Page 130 of A Bolt of Magic

Why did she do it?

I know why, of course. This is McColl. My beautiful, kind, selfless McColl.

But gods, she should never have had to make that choice. She should never have had to give up her life essence to save mine.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m whole again, restored to myself, while the woman who made it possible is slipping awaybefore my eyes. The cruel mathematics of it makes me want to rage against the unfairness of it all.

Beatrice, her grandmother’s carer, meets me at the bedroom door. Her kind face is etched with worry as she takes in McColl’s condition.

“Poor dear,” she whispers, immediately moving to the far side of the bed. She pulls back the covers with gentle efficiency. “You were right to bring her, young man. She’ll want to be close to her grandmother. They always had such a wonderful relationship, more like mother and daughter. I think…I think they should be together now.” Her voice chokes up.

I nod, not trusting my voice, and carefully lower McColl onto the soft mattress beside her grandmother. The two women lie side by side, both pale and fragile, both fading. I pull the quilts up to McColl’s chin, tucking them around her slight form with shaking hands.

The sight of them together breaks something inside me.

McColl’s grandmother has worsened dramatically since the last time McColl spoke with her. Her skin has taken on a waxy quality, and her cheeks are sunken. The life is draining from her in much the same way it’s draining from McColl. Only her grandmother is old and suffering from an illness, whereas McColl is young and vibrant. She should be young and vibrant with her whole life ahead of her. This is so unfair.

The terrible truth settles over me like a shroud: at this rate, McColl will be gone before her grandmother.

“You’re a good man,” Beatrice says softly, placing a gentle hand on my arm. “McColl is very lucky to have you.”

I shake my head, my throat tight with unshed emotion. “It’s the other way around. I’m the lucky one.” The words come out roughly. “She saved me. She gave up everything to bring me back, and I—” I can’t finish the sentence.

Beatrice’s eyes fill with understanding. “Love makes us do impossible things,” she says quietly. “Both brave and foolish things.”

The door opens, and Healer Morwyn enters with her leather bag of supplies. Her weathered face is grim as she approaches the bed, and I can see she’s already preparing me for bad news.

She checks McColl thoroughly, running her hands over her and closing her eyes every so often. She mutters an incantation. Her hands glow. Then she goes back to examining McColl. I watch with growing desperation as she frowns, pressing her fingers to McColl’s wrist, her neck, placing her ear against her chest. When she straightens, her expression tells me everything I need to know before she even speaks.

“I’m sorry,” she says, meeting my eyes. Hers are filled with regret. “No change.” She glances at McColl’s still form, then back at me. “It won’t be long now.”

The words hit me hard. “How long?”

“You should say your goodbyes. Tell her whatever it is that you want her to know.” Her voice is gentle but unflinching. “I wish there was something more I could do, but this kind of sacrifice…” She sighs. “Once this much life essence is given, it can’t be restored. She knew the risks when she made her choice.”

After Morwyn and Beatrice leave, promising to check back soon, I’m alone with McColl and her grandmother in the heavy silence of the room.

I reach into my pocket and withdraw the vial of moonwort tincture, the same one Thesha had given me when McColl collapsed after saving Maya. There is barely any left. I’ve been administering it faithfully since McColl collapsed four days ago, hoping against hope that it would help strengthen her as it had before.

But this time is different. This time, the damage goes too deep.

With trembling fingers, I uncork the vial and let a few precious drops fall onto McColl’s tongue. I have to try. I refuse to give up on her. McColl doesn’t even swallow reflexively this time. The liquid just sits there until I gently massage her throat, helping it go down.

It’s not working. Nothing is working.

I set the empty vial aside and sit on the chair beside her bed, taking her hand in both of mine. Her fingers are so cold they might as well be carved from ice. I press her hand to my cheek, willing my warmth into her, though I know it’s futile.

But she remains still, her breathing growing shallower with each passing moment.

I close my eyes, and, not for the first time, I try to think of anything I can do. Any magic, any bargain I could make, any sacrifice I could offer. But I’m not a healer like she is. My magic is a raw force; it’s destructive. I don’t know how to mend what’s been broken, how to restore what’s been given away.

I slowly break inside. One piece at a time.

42

McColl

The orchard stretches before us in perfect rows, the fruit trees heavy with the bounty of a glorious summer harvest. Peaches hang from the branches, their fuzzy skin blushed with pink and orange. The air is warm and sweet, filled with the scent of ripe fruit and the gentle hum of bees moving from blossom to blossom.

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