Page 23 of Beauty Reborn
To everything, a cost.
I flipped the page. “When the woodcutter wished for wealth, the rain of coins caved in his roof. That must have been the fairy’s price for the wish.”
She sighed with such force that she cast a waterfall of shimmering stardust to the ground. “The result of a poor delivery system and a thoughtless granter. Regret is the only price for wishing.”
Regret.
I swallowed. “Should I read the end?”
“Do as you like.” She kicked a bit of blue glitter into the air, turning her nose up. “It’s a foolish story.”
But she didn’t disappear.
I returned to my oration, following the woodcutter through his third wish, his regret, and his diligent chase.
“A granter can only be found,” the fairy grumbled, “if the granter allows the finding.”
When the woodcutter had his wishes rescinded and I finished the tale, I waited for her to spark like lightning again. But she only said, “What silly ideas.”
Which ideas seemed silly to me likely differed from the ones that stood out to her.
“I’m sure fairies don’t rescind wishes,” I said, pretending at certainty on the matter.
“We can’t,” she said. “Only completion can.”
“Completion?”
She turned suddenly, squinting at me as if I’d just leapt from the bushes or revealed a true form.
“Have you a wish?” It sounded more like an accusation than an inquiry.
I’d been found out.
My ears burned. She’d said there was no price but regret.
Would I regret it?
I waited too long, and she vanished.
My feet dragged as I returned to the castle. The spring air felt wet and heavy in my lungs. I stopped in one of the gardens to sit on a stone bench in the shade of a blossoming tree, and I buried my head in my arms. For once, my racing mind was hushed, everything inside pressed quiet by the weight.
It hurts, Mama.It was what I’d told her at my first bleed.
It won’t hurt forever,she’d said.
But wouldn’t it?
Something chirped. I lifted my head and turned to see a fledgling bird in the grass. It fluttered wildly from side to side, mostly just scraping its face as it tried to move forward. Probably injured. It chirped again.
“Not me,” I said. I was no caretaker; I had spite in my soul. Let its mother come.
Its mother.
I was surrounded by her—gold roses in the gate, red roses in every garden. Carved on my door, carved in my heart, the scent in every aching breath.
Will I regret it, Mama?
Regret was the fire in my stomach, melting my bones but without the courtesy to finish me off. Every day burned me down to embers, and there was relief when dark descended and my head hit the pillow. Except the embers didn’t die in the night. Instead, the night dragged in fuel, and come morning, I was fresh and ready for burning all over again. Never consumed. Never an end.
