kiss to Olly’s mouth. “I love you. Glad you’re home.”