Page 32 of Witchlore
“I don’t know how you do it, anyway,” he says eventually. “If I had to change form like you do, I’d not cope. I’d be massively dysphoric.”
“Well, I’m not coping and I am massively dysphoric,” I say automatically, and then wince, wishing I hadn’t. I don’t want him to pity me.
“Touché,” he says. Then he gives me a steady, sidelong glance, his left hand held out toward me like he’s indicating on a bike, as if he wants to leave it there for me to grab in case of emergency. “There’s something I don’t get.”
“What?”
“Well, shifters don’t age like humans or witches, right?” Bastian says thoughtfully. I nod. It’s another reason witches don’t like us very much. We can outlive them by double. “You get old but your forms, once they’ve reached adulthood, they don’t have to get old.”
“Yeah.”
“So why not look young forever? Why not be whatever gender or no gender and just embrace the intersectionality of it?” Bastian asks. “It seems like all shifters should be as flexible with gender as you are.”
“That’s hilarious, please tell every shifter you ever meet that.”
“Why is it such a big deal?” Bastian presses.
I sigh and pause to give my sore muscles a rest, leaning my head against the wall. It’s the question that’s haunted me my entire life and I still don’t have an adequate answer, unless you count:Because this is the way we are, Lando.They told me I could be like the shifters who settle into one form and never change again, who age their form as naturally as they want, who follow the obvious paths of humanity, and when their body wears out, because our bodies do eventually wear out their ability to shift and pump blood and breathe, die in a manner that reflects a human death. They told me I could follow in the family business, go into espionage or security, shifting between forms but maintaining a key, solid gender identity at home, as if playing dress-up in my skin should be enough to fulfill the part of me that has alwayswanted more.Align with your resting form, Orlando!a voice yells at me from the past.Don’t give them a reason to hate you!
“Because shifters still live in this world, with all the prejudice and bullshit that comes with it,” I say, staring up at the lamppost light that is casting a dim sepia gleam over us. “We’re not like witches, we’re hidden, concealing our powers from humans to stay safe and managing our magic so witches don’t hate us more. Conforming to a gender binary is a type of safety, another tool we can use to hide our difference. At least that’s always how it’s been taught to me. Not conforming to a gender binary is seen as needlessly reckless. They don’t believe that actually being nonbinary is who I am. They think it’s achoice.”
I can’t help the bitterness in my voice on that final word, one that my parents have thrown in my face all my life. There is a long pause and Bastian doesn’t seem to know what to say.
“I don’t hate you,” he says finally. “I think you’re… brave.”
I stare at him. In the glimmer of the streetlight his handsomeness is curiously transformed, the gruesome glow making him too tall, too sharp, too crow-like. Somehow, it makes me like him more.
We walk down the ramp onto the empty platform. A fox runs across the opposite platform like it’s late for the tram, a flash of burnished fur and neat black paws, and then hops off, disappearing into the bushes. Two pinpricks of light appear in the distance that remind me nastily of the eyes of the boggart and I shiver. The tram rattles in, casting a mechanical yellow shine over us both, and suddenly, looking at Bastian in the normality of fluorescent lights, I see how scruffy he looks. Denim jacket muddy, T-shirt torn, hair full of twigs. I can’t imagine I look much better.
“Are you sure you want to do this still?” I ask uncertainly,because it seems like the polite inquiry after you’ve nearly been killed by a boggart.
“Yes,” Bastian says quickly. He leans past me and presses the button. We both climb on board and find seats. I’m surprised that when I pick two seats by the window, he slides into the one next to me rather than finding another set, farther down. He sighs and leans his head back, eyes closing.
“Sleepy?” I ask.
“Not to be dramatic but my hand really hurts,” he mutters, and I look down at his cut hand. It’s filthy, smeared with mud and blood. “And I have to stock up on a lifetime’s supply of goat’s cheese when I get home.”
I smirk to myself, imagining how that online shop is going to go.
“There’s this great cheesemonger in Didsbury,” I say. “You could probably set up a standing order.”
“Christ,” Bastian groans. “I suppose I could just get an actual goat and make it myself.”
“And where would the goat live?”
“In the flat, of course, can’t you tell it’s remarkably goat friendly?”
“And what about René?”
“I’ve been thinking about getting René a mate to play with.”
“Most people choose another dog.”
“I don’t want René to be one of those racist dogs who only has dog friends, Lando, come on.”
I laugh and my laugh turns to choking because I’m so thirsty. Bastian reaches into his satchel and pulls out a reusable bottle of water, handing it to me easily. I’m too dry to cough out a thank-you and by the time I’ve glugged down half of it, Bastian’s eyes are drooping and his breath has evened out into a doze. I don’t blame him, really. It was a lot of magic he did and I would be feeling sleepy myself, if I didn’t have so much to think through. I roll my sore wrists in circles and finally turn my mind fully to my shift.
What does it mean that I had a vision of a suffragette meeting in Boggart Hole Clough, the site of a famous gathering? Why are the stories in an old diary infecting my mind? I’ve heard of ancient witches who have visions—some have old rings that once held the gift of foresight—but I don’t know of any shifters who do. Also, if it was a vision, why did it feel so real? Why can I still feel the brush of the long dress around my ankles and the bake of the sun on the back of my neck? For a wild second, I pull out my phone. I’ve even selected the contact markedMOTHERand hovered my thumb over theCALLbutton before I come to my senses. If I want answers about shifters, I will literally go anywhere else in the world to get them. The tram slows down, pulling into St. Peter’s Square, the closest stop to Bastian’s flat. I nudge his shoulder. He jerks awake.
